Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy Page 9

  My phone, which had been cradled between my thighs, started to ring, a sound paired with a delightful vibration that only added to my torture. I groaned and picked up the phone. “What?”

  “Jeez. Just making sure you had made it home. I just woke up to pee and saw your texts.” She hesitated, the pause coming at a terrible moment, the woman beginning to cry out the announcement of her orgasm. “Ummm… where are you?”

  “In a Lyft, sitting next to a car seat and in the middle of some finger-banging. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  She was silent, and I wondered how many explicit details of the man’s cunnilingus were audible through the phone. “Riiiight. I’m going to let you get back to that.”

  “Thanks,” I said flatly. “Such a dear.”

  She laughed, then hung up the phone. I closed my eyes and, for the next four minutes, tried to block out the image of Joel the Plumber’s thick, pulsating member. It was hard. Literally and figuratively speaking.

  The ravenous sex scene ended just as the minivan rolled to a stop at the end of my cul-de-sac. “Whew!” The driver said. “Good timing, right?”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I had a blinding need to get inside, strip naked, and satisfy every craving that Bethany and Joel had just unleashed. I squirmed my way over the car seat, tossed her a tip, and practically shimmied my way across the lawn and up the front steps. I had my hand in my purse, swiping around for the keys, when a dark shape moved off my swing and toward me.

  “AHHHHHH!” I threw my purse over my shoulder at the intruder, the forward lunge causing me to step on a bear trap of some sort, one that pierced the bottom of my foot and caused me to squeal in pain. I grunted, hopping on my other foot as I attempted to move away without falling down the front stairs. This was why I should have gotten a dog. Something fierce, that would have been snarling at the window, warning me of an intruder. Chances were, Mr. Oinks had fallen asleep on my office couch, watching The Weather Channel, stuffed on last night’s leftover meatloaf and an extra helping of butter bread.

  “Careful!” The man loomed closer, and I caught his profile in the faint moonlight. Declan.

  I stopped hopping toward safety and made it to the rocking chair behind me, collapsing into it, my injured foot in hand. “Are you trying to maim me?” I asked, watching as he bent down and picked up the trap, bringing it closer to me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that it was one of my heels from earlier, which he seemed to have placed on the welcome mat, which was a dumb idea on all accounts.

  “I’m sorry.” He carefully set the stiletto down and leaned against the porch rail across from my chair. “Here, let me see.”

  Giving this man my filthy foot was probably not the best idea. I tightened my hold on it. “It’s fine.”

  “Just….” He reached forward and gently pried the appendage loose. “Let me see it.” He carefully pulled on my ankle, bringing my foot to him.

  I almost mewed at the feel of his hands on me, the injured flesh all but rolling over and showing him its belly. “It’s dirty,” I protested.

  “I can see that.” He bent over, peering down at it. “I’m worried you got cut by the spikes on the strap. It’s going to get infected with how filthy your feet are.”

  He was right. Death by infection was a strong probability. I might as well plan my funeral arrangements now.

  I attempted to pull my foot back. “I’ll get it inside and wash it. Thank you for bringing them to me. You didn’t have to do that. Also, lurking in the dark shadows and scaring the bejesus out of me.” I gestured to the other end of the porch. “That was also not necessary.”

  He grinned. “Noted.” Letting go of my ankle, he stood. “Let me make it up to you.” He held out his hand. “Declan Moss, part-time EMT. Let me clean and examine that cut.”

  I didn’t move. “You aren’t an EMT.”

  “I’m practically an EMT,” he countered.

  “No,” I countered. “Two first aid classes freshman year don’t count for shit.”

  His grin widened. “It was three. And… do I want to know how you know about that?”

  “You failed the third,” I reminded him. “And I have a lot of spare time and excellent snooping skills.” The first aid classes had given me a momentary sense of peace in his wellbeing, the recess in worry short-lived in duration.

  “That’s so creepy.” He didn’t look creeped out. He looked… well, I didn’t know this look. It wasn’t one I’d seen very often. Intrigued? Is that what that cocky grin was communicating?

  He reached down and pulled me up to my feet. “If you’ve done this much research, then you know I’m trustworthy enough to take care of you.”

