Checked Out on Halloween

CHAPTER ONE

OPAL

I tug the striped black and gray knit sweater over my head. The dark green pencil skirt hugs over my wide hips. Polished enough to make me look like I didn’t just roll out of bed. I slide on my black tights and chunky boots completing my usual look.

The cats circle my ankles, meowing, and I dump kibble into their bowls without looking.

I’m still half lost in the world of the book I stayed up too late reading.

I couldn’t put it down—the enemies were just becoming lovers and things were heating up.

I always lose track of time when lost in a good dark romance.

My boots crunch against the sidewalk as I start my walk to the bookstore, the quiet town slowly waking around me. Leaves skitter across the pavement and my tummy rumbles in response to the smells of breakfast filling the air.

I may be running late, but I’m never too late for coffee.

The Toasted Bean welcomes me in warmth as I step inside. The scent of cinnamon, pumpkin, and caramel hits me like a hug, leaving my mouth watering.

I slide up to the counter and order a pumpkin spice latte and a turkey sausage croissant. The barista grins and takes my money.

Latte in one hand, croissant wrapped in paper in the other, I take a slow sip. The foam coats my tongue in sweet nutmeg heaven.

The bell above the door jingles as I push into Nook cardigan draped over her shoulders and purse in hand. She tucks a lose strand of her grey hair behind her ear. “I’m heading out for the day, dear. Alex called in sick, so it looks like you’ll be holding the fort on your own.”

I give her a nervous nod.

She returns a reassuring smile. “Call me if you need anything.”

Alone in the bookshop on a crisp October day sounds peaceful in theory—until the midday rush comes pouring in. The bell above the door jingles as she leaves, and just like that it's just me and the books.

I grab a copy of The Beast Who Owns Me from the shelf and head to the front of the store. I slide behind the counter, book in hand, and sink into the chair. Just a few pages I tell myself. Just a peek.

I find myself instantly hooked. The book wastes no time. Within the first few chapters claws and teeth are dragging across soft skin. I feel that familiar knot tightening low in my belly. My thighs heat and my breath stutters, I can feel my cheeks redden.

God, I really shouldn’t be reading this at work. But it’s just so tempting. And I’m all alone anyhow.

It’s only when a shift in the air draws my eyes upward that I realize that is false.

I straighten in my chair, snapping the book closed like I’ve been caught doing something indecent. The man standing in the romantasy section is huge—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his white shirt, dark jeans hugging muscular thighs.

His backwards hat should look casual, or boyish, but it only adds to the rugged, bad-boy sexiness he radiates without trying.

Dark facial hair shadows a sharp jaw, and when he tilts his head to study the spines on the shelf, I catch a glimpse of hazel eyes. Waves of honey brown hair peeks from the front of his hat and dances across sun tanned skin. He fills the aisle like the shop has suddenly shrunk.

And here I am, cheeks burning, hiding monster smut like its contraband while he shops for his wife, probably.

A man like that—rugged, broad, is too handsome to not have someone waiting at home.

Someone pretty, polished, the kind of woman who wouldn’t be caught dead with ink-stained fingers and a half-eaten croissant in her purse.

She’s probably dainty and blonde—the opposite of me.

I’m suddenly envious of a woman I’m not even sure exists.

The idea of a man that size, that rough around the edges, wandering into a bookshop to find the perfect romance book for his partner? That’s the kind of love that should be in a novel all on its own.

My ex would never. He had forbidden me from reading anything remotely sexy. He said reading romance meant I wasn’t satisfied.

Like I should be ashamed for wanting something other than the lukewarm, two-minute missionary he gave me.

I glance back at the man in the aisle. My pulse ticks higher. If only my ex could see this—the contradiction of it. A man that looks like he could rip a tree in half with his bare hands… standing in the romantasy section. He’s almost too delicious to be real.

The man pulls two books from the shelf and strides toward the counter. My breath stills and I quickly push the smutty monster literature under a stack of returns.

He sets the books down between us, and then, he smiles.

Good god.

His smile is gorgeous. One dimple cuts into his cheek, while bright, straight teeth flash under the shadow of his beard. I have to crane my neck just to look up at him—he towers over me, broad and solid.

“Two books,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s buy two, get one free today. You should go grab another.”

“Oh!” His brows lift, his whole face lighting up. “Seriously?”

I nod.

It takes him less than a minute to return, another thick paperback in hand. He sets it on the counter, chest rising and falling a little faster, like he really did sprint for it. And when I glance down at the cover my stomach tumbles.

The Beast Who Owns Me.

Heat prickles across my skin, blooming in my cheeks, spreading lower. Of all the books in this place—he picked that one.

I bag the books, brushing my fingers against the smooth covers. “That’ll be $28.76 I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He swipes his card, and I hand him the receipt. His hand lingers just a fraction longer than necessary, warm against mine.

Then he gives me another smile. His hazel eyes sparkle, and there’s a little catch in his breath. “Have a good day,” he says voice low and smooth as he glances over his shoulder as he turns to leave.

The apartment is quiet, besides the sounds of meows and the fake fireplace in my tv console. I get comfy on the couch with The Beast Who Owns Me and a thick, soft throw blanket.

My thoughts drift to the towering man from the bookshop. Were the books for him, or someone else? Did he return to an empty apartment like me or was he greeted by a partner with open arms. I wish I had asked his name, wish I had found a reason to talk to him.

I pour myself a mug of chamomile tea, the steam curling like vanilla scented smoke. Chinese takeout waits on the coffee table, Oakridge’s finest. I pick up a piece of General Tso’s chicken, savoring the sweet heat, but even that can’t chase my thoughts of him.

I push the empty takeout container aside, curl deeper into the couch, and pick the book back up. The words hook me immediately, dragging me into a world where danger and desire blur into one. It doesn’t take long before my skin is flushed, my pulse quickening with every filthy line.

I shift, pressing my thighs together, but it only makes the ache sharper. The wet heat between my thighs pools with every page I turn, and I have to bite my lip to keep from sighing out loud.

And then, just like that, he’s there again in my head.

I close my eyes for a moment; the book balanced on my lap.

I can’t help but wonder… is he at home reading the same pages?

Do the words make him just as turned on?

Does he shift in his seat and swallow hard too?

Now I can’t stop imagining him fisting his cock. Jesus. I need to get laid.

I set the book down along with my glasses. My hand trails down past my lower belly. I shift under the blanket, lifting one leg over the back of the couch. I move my hand down to my throbbing center, soaked with warmth. My fingers move in small circles, a moan escaping my lips.

I move faster, and harder, my hips move in time with my fingers. My breaths come sharp and ragged. I grit my teeth and my legs tense as the pressure builds, coiling tight in my core. My fingers move faster with more even pressure.

Until finally—pleasure consumes me. My legs are shaky, sweat drips from my brow and my chest heaves.

I lay there for a moment, catching my breath, waiting for my heart to settle. I think for a moment of just drifting off right here. But I know better, I know my neck would punish me tomorrow.

With a small groan, I push myself up before I actually pass out where I am. The blanket slips from my shoulders as I shuffle down the short hallway.

When I reach my bedroom, I peel back the covers, slip inside, and sink into the mattress with a sigh. My mind narrows to today’s thoughts—his smile, that book, the way he looked me. And I fall asleep thinking about the broad man from the bookshop.