Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

“Just doin’ my job.” He cupped her ass and hauled her closer. “Makin’ it look like we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Two can play this game, cooyon.” Her hand took a slow slide down his spine to snuggle into the back pocket of his jeans, which had a predictable effect on body parts much closer to his front pockets.

This seduction might be staged, but as far as his body knew, it was as real as it got. Pushing past the sweet agony of having her hands on him, he focused on the assignment. “Speaking of hands, you’ve got Dobie eating out of yours.”

“That’s my job, right?” She tipped her head back and looked up at him from beneath lowered eyelids. Contrived as it may have been, his pulse still skipped around. “I assume Malone gave you the same intel I got from Buchanan.”

“He did.” Damn, she smelled good. Not the kind of thick, sultry, behind-the-glass-cabinet-at-Dalton’s-Drugstore fragrance she should be wearing, but the fresh, clean scent he’d noticed before. Like an apple- and pear-blossom bouquet. It made him imagine laying her out on a soft, white sheet in a springtime orchard and sinking into her while she moaned his name and small pink petals rained down on them. He lowered his face to the curve of her neck and inhaled deep. Inhaled everything he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, even as their thighs brushed, retreated, and brushed again, and he swore he could feel her legs, long and bare, through his jeans. “Malone filled me in. You found the right cock to tease. Nice work.”

She jerked out of his hold. “Do you work at being a dick, or does it come naturally?” With the question hanging in the air, she stalked back to the table where Junior and Lou Ann sat, Kenny and Dobie having joined them.

He gave her a moment, then followed. The singer switched the tempo up with “Beer Can’t Fix,” and people packed the dance floor, filling in the space he vacated. “Aw, c’mon, choux,” he called to her over the music. “Don’t be like that. Dance with me. They’re playin’ our song.”

She sat there facing him, arms and legs crossed, one booted foot bouncing like she was ready to kick him to the curb. “I wouldn’t dance with you if you were the last person in this place.”

“I’ll dance with you, Eden,” Dobie offered.

“Hey, man.” Swain sent him an exasperated look. “I’m workin’ an apology here.”

Eden smiled at Dobie and then turned her stern look on him. “After what you said, it’s going to take way more than an apology.” Nose in the air, she added, “I don’t really think you’re up to the task.”

Perfect. Did she have any idea how perfect she looked, shimmering with quiet fury? Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered Lou Ann’s quick laugh and Junior’s “Hoooo buddy. You done goofed.” Applause erupted behind him as the singer finished her set.

Sliding what he knew to be a sly smile on his lips, he let his legs go lax and dropped to his knees. “You want me to grovel, baby?”

She examined her fingernails. “I want you to go away.”

He crawled toward her on hands and knees. “You know you like it.” With the featured show over, their show started to attract attention. A few women whistled and catcalled. A few men groaned. He crawled closer, so he knelt directly in front of her, never taking his eyes off her face. “You like it when I grovel at your feet.” He ran his jaw suggestively over her bare leg. Her knee. The skirt

left a lot of unprotected territory. The crowd howled. Somebody put Cardi B on the jukebox.

She uncrossed her legs and placed the sole of her boot against his shoulder. A warning. “That’s not my foot, Swain.”

“I know, choux.” He took her hand and guided it to his head, sinking her fingers in his hair before letting go. “As much as you like when I grovel at your feet, I know you like it even better when I grovel…” He scooted closer, taking advantage of her un-parted legs. “…here.” He looked up at her as he ran his jaw along her inner thigh and took unreasonable satisfaction from the flutter of her eyelids and the flush of her cheeks. The fingers in his hair tightened.

Around them, the bar chanted, “Gro-vel! Gro-vel! Gro-vel!”

He put his neck into it, rubbing on her like a cat. Her boot heel dug into his shoulder, but she didn’t kick him away. He hitched a hand beneath her knee and eased her leg down until she had both feet on the floor. Her knees splayed open a bit, so he positioned himself between them—so they didn’t put on more of a show than he’d planned—and laid his head in her lap, nuzzled there a long moment. A new scent reached his nose. Something earthy and seductive and not from a bottle. Something all Eden. His mouth watered. The fingers in his hair squeezed tight and then went lax.

“Make ’im work for it, sister!” a woman called over the music and the chant.

He lifted his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Good God, y’all. Give a guy a chance.”

That caused more laughter. He turned back to Eden, winked, and then nuzzled her abdomen through the tank top. Her stomach fluttered under his lips. Working his way up the shirt, he accidentally grazed his jaw against one tight nipple standing high and proud beneath the flimsy confines of cotton and lace, and he heard her soft whimper. He kissed between her breasts, buried his face there just long enough to draw encouragement from the crowd and have her holding his head with both hands—another warning, perhaps—but her heart pounded against his cheek like a caged animal, the rapid cadence practically synchronized to his own.

Tipping his head to the side, he kissed her neck, then her chin, and then, at last, he reached her mouth. He heard her quick inhale just before he pressed his lips to hers. Hoots, hollers, whistles, and applause all faded away. For several long seconds, the world narrowed to just this. Just them. His mouth under hers. Her fingers in his hair. Her knees clamped tight to his hips. Pushing up higher on his knees, he sank his hands into her hair, tipped her head back, and took control of the kiss—if control equaled diving in to find and taste every flavor, from her cherry-glossed lips, to her pink-champagne tongue, to the hot, sweet haven at the back of her throat.

When he drew away to change the angle and take her mouth again, the music and noise flooded back, providing him with a brutal reminder that this was, indeed, strictly for show. He gave himself a minute to catch his breath, then hitched his mouth into a smile and stared into wide, dazed eyes. “Forgive me yet?”

She blinked slowly, and awareness crept into the foggy depths. An awareness that if she said “no,” God only knew what he’d do next. Same deal if she said “yes.” He solved it for her. “Dance with me, choux.”

“Like a Wrecking Ball” poured from the jukebox, but the Eric Church song this time. He stood, held out a hand to her, and tipped his head toward the dance floor.

When she reluctantly took it, the onlookers burst into applause. He accepted backslaps and fist bumps as he tugged her onto the dance floor. Couples joined them, packing the small area. This time, when he drew her into his arms, he wrapped one around her waist and cupped the back of her head with the other. Wanting to put a smile on her lips, he murmured, “Given how easy it is to piss you off, I’ll have to remember how much you appreciate a good grovel.”

“Oh, please. I told you when it mattered I could play my part convincingly.” She angled her head and sent him a pitying look. “Did I fool everyone, including you, cooyon?”

Wow. Had she? If so, she absolutely had made a cooyon of him, because he hadn’t doubted the sincerity of her reactions for a second. The flush, the heartbeat, the heat of her body, and the intensity of the kiss—it all felt real.