You’d have to prove that to her, because last night you fell a fucking mile short of convincing.
Which brought him back to curiosity and how much he had riding on it.
Pep Boys paid off in the form of a bejeweled license plate holder that read I’m not spoiled…just well taken care of, an assortment of window stickers and body decals he could age with a razor blade, and a rearview mirror charm—a pair of pink, fuzzy dice. She’d hate every bit of it, but nothing couldn’t be removed when the op was over.
He spent the drive home imagining her reaction to everything he planned to do to her blank canvas of a car, enjoying her probable responses so much he almost slammed into the black Honda parked halfway down the driveway. What were they doing here? Was Eden handling them? His entire body tightened. He pulled to the side, off the driveway. Forgetting the bag, he swung out of the Bronco and strode up to the house. And there they were, sitting on the porch. Kenny’s and Dobie’s chairs tightly flanked Eden’s, and all three of them looked at something in her lap. She wore…holy Christ…the white robe and possibly nothing else. Bare feet. Bare legs. Bare arms. Any part of her not draped in white silk was bare.
Three heads turned his way when he took the porch steps. Something of the rampant, territorial lust he felt inside him must have shown on his face, because three sets of eyes rounded. He threw his keys across the porch, where they landed with a violent clatter. “Go home,” he growled to Kenny and Dobie as he stepped over Kenny’s legs and picked Eden up out of her chair. A tattered Brides magazine tumbled to the concrete, and he would have been amused at the idea of her sitting out there, forcing her uninvited guests to give their opinions on bridal gowns, if he wasn’t so driven to remind them that she was his.
At least as far as their cover went.
“What the…?” Eden managed, before he brought his lips down on hers. She went stiff for a moment—a long moment—but then moaned into his mouth and melted against him. A sultry blend of scented body lotion and warm skin clouded his brain. He half-carried, half-hauled her across the porch and wrestled the screen door out of his way. When his first and second attempts to twist the knob for the front door failed, he simply braced her against the wood, fitted his hips between her splayed thighs, and sucked her tongue into his mouth. She moaned again and bucked against him, pressing her hot center against the fly of his jeans.
Inside. He had to get her inside. With one hand buried in her hair and her body pinned between his and the door, he twisted the old knob hard. If gave without warning, and he staggered through, holding on to Eden and digging his heels into the hardwood to keep them from falling. The screen door slammed closed. A vision of Kenny and Dobie scrambling for a better view compelled him to rebalance her and kick the solid door shut.
Then he carried her to the stairs, fell to his knees, and dropped her a couple of steps above him. She clung to him, all arms and legs and slippery, silk-covered curves, while he tried to touch her everywhere at once. After a rushed, breathless moment, he gave in to the need to take the pulse of this thing. “Eden?”
She dragged a hand through his hair, yanked his head back, and stared into his eyes. “Don’t talk. Nothing you say is going to make me respect you for pulling this caveman crap or myself for being so wound up it’s actually working.”
“Can I just say I respect that?”
Good answer, apparently, because she dragged his mouth back to hers and had her way with his tongue.
Pulse taken.
He had her robe half open before the thought of two potheads outside with their noses pressed to the fan-shaped glass in the door entered his head. He crawled up another step to cover her more fully and broke the no-talking rule. “I won’t let them see you, choux,” he muttered between trailing kisses down the column of her throat. “I won’t let that happen.”
Her hands clasped his head and guided his mouth lower. The back of her head dropped to a step with a thunk. “I don’t care. Just…oh, God…yes.”
He closed his mouth over her nipple—the tight point poking through the thin white camisole she wore—and rolled it between his lips while her fingernails raked his scalp, then released it long enough to shove the stretchy fabric out of his way and lave the bare tip with his tongue.
Her hips lifted, grinding her soft center against the front of his jeans, torturing the ridge of his cock battened there.
“Jesus. That felt so good I’m gonna have to do it again.” He laved. She writhed. His cock pounded from the brief impact. “And again.” This time he took her nipple fully into his mouth, took more, took as much of her breast as humanly possible and exploited all the opulent softness, working his jaw in time to the rocking of her hips, because every time he moved, she released a breathless moan. “More,” she gasped, “lower.” Her hands exerted downward pressure on his head.
Her wish? His command. He kissed his way along her slender torso, her fluttering stomach, and spared a moment to yank his jeans open and get some relief from the metal button anchors drilling dents in his cock. Not a moment too soon, because it thickened to new proportions at the sight of the white scrap of lace decorating her pussy. Suddenly reverent, he touched the damp panel between her thighs and stroked the shadow-soft flesh beneath. She groaned.
“You are so fucking gorgeous, choux.” Unable to resist, he touched her again. The wetness there drew a sympathetic response from his body. The salty taste of anticipation filled his mouth. Fluid as hot as a drop of liquid nitrogen beaded at the tip of his cock. “So. Fucking. Gorgeous.”
She didn’t raise her head to make eye contact, which he imagined would take the form of an imperious glare, but her knees battered his shoulders, conveying her impatience with the compliments. Her hands grew heavy on his head. “Save the sweet talk, cooyon. Talk isn’t what I want from your mouth.”
“Fair enough. I’ll talk to your pussy instead. We’ll have a long, deep conversation right here on the stairs, with your legs over my shoulders”—he arranged them accordingly—“and my dick hanging out, just crying to get in on the discussion.”
Fingers tightened in his hair and exerted an upward pull. “Swain…”
“Uh-uh-uh.” He resisted her effort to change the course of things. “We’re not gonna let him get a word in edgewise, since he jumped the gun last night. Not until I’m done saying what needs to be said.”
Lowering himself push-up style, he brought his face to the target. “This could take some time.” Bracing both knees and a forearm on various stairs, he twisted a finger into the lace and pulled it aside. She moaned and tightened her legs on his shoulders, lifting herself to him.
“Patience, choux. I didn’t do a proper introduction last night.” He proceeded to correct the oversight with a brief, entirely polite kiss to the tidy strip of dark hair guarding the goods. “Marc Swain,” he said over her frustrated whimper. “Sorry I didn’t get to this…before.” Another kiss, longer, to the pillows of flesh protecting even softer territory within. Another impatient moan. Another flex of her legs, in an attempt to position herself so his mouth was where she needed it. “I hope you don’t feel too neglected, but”—he placed a kiss on the other side, but his lips stretched into a smile when she cursed and squirmed—“I’m fixin’ to make it up to you right now.” He slowly kissed the very back of her pussy. Muscles clenched and quivered under his mouth. Velvety fles
h parted like an invitation.
“God dammit, Swain. Now.” The flat of her hand smacked the step supporting his arm. “Right now.”
He fused his mouth to her, caught her busy hips in his hands, and gave her clit a hard, fast tongue lashing. Within seconds, her breaths became labored. Frayed and pitchy on the exhale.
“Like those noises you make, choux,” he muttered before diving back in to dole out more attention on her clit. “I like them a lot. But what I’d really like to hear is you calling my name while I suck an orgasm right out of this pretty little pussy. Do that for me.”