He bit her earlobe, then drew it into his mouth and smoothed his tongue over it. The heat of his body, the urgent press of his erection, the slow sweep of his tongue—it all held her in a sweet, heavy thrall. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to stifle a moan.
“What you feel there? That’s me pretty much all the time you’re around.” His hands smoothed over her lap and up the sides of her body to cup her breasts. She arched into his touch, covering his hands with her own.
“Eden?”
“Huh?”
“I know this wasn’t in your plans. Mine, either, though I won’t deny it was in my wildest dreams. But I don’t think we’re going to get this genie back in the bottle.”
No. No, they definitely weren’t. Eyes closed, savoring the way he molded her breasts, she smiled and wiggled her hips again. “Is that what you call it? Your genie?”
“It’s your genie, choux. It’ll grant all your wishes.”
Her laugh turned into a groan when he sent one hand down her abdomen to ease between her legs. “Am I limited to three?”
He plucked her nipple, stroked her center, and just that deftly balanced her at the brink of a dizzying new orgasm. “No limits.” As if to prove it, he slid one finger inside her, where she remained so thrillingly sensitive from everything he’d already done to her she arched and came with a shockingly ragged gasp.
“Absolutely no limits,” he repeated as he anchored her, shuddering and breathless, against him.
But there were limits, she reminded herself while her body recovered from the force of nature known as Marcus Swain.
Their cover had limits.
The assignment wouldn’t last forever.
Genies were notoriously tricky, but this one—this particular one—would ultimately have to go back in the bottle.
…
“Oh, God. No. Not that.”
“Choux, c’mon now.” From his kneeling position, Swain aimed his best persuasive look at her.
“It’s too big. It’s not going to fit.”
She was grasping at straws, and he figured she knew it, but he could coax her into giving it a try. “It’s gonna fit perfectly. Trust me on this. You might actually like it.”
She crossed her arms and shook her head. “No self-respecting woman would like it. Cover or no cover, when all this is over, I have to be able to face my reflection in the mirror.”
He dropped his head and sighed. “It’s not going to do any permanent damage. I promise.”
“It’s going to permanently damage my soul.”
“Choux, it’s a license plate holder.” He held it up so the sparkly crystal rectangle framed her plate. “I’ll screw it in carefully. I’ll take it off when the op’s done.” He rubbed a thumb along t
he back bumper. “Your paint will never know the difference.”
She winced. “I can’t drive around in a vehicle that has the sentiment I’m not spoiled, just well taken care of emblazoned on it. I just…can’t.”
He straightened, threw her another smile—he really did not want to go all the way back to Pep Boys for a different holder—and said, “Bet the future Mrs. Michael Swain would. Doncha think?”
She raked both hands through her hair and spun in a circle at the side of the driveway. Now wasn’t the time to tell her how well she filled out a sexy blue…thing. Thin straps showed off her smooth shoulders. The V neckline—front and back—showed off more silky skin and the outline of her teardrop-shaped breasts. The sway of them beneath the opaque cotton made him wonder if she wore a bra. Some kind of tie or drawstring around the middle highlighted her narrow waist. The shorts ended high on her mile-long legs. Just looking at them brought back the memory of those long legs dangling down his back as he staked a claim to the wonderland between her thighs. And…damn. There went his dick.
“I agreed to the pink, fuzzy dice. I agreed not to get my car washed for the next few weeks. I even agreed to let you wreck my bumper with your Warning, Random Bitch Moments sticker. I draw the line at the spangled, sugar-daddy license plate holder.”
“Just try it on for size,” he insisted, turned his Saints cap around on his head so he could see what he was doing, and then put the screwdriver to use removing her Cleveland dealer-issue license plate holder around her bogus Ohio plate. Afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders, and sweat pooled at the small of his back, dampening his T-shirt so it stuck to his skin.
“I can’t watch my smart, proud car be defiled.” Eden threw a hand in front of her eyes. “I’m getting a drink. Want one?”