Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

“Stacy, baby, don’t cry. Please.”

If anything, she cried harder. Pressing her face to his chest, she gripped his forearm. “Don’t say my name. Don’t say anything. Just…give me a minute.”

Helpless, he alternated stroking her hair and running a hand over her back while the storm of tears battered her. He wasn’t a good judge, but it seemed to go on a long time. When he couldn’t take any more, he cupped his hand at the base of her head, eased her face away from his chest, and leaned close. “Shhh.” He let his lips brush under one swollen eye, tasted salt and soft skin. She shuddered and a small sound escaped her throat. Eyes closed, arm tight around his neck, she tipped her head back into his hand and offered her lips.

An offer he couldn’t refuse. Trailing his mouth over her damp cheek, he traced the tracks of her tears to the corner of her mouth, swept his tongue along the delicate crevice. Her lips parted. He delved—but gently, cautiously. Her tongue crept closer, slid over his almost tentatively, and then retreated. He held his breath as she approached again. This time her tongue tangled around his, and she sighed. He answered with a tortured groan, and his control slipped away.

Time spiraled while he lost himself in her. Her strawberry-sweet lips, the luscious depths of her mouth, that hot, hungry tongue eagerly tasting everything it could reach. Other subtle inputs registered further back in his mind: the weight of her breasts against his chest, taut nipples jutting through the jacket and his shirt. The curve of her hip wedged tight in his lap. When she closed her lips around his tongue and sucked long and slow, his dick sprang to attention and thrust hopefully against her thigh, as if to say, “Me, too!”

Without breaking the kiss, she shifted slightly and, next thing he knew, fondled him through his pants. On a strangled groan, he drew back and, against her mouth, said, “We need to talk.”

“Don’t talk,” she pleaded, lips brushing his while, down below, he throbbed to life in her hand. Even as his imagination replaced her hand with her soft, moist mouth, his mind tried to apply the brakes. Yes, undercover work allowed physical intimacy within certain boundaries, but a hand job exceeded the limits. Too bad his dick didn’t care.

Clinging to reason, he tried again. “Stacy, stop. I need to talk to you.” His voice held a thread of desperation—a plea—but she wasn’t in a merciful mood. She grip

ped him hard, and drew her clenched fist slowly up his shaft, wringing an agonized curse from him.

“Let me,” she whispered, more a demand than a request. “Tell me what you want.”

He wanted to tell her to stop; needed to tell her to stop. Instead, he grabbed her waist, buried his face in the warm, fragrant curve of her neck, and begged. “Christ, do that again. A little faster.”

She did, again and again. Not so much expertly as attentively, like every shudder and twitch of his body fascinated her. He barely registered her reactions, too distracted by the pressure building between his legs. He must have made some sound of protest—or warning—because she squeezed his balls and repeated, “Let me.”

“Jesus. I—okay.” In less than a minute, he was an inarticulate mess, begging in one-word bursts of “faster…harder,” and fighting a nearly overpowering instinct to push her down onto her hands and knees, tear off the scrap of lace between her legs, and thrust so deep inside her she’d think they were conjoined.

She leaned in, closed her lips around his earlobe, and bit down. Bright light flashed behind his clenched eyelids, the few brain cells he had left imploded, and he came with a strangled groan.

A flat voice behind him called out, “Time’s up. Fifteen minutes to close.”

She kissed his slack mouth. He tried to move his lips and capture hers, but wasn’t quick enough. She was already sliding away. “I need to talk to you.” Christ, his voice sounded like tires on gravel, and achieved about the same traction. Stacy slipped out the door.

…

“Thanks for the escort, Gary.” Kylie dug the keys out of her bag as they started across the parking lot.

“No problem, Stace. Nice job tonight. I notice you picked up a new regular.”

Trevor. Her stupid heart skipped a beat. “Yeah.”

“Ramon says he likes to bend the rules.”

Word was getting out. The realization sent claws of alarm skittering up her spine. “He’s fine. Good tipper.”

As they closed in on the yellow Bug, Gary said, “Don’t let the good tips get in the way of your good sense. If this guy crosses the line, you let me know.”

“Stacy, I need to talk to you,” a deep voice cut in from the shadows on the other side of the car. Trevor was little more than a dim outline, but she’d know him anywhere.

“It’s quarter to three,” Gary barked. “Talk to her tomorrow. We’re closed.”

Trevor ignored the blond man. “I’ll drive you home.”

Eyes on Trevor, she told Gary, “It’s okay.” To Trevor, she said, “I can’t. I’ve got to be somewhere first thing tomorrow. I need my car.”

Crossing his arms on the roof of the Bug, he looked at her, his expression inscrutable. “All right, you drive me home.”

“Get in.” She tapped a button on her key fob and popped the locks.

As Trevor got in, Gary whispered, “Ah, dammit, what are you doing? You don’t get involved with the clients. Never mix business and pleasure. I thought you were smarter than this.”