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I mused over a few other corrections I could make to my schedule and his, now that my subterfuge was no longer necessary. Access to his calendar, that was a must. And any travel arrangements, I’d need to know those in advance. I glanced at my watch, the only piece of my outfit he hadn’t torn off, and wondered if I should wake him back up. I got to my feet, holding open the door for Mr. Oinks, before shutting and locking it behind us, then tiptoed down the hall, stopping by the mail hutch to grab a pen and notepad. Easing open the door, I crawled on top of the bed and peered down at him.
God, he was pretty. He’d thrown off most of the blanket, leaving his upper body exposed. He was on his back, one arm curled up under the pillow, his bicep impressively displayed. He had a tattoo on the underside of the muscle and I leaned forward, struggling to read the cursive. Even angels fall. I frowned, the tattoo a little morbid, especially given my self-proclaimed angel designation. I moved on from it, taking another moment to savor the look of his strong chest, notched abs, the peaceful angles of his handsome face. He was safe. Maybe waking him up was a bad idea. I sat back on my heels and reconsidered the thought. He had a nick on the edge of his jaw that I’d never been close enough to notice—a scar where no hair grew. Such thick eyelashes. God, a mascara company needed to hire him for ads. I’d use half a tube of Maybelline and come away with spider lashes before I ever achieved that.
There was a loud scratch at the bedpost and I looked down to see Mr. Oinks, his corkscrewed tail wagging, looking up at me. I shushed him, and the time for ogling was over. Not that it hadn’t been justified. The chances of this bed ever having such a perfect male specimen again was embarrassingly low. Like … Heidi Montag coming back into social relevance, low. Cleveland Browns winning the Super Bowl, low. Me sticking to my Weight Watchers points goal, low. Mr. Oinks scratched again and I refocused on the task, reaching forward and softly pushing a finger into Declan’s chest. Wow. High-five to his workout regime. I slid the finger lower and tried again, this time in the first ridge of abs. He stirred, and I let my other hand play, drumming over the slack six-pack before nudging him. “Declan,” I whispered. He grunted and I climbed higher on the bed, straddling his hips and leaning over him. I can’t believe I had sex with him. And not just sex. Filthy sex. I made sounds I didn’t know I had. He … I sighed, pushing away the swoony feelings that came into play with how sweet and tender he had been. I gently shook him by the shoulders. “Declan.”
He opened his eyes, and blinked, focusing on my face. His free hand moved, sliding up my bare leg and gripping my thigh.
I ignored how much I enjoyed the connection and gently pushed it off. “I’m going to need access to your calendar. Will you tell your assistant?”
He blinked and seemed confused. “Okay.”
“And travel arrangements.”
“Okay.” His voice was thick and he pulled his hand free from underneath his head and tugged me down, my weight awkwardly falling on his chest.
I struggled not to react, my arms slack at my side. I forced my mind off how deliciously warm his skin was and concentrated on my to-do list. He smelled amazing, a cocktail of scents I’d never experienced before. So, this is what romance novels were always trying to describe. His breathing started to deepen and I clamped down my focus before I lost him to sleep. “And your full medical records.”
“Sure.” His fingers ran up my back and I’d pay a thousand dollars for someone to do that every night. “You smell really good, Autumn Jones.”
I searched widely for anything else I might need, since he seemed to be in such a giving mood. “Would you be open to a bodyguard? Someone non-obtrusive.”
“Sure.” He bent his head forward and inhaled deeply. I think he was smelling my hair. Had he meant it? Did I smell really good? I attempted my own secretive sniff, but came up with nothing but him. Maybe he was smelling himself and confused. Though, now that I thought about it, I’m not certain we can smell ourselves. No, scratch that—after an afternoon in the yard, I had definitely smelled myself before. It’s our own breath, I think that’s what we can’t smell.
“Relax.” He nuzzled my neck, his fingertips continuing their lazy journey across my back. “You’re all stiff.”
I forced my muscles to slacken, aided by the dramatic sigh of Mr. Oinks as he gave up on getting into bed and flopped onto the floor, his hooves skittering into place.