  “But…” I protested, my hands scrambling for his neck as he bent down and scooped me up. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “Carrying you inside. You can’t track all of this shit through your house.” He looked concerned, and I couldn’t believe he was carrying me with such ease. I wasn’t exactly a porterhouse, but I was a well-rounded girl. He should have grunted a little when lifting me up. The muscles in his neck should be flexing from the weight. Ansley’s husband once put me on his shoulders during a chicken fight, and he flushed tomato red, his knees wobbling under the strain.

  But Declan was smiling down at me, and close enough to kiss. That realization made me remember my embarrassing pillage of his mouth and I looked away, distracting myself with looking for my purse. I spotted it on its side near the column, half its contents spilling out, including a maxi pad big enough to act as a Titanic life raft. I forced my features to remain calm. “The keys are in my purse.”

  He kept me in his arms, one under my knees, the other supporting my back, and did a squat, his hand awkwardly shuffling through the brown tote.

  I groaned. “Let me.” I reached over, my elbow almost taking out his cheek, and grabbed my purse, bringing it to my chest and rummaging through it like a raccoon going through trash. I found my keys and sorted through them, finding the one covered in a sunflower print and holding it up. “Here. Please don’t kill me. And if you do, take my body with you. I have serious fears of my pig eating me.”

  His grinned dropped. “That’s morbid.”

  “It’s a side effect of nervousness. Trust me, I get a lot worse.” One side effect of constantly stressing over a man’s untimely death—my walking encyclopedia of macabre possibilities.

  “I’m not going to kill you.” He worked the key into the lock and turned it, pushing open the door with his foot.

  “Light switch is on the left.” I reached over, dropping my purse on the entrance table and returned my hands to their proper place around his neck. It was pretty romantic, him bringing me over the threshold. If I was in a wedding dress and he loved me, this would be the conclusion of every dream I’d ever had. Of course, I wasn’t in a wedding dress. I was in a potato, so we could stab that fantasy in the eye and move on.

  He swung the door shut, the impact loud. From down the hall, I heard a crashing sound—Mr. Oinks falling off the couch—then the click of his hooves as he nosed his way out the door and down the hall toward us, grunting with excitement. Fun fact: pigs have horrible vision. He was almost on top of us before he realized that I was suspended in Declan’s arms, a turn of events that had him scrambling backward, an alarmed squeal coming out.

  “Oh God,” Declan said. “The pig lives with you?”

  “Of course he does,” I said indignantly. Leaning forward, I cooed at Mr. Oinks. “It’s okay, buddy. Everything’s just fine.” I straightened. “Just ignore him. You can put me down, you know. My floors have seen worse. They can handle it.”

  “Nah.” His hands tightened. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I considered the possibility of him cleaning my foot in the powder room and dismissed it. “Down the hall to the left. The double doors.”

  My bedroom wasn’t prepared for entrance. The bed was unmade, the television still on, my discarded outfits slung over every su
rface. He breezed through without comment, nudging open the bathroom door with his knee and bringing me into the master bath. Mr. Oinks followed, grunting in pleasure when Declan carefully set me on the edge of the garden tub. His tail wiggled and I leaned down, scratching his ears. “Good boy.”

  Declan rolled up his sleeves and turned the bathtub’s handles, his forearms flexing from the motion. Water spewed out of the faucet and he reached out, testing the temperature. I was reminded suddenly of Joel, the plumber, and how he’d dragged his wet fingers across Bethany’s lips. A whimper involuntarily slipped out. He glanced over, his brows knitting in question, and I coughed. “Sorry. I just bumped the cut.”

  He nodded, all business, completely unaware of the arousalfest that was doing jumping jacks in my panties. Pulling me closer to the edge of the tub, he knelt and lifted up my left foot.

  “I can do this,” I blushed. “I mean, thank you, but you don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” he interrupted me. “It’s the least I can do for a woman who took the trouble to dig up my college transcript.” He glanced over at me and grinned, and my libido really couldn’t handle this image. His strong build, kneeling before me. Those capable hands on my foot. His hair still tousled from our kiss, those perfect teeth exposed as he grinned. He had a few days of scruff on his face, and that, paired with the tan skin and the white button-up, was the most delicious thing I’d ever seen. No wonder the universe needed me to protect him. Men like this had to be preserved, be kept safe, had to grow up and father a dozen more mini-Declans to preserve—

  “Are you okay?” He peered at me. “You’re starting to pant. Are you feeling faint?”

