Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

Chapter Thirteen

Swain woke on the couch with a ray of sun stabbing his eyes. His head ached, which didn’t seem fair, considering he’d had maybe three beers and only a bystander’s high. Speaking of which, he craned his neck until he could see out the screen door. No black Honda sat in the driveway. Good. The last thing he needed this morning was Beavis and Butt-Head wearing out their welcome.

The first thing he needed was Eden. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his chest. Well, a shower and some clothes. Then Eden. And a fucking plan, because as of this moment, he really didn’t know how he should play things with her. Unsettling, that, because he always knew how to play a situation. Life had trained him well. Last night shouldn’t have happened—certainly not the way it had. He couldn’t regret sleeping with her. That part had probably been inevitable. Between the forced intimacy of their cover, the mutual chemistry, and his ever-deepening appreciation for all things Eden, he’d been a goner from the beginning. But she hadn’t, and she might be full of regrets this morning, especially given the whole thing probably amounted to a pity fuck on her part.

Mortifying as that thought might be, it didn’t faze his cock, which stood ready and eager to prove it could go the distance if she’d give him another shot. Since greeting her naked and horny was definitely not the way to play things, he grabbed his jeans off the floor and dragged his sorry ass down the hall to the bathroom. On the way, he noted the closed bedroom door farther down the hall. Still asleep, or avoiding him? Probably option two, he thought as he slipped into the bathroom and confronted his reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror.

Hell, Swain, you’re looking a little worse for wear.

He wasn’t hungover, as it turned out. His head ached because he had a bruise on his forehead. Faint but visible, though nothing a ball cap wouldn’t cover. Maybe there were some gaps in last night after all, because he had no memory of how it had come to be there. His eyes held a weary look—lack of sleep plus the stress of the nightmare—and he needed a shave.

He also needed an answer to a question stuck in the forefront of his mind. A larger assortment of lotions and potions now joined the makeup bag on Eden’s side of the sink, but a quick rifle through all of it failed to provide a definitive answer. Feeling uncomfortably like a sneak, he opened the medicine cabinet and took stock of the items she’d stored there. Ibuprofen, a box of Band-Aids, an emery board, and a small, quilted red bag—the kind of thing women always seemed to keep around and a man would have absolutely no use for. He picked it up, unzipped it, and looked inside. Birth control pills and a couple emergency tampons. The punch windows indicated she was conscientious about the doses. With a sigh of relief, he put it back and shut the cabinet. He might have been a short-sighted, irresponsible wreck last night, but Eden Brixton had her act considerably more together. No Plan B scramble for her.

He started the shower, winced at the moan of the pipes, and hoped the racket didn’t wake her if it was, in fact, sleep that accounted for the closed bedroom door. The completely innocent thought put an illicit image in his mind—her stretched out on the sheets, face nestled in the pillow, thin tank top ruched up to reveal the long, smooth line of her spine, and little sleep shorts clinging to her heart-shaped ass.

His cock throbbed. He stepped into the shower and let the water run cool, but after half a minute of standing there with his dick aching, he gave in and wrapped his fist around his shaft. Eyes closed, he imagined approaching the bed, leaning over her sleeping form, starting at her toes and kissing his way up her leg. When he reached the shorts, he kissed the sweet swell of one partially exposed cheek and slipped his hand into the shorts. Settled it between her thighs. In his mind, she moaned and squirmed, pressed her pussy into his palm, and rode it. He stroked her, and stroked her, slow at first, and then increasingly harder and faster as her hips pumped along to the pace he set. He licked and kissed her dancing ass.

When he sank his teeth into the lush crescent of flesh, her body stiffened. The low, shuddering moan that reached his ears was his own, as was the orgasm that dropped down his spine like a bolt of lightning to meet the countercharge shooting up from his balls. The energy flowed through his cock like a thousand watts of agonizing pleasure and drained him so completely he had to brace a palm on the tile to keep from dropping to his knees.

Jesus. How was he going to survive this assignment without the prospect of being inside her again? He’d have a permanent hard-on. Maybe if he begged, she’d pity fuck him on the regular? Or if he pissed her off enough, she’d hate fuck him. The idea of her slapping his face and fucking his brains out had him thickening again. He turned the water to full-on cold, which got matters under control, and then twisted the knob to off. The pipes gave a chirp and a thump.

By the time he finished shaving and pulled his jeans on, he felt almost functional. He still didn’t know what to say to Eden but figured coffee might help. Luck was on his side, because the bedroom door remained closed. He padded to the kitchen on bare feet, filled the carafe with water, poured it in the well, and spooned coffee into the filter-lined basket. After pressing go, he turned and—

“’Morning.”

“Holy shit, choux.” He pressed his hand to his racing heart. “You shaved ten years off my life.” She hovered at the entry to the kitchen, wearing the white robe and some short pink pajamas. The same ones she’d worn last night? Water sputtered through the coffeemaker. The scent of brewing Columbian roast filled the room. Were the shorts still damp from her body…and his? He willed his eyes not to stray from her face. Fearing he’d lose the battle, he turned and took two mugs from the cabinet. “Coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” He heard her come closer. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine. Good.” Stop talking, cooyon. He poured the quarter pot of coffee already brewed into a mug and handed it to her before shoving the carafe back into position. When he turned around this time, she’d propped a hip against the adjacent counter and eyed him speculatively over the rim of her mug.

“You kind of passed out last night. Do you remember anything?”

Was she really going to make it that easy for him? And was he going to let her? He considered going along, because if that’s how she wanted to play it, he ought to respect her wishes, even though the play held zero appeal for him. But then she brushed her hand over her forehead—an absent gesture—and his gaze snagged on a bruise by her hairline. A bruise very similar to the one he was sporting this morning.

“Ah, choux.” Fucking idiot. You’re a fucking idiot. He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?”

The concern in her voice forced his decision. Taking a deep breath, he faced her and brushed his thumb very gently over the mark. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Now she colored. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” She tried to step back, but the size of the kitchen prevented her from moving out of his reach.

He stepped closer, hemming her in, and placed the softest kiss he could manage next to the bruise. “I’m not likely to forget it.” Offering her an apologetic look meant to encompass more than just the injury, he confessed, “I’m not like

ly to forget any of it.”

Her lips twisted into a pained smile. Her eyes shifted beyond him. “Are Dobie and Kenny still around?”

“Nah. They’re long gone.”

She nodded, then scooted around him and took a seat at the kitchen table. He poured himself coffee and joined her. They sat for a moment, staring at each other. Then, without warning, her bare foot connected with his shin.

“Ow!” Surprise, more than pain, accounted for the reaction, but before he could ask what the hell the kick was for, she said, “You ditched me last night, partner.”

Oh. That. Suddenly the fake amnesia option sounded pretty good. “It seemed easier if one of us disapproved, which set up a plausible reason for the other to abstain.”

“Fine. You be the one with the allergy. I’ll be the one who’s cool to hang out but considerate of my fiancé.”