Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

He bit back a sigh. Apparently not.

A groan that was part agony, part relief rumbled in his chest when he submerged himself in the steaming water. Despite the big tub, he rarely took baths, and never in his life one this hot. A single degree higher and he wouldn’t have been able to stand it, but after he settled in, it was…relaxing. Abused muscles loosened in his neck, back, and shoulders. He leaned against the curved wall of the tub and sighed. His eyelids drifted down.

“Feels good?” Her quiet question came from nearby, caressing him like a feather.

“Umm-hmm.”

“I’m glad,” she all but whispered and ran a washcloth over his chest. “Trevor…” The cloth swept along his neck, over his cheek, just below the bandage covering his injured temple. “Thank God you’re all right.” Her thick voice trembled over the words. She sniffed, and like a reluctant confessor added, “I was so scared.”

He opened his eyes and met her watery gaze. Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek. “Kylie, baby, I’m okay. Don’t cry.”

Inexplicably, his assurance only broke the dam. Her face crumpled. She pressed it to his wet chest and sobbed. “It was my f—fault…”

Ah, shit. He grabbed her shoulders, and after a brief internal debate, murmured, “Come here,” and simply hauled her into the bathtub. She struggled for a moment, but he held her tight. “Kylie, no. None of this is your fault, understand?” He kissed her forehead and reiterated, “None of it. There’s only one person to blame, and that’s the killer. You’re not responsible. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Now she clung to him. “You could have been killed—”

“But I wasn’t,” he interrupted, speaking firmly. “If you hadn’t screamed, that guy would have cleaned my clock. If anything, you saved my ass. I’m alive, thanks to you.”

Shaking her head, she hugged his shoulders and pressed her lips to his neck, his jaw, along his cheekbone, and finally, unbelievably soft, delicate kisses around the edge of the bandage at his right temple. Suddenly feeling incredibly alive, he raised his chin and intercepted those restless lips. Their mouths fused, and she stilled, sighed brokenly, and sank into him.

Within seconds, they were panting and pulling at her clothes. He dragged her wet shirt over her head and tossed it. It landed with a slap against the tiled floor, but he barely noticed. He was too absorbed in the sight of her—her breasts encased in a wet, white, completely transparent bra. When he cupped those breasts and lifted them, taking their weight, her head tipped back and her thighs tightened around his hips.

Needing to taste her skin, he popped the front clasp and watched warm, smooth flesh burst free of the sodden confines. “Closer,” he whispered, and with an arm behind her back, he brought one straining pink nipple to his mouth. When she whimpered and writhed, he transferred his attention to the other pebbled bud.

“Trevor. Oh, God, what are you doing to me?”

“Exactly the same thing you do to me,” he mumbled around her nipple.

“It’s my turn,” she insisted, her voice quavering as he sucked deep. “Please, it’s my turn.”

The “please” undid him. Putting a choke chain around his rampant desires, he slowly released her and sat back. “I’m all yours. Be gentle with me,” he said, only half kidding.

Eyes pinning his, she reached behind his head for the shower gel and poured some onto the washcloth. After replacing the bottle, she settled her hand on his cheek, leaned in, and closed her lips over his. Her tongue delved into his mouth while she ran the sudsy cloth over his neck and chest, squeezing so rivulets of water found the shallow valley between his pecs, ran down his torso, and dribbled into the tub. The sensation was so exquisite he shivered. Maybe he wasn’t as all right as he wanted her to think, because if her hand followed the same route, he just might die.

While her tongue tangled with his, the hand controlling the washcloth scrubbed its way down his body, in slow, lazy circles, until it rested directly between his legs. Encircling him, she ran the cloth along his shaft, lifting and stroking with the lightly abrasive terry cloth.

He groaned into her mouth. She made a sympathetic sound in reply, and the next thing he knew, her slick, slender fingers wrapped around his cock and tugged gently. Another groan scratched its way over his suddenly dry throat.

Her other hand slid down until it rested along the inside of his thigh. “You okay?” When she brought that hand up to cup his balls and squeezed gently, his inarticulate reply was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Shhh,” she said against his lips. Her hands kept up their busy stroke-and-squeeze between his legs. “Not too hard?”

“God, no.”

“Too fast?”

“No, no. It’s…good.” Head back, eyes closed, he endured the sweet torture as long as he could. The sounds of gently stirred water and his labored breaths filled the room while low in his gut, pressure coiled to a critical mass. After a minute, he bit back a ragged curse, sat up, and bracketed her wrists with his hands. “Stop,” he begged—there was no other word for it. “If you keep that up, I’ll come.”

She stared at him for a heartbeat. Then, before he could guess her next move, she got to her feet. Water streamed off her as she looked down at him.

“I want you to come.”

He swallowed hard and digested that declaration while she yanked off her wet jeans. In short order, they joined her shirt on the tile. Then she was sinking back to him, taking his outstretched arms for support as she lowered herself. Straddling his lap, she kissed him again, sliding her lips over

his tongue and sucking it like candy.

Aroused beyond reason, he wrapped an arm around her waist and dived into the kiss, taking her mouth a little more roughly than he intended—crushing her lips, plundering. Her small cry of pleasure told him she didn’t mind.