  Oh, God. I’m panting. I’ve become Bethany. “Uh… maybe?”

  “Did you eat anything today?” He abandoned my feet and moved closer, his hand sliding up my calf, and thank God for my failed date with Adam and the shave job I had tackled as a result.

  “I ate a lot today.” It came out as a whisper, and I really hoped it was my imagination working overtime, and that my voice didn’t really sound all husky and full of need. Mr. Oinks farted, one of his really loud and wet ones, and the horrified look on Declan’s face … I burst out laughing.

  “Please tell me that isn’t going to smell,” he stage-whispered the plea, as if Mr. Oinks might hear and get his feelings hurt.

  I smiled. “Sometimes it does. Do you mind putting him out in the hall?”

  He rose to his feet, carefully releasing my feet, and I put them under the water, watching the dirt bleed off. I turned my head, watching as he awkwardly herded Mr. Oinks through the door, his hands shooing at the air, his legs moving side to side as if he was a soccer player guarding a goal.

  When he returned, closing the door behind him, he had a triumphant look on his face. “One farting pig removed.” He sniffed the air, his hands on his hips, and grinned. “And… no smell.”

  I raised my hand for a high five. “Team No Fart.”

  He hesitated, then met my palm in the air, his hand closing around mine.

  20

  He’d never seen such a sexy woman. Every part of her. Her adorable motions. The unexpectedly awkward things she said. Even her lightheadedness was sexy. It gave her eyes this wild need, her breath coming harder, her hands beginning to tighten on the hem of her dress.

  He returned to the floor, kneeling on the tile and picking up a half-used bar of lavender soap, using it to suds up his hands. Her feet were in the water and he pulled one free, carefully working across the dips and arches of her feet, moving his fingers in mini circles, his forehead tightening in concentration as he removed the dirt while trying to steer clear of her injuries. She actually had several cuts, micro-skins likely caused by running on the sidewalk. She inhaled a few times as he worked, and he glanced over in concern. Each time, she waved off his worry, but she wasn’t looking well. Her mouth was slightly open, and she seemed to have trouble breathing, one hand moving to grip the edge of the tub, her knuckles turning white.

  It shouldn’t have been a sexual moment, but it felt like it was. Her pain indicators sounded so fucking erotic that he had to shift his position as he moved to the second foot, turning away from her in an attempt to hide his arousal. God, the way she was squirming. He tightened his hold on her foot and brushed his knuckles across her sole, softly, and then deeper, massaging the tight muscles there. “Stay still.”

  There was a thud and he looked over to see her head dropped back against the wall, her eyes closed, one hand fisting at the front of her dress. The tight hem of it had risen higher, exposing more of her thighs, thighs he wanted to spread open, plant kisses up along the length of them, and settle his mouth between, exploring and tasting her, getting his fill of—Jesus. He swore under his breath and refocused on her feet, willing his dick to soften, willing her to stop doing everything she was doing. Her toenails were painted a tangerine pink and he moved her foot under the water’s flow, watching as the soap dribbled off them. Her feet looked so delicate in his hands, and he’d never had a foot fetish before, but maybe this was how it started. He cleared his throat. “I think we should get you on the bed.”

  “What?” She panted out the question, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was aroused. All hazy eyes and flushed cheeks. He stood and bent over her, taking the opportunity to lift her into his arms, though there was no reason she couldn’t stand.

  “I can walk,” she mumbled, her hands fisting in his shirt. One of his buttons fell undone and she flushed.

  “I don’t want you to slip.” He paused at the bedroom door, studying her closely. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She wet her lips and was absolutely stunning. “Maybe I should get on the bed.”

  “Yeah. That way I could treat the bottom of your feet.”

  “Right.” She wet her lips again, her soft pink tongue darting out and he struggled not to lean forward and kiss them.

