Page 30 of Tripping on a Halo

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?