  He should move into the bedroom. He could be done in ten minutes and headed home. There was no reason for him still to be standing in the doorway of her bathroom, holding her in his arms. She looked up at him. She had pretty eyes. He hadn’t realized that earlier. Blue, with little brown flecks in them. And she was wearing eyeshadow, pale gold eyeshadow with some of her mascara dotting it. He reached up and brushed some loose strands of her hair off her forehead. “You are a very beautiful woman,” he said softly.

  Her hands tightened on his shirt. “Declan?”

  “Yes?” he asked gruffly.

  “Please kiss me.”

  It was the wrong thing to say to a man on the edge and he kicked at the door, getting it fully open and launching her onto the bed. His mouth found hers, his hands feverishly pulling at the fabric of her dress as he toed off his shoes. He broke away from their kiss to look down at her dress, his fingers struggling with the buttons. She shook her head, her own hands pulling at his shirt, dragging it over his head. “Just rip it.”

  He gripped the cloth and yanked, the sound of the tear adding to the passion of the moment. As he met her mouth he slid his hand inside the open dress, greedy at the forbidden access, his hand roughly traveling up the curves of her bra and pulling the lace down, her breast popping free.

  He paused, watching as his hand reverently passed over the nipple, soft and pink, the tip of it pebbling under his touch, her back arching into his hand, offering it up to him and greedy for more. She was so exposed, so trusting, and so, so beautiful. He needed everything, all at once. To push inside of her, to taste her, to bring her pleasure, to hear her cry. He wanted to rush but take his time. Take but give her pleasure. Savor yet inhale her need. He brought his mouth down to her breast, his grip biting into her, pulling her tighter, his control barely in place as he worshipped the skin with his tongue. She groaned, thrashing underneath him, her hands raking through his hair, his name a cry from her lips. She clawed at her dress, trying to work it over her shoulders and cursed when she got stuck with it over one arm. “Sc
issors,” she panted. “Top drawer.”

  He pulled off, taking the moment to peel off his socks and yank his belt open. He opened the drawer, a set of yellow shears next to a paperback novel and a single blue condom wrapper. He pulled his attention away from the condom and picked up the scissors.

  “Cut it off,” she begged, pulling the fabric away from her. “Hurry.”

  He opened the shears and hesitated. “We could probably get it off you if you—” She snatched the scissors with an animal growl and proceeded to hack through the material like a madwoman. He grinned, her raw need clear in this unrestrained moment. She was so beautifully artless and sexy. God, I want her. Then her dress fell away, the lavender lace panties exposed, and he stopped thinking about anything.

  He swore, pushing his jeans to the floor and climbing on top of her. Her skin was flushed, the matching bra half off, and he pulled the other strap down, baring both breasts to him, and feasting on the view.

  “Please,” she begged, her hands reaching for him. “You have no idea how much I need this.”

  He had a bit of an idea. There was a good chance, if she touched him right now, that he’d finish before she pulled him out of his underwear. He dragged his fingers down her body and along the seam of her panties, inching under the lace, exploring her, her greedy body pushing into his touch. She was so wet, so warm. He pushed two fingers in and she gripped him tightly, the feel of her incredible, and he closed his eyes at the sensation. Her hips moved, grinding against him, and he almost came undone.

  “More,” she grunted, clawing at his chest as she pulled on the top of his underwear and caught his dick when it popped free.

  She was a sexual beast. Unafraid. Unashamed. She was so different than any other woman he’d ever been with. So open. He moved his fingers quicker and hissed when she tightened her grip on him. She pulsed her hips up, meeting his hand, and stared up at him, mouth falling open, body tightening. The feel of her on his fingers … it was heaven. How would that feel around his cock? He swore at the thought, watching her face change. She was close to coming, and he could see every bit of her climb, saw the flush as it hit her skin, felt the tightening of her body, the grip of her hand, the tremble of those perfect thighs. When she broke, it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life, a full-body bloom of pleasure, unfiltered and unrestrained. She rode it, owned it, her body tightening and flexing in perfect sensual waves around his fingers. His cock flexed in her hand, jealous of the sensation. She came down, going limp and her eyes dragged open, finding his.