Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck
Chapter Twelve
The dream faded—dream, memory, a toxic combination of both—as Eden’s voice called him out of the claustrophobic horror of a hood over his head, a thick arm around his windpipe, and a rain of fists and boots doing their best to break every bone in his body. He blinked down at her in the darkness. Her eyes shone, huge and full of concern. Her full lips parted. “Marc?”
Fuuuuuck.
“Jesus. Sorry.” He released her wrists. “I just… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She reached up and brushed his forehead with cool, featherlight fingertips. “You’re okay.”
And just like that, every nerve ending in his body snapped to attention, sending input to his brain in fast bursts—her long, bare legs tangled with his, her cotton-covered breasts crushed and heaving under his chest. His painfully urgent hard-on pressed along her smooth thigh. He groaned again, but this time it had nothing to do with the dream. Well, only peripherally.
Maybe she misunderstood, though, because she cupped his cheek and repeated, “You’re okay.”
He wasn’t. He was a fucked-up mess with a fucked-up past he still couldn’t quite outrun after all these years, but being near to her, like this, felt dangerously close to salvation. Salvation he was desperate for. Desperate to obliterate the vision of himself in the clutches of a dream from his mind, and from her mind, and replace fear and pity with a frenzy of pleasure.
Dragged along by that impulse, he kissed her. Not a soft, slow kiss of appreciation, but an urgent, slightly brutal rush to feast on all her softness. To lose himself in her. Or find himself. In that moment, the outcome didn’t matter. Only the now mattered—the heat, the rush, the escape. Her mouth moved under his, plush lips parting, offering, and it was all the invitation he needed. He took and took in fast, greedy sweeps and devastating plunges. Pleading little sounds came from her throat—possibly telling him he was being too rough—but her hands bracketed his head, holding him close.
He rocked his hips, his body instinctively seeking more softness, and she parted her thighs. His cock took a devastating slide along warm, smooth flesh to lodge in the V of her legs—an area protected only by flimsy cotton shorts. Damp, flimsy cotton. He wanted to see her, taste her, take his time and savor her with every single one of his senses, but all he could manage was another roll of his hips, to push his cock past the minimal barrier and into the hot, wet sanctuary of her pussy, because now. Now. It had to be now.
Her hand swept down his back, flattened on his ass. Her thighs clamped his hips.
Blind with need, he relinquished her mouth long enough to beg. “Let me. Please, Eden. Let me.”
Her “yes” came in a soft pant against his lips, and another warm palm smoothed down his spine. She got a two-handed grip on his ass and squeezed. Hard.
He thrust, still begging, and felt the sweet sting of her fingernails in his flesh. Something snapped inside him—broke, tore, rent beyond repair. He plunged into her, over and over, whispering “please, please, please,” as an orgasm ripped through him like a fever, and he came in a shocking, blinding rush.
…
“Jesus, choux. Sorry—”
“Shh.” Eden stroked his hair. If her hand trembled a little, she didn’t think he noticed. His face was still buried in the pillow, right next to her head. His heavy frame was still ranged over hers. His body still nestled inside her.
“Give me a second,” he murmured. “One second, and I’ll get back at this, make it good for you.”
She trailed her fingernails along his shoulder, his back. “No rush.” At least her voice sounded steady, though she felt shaken to her core. She wanted to blame it on seeing strong, supremely confident Swain caught so deep in the grip of a nightmare that he couldn’t fight his way out. And maybe that was partly to blame. But the real reason had more to do with the way he’d held onto her like a lifeline, kissed her as if he needed her more than oxygen, fucked her like his sanity depended on coming inside her. Even if she lived a hundred years, she doubted time would blur the memory of this fast-talking, smart-mouthed man whispering please over and over as he sought absolution from whatever demons had chased him into his dreams. Swain didn’t come across as the kind of man who needed comfort, but in that moment, he’d needed it badly—from her—and it had been beyond her not to provide what he sought.
“That feels so good,” he said, his words already starting to slur a little as sleep tugged at him.
Apparently, her need to comfort him hadn’t been satisfied yet. She continued tracing meandering patterns on his skin. “All part of the service.”
“Better stop. It’s putting me to sleep, and I’m”—he yawned and slid his hand up to cup her breast through her tank top—“not done yet.” His cock stirred inside her.
Then again, maybe that accounted for her compulsion to touch him. Even the small move set off ripples of sensation—reminders of the hard, fast friction he’d pumped into her with soul-rattling abandon, leaving her a little sore and a lot needy. Not simply needy but needy for him, which was not good. God forbid he ever get the opportunity to fuck her for pleasure rather than distraction. She might never be the same.
She’d be vulnerable is what she’d be. Vulnerable to a man she couldn’t completely trust, and that was unacceptable. But even so, she kept stroking his back. Kept letting him lay there with his cock cradled inside her body and his hand resting possessively over her breast. She must have sustained brain damage when he’d bashed their heads. There was no other explanation.
“Mmm.” The appreciative noise vibrated from his chest.
“Shh. Go to sleep,” she murmured. “No more dreams.”
His slow, steady breathing told her he’d drifted off.
What now?
He’d had several beers tonight, plus a headful of THC. If a merciful God existed, he wouldn’t even remember this in the morning.
But you will.
He shifted, slipping deeper into sleep. She bit her lip to stay silent as the move eased his cock out of her and tried to ignore the bereft sensation. Shifting a little herself, she scooted off the sofa and stood.
He rolled onto his side and flung an arm out as if reaching for her, but he didn’t wake.
Whew. Despite the relief and the low-grade desperation to put some walls between them, she stood there a moment longer, taking in the sight of him gloriously naked, asleep on the couch. He really was ridiculously attractive—and God, he knew it—but it took a stronger woman than she to simply ignore the breath-stealing male beauty stretched out before her. It didn’t have to mean anything that the latent strength in the smooth, curved muscles of his shoulder made her want to sink her teeth into them, or the ridges rippling along his lower torso practically begged to be licked. The half-moon of his ass cheek could have been carved from marble, but the sight of four tiny, crescent-shaped indents she’d accidently inflicted with her fingernails assured her he was flesh and blood. The twist of his body and angle of his leg prevented her from getting a visual of what she’d once called a small-caliber weapon, but she’d known even then that there was nothing small about him. Her body still craved the perfect fullness of him, the perfect length and girth of his cock, the warm weight of his balls—all now shrouded in shadows and hidden from view by a muscular thigh.
Like an out-of-body experience, she imagined herself kneeling beside him, reaching out, and easing his drawn-up knee down to bare the goods to her view. Salt flooded the back of her throat as she envisioned leaning in and taking him between her lips, holding him there and lavishing his cock with encouragement from her tongue as he hardened, then fucking him with her entire mouth until he lost control and came in long, generous spurts.
Eden, you need to walk away right now, before you make your second mistake of the night.
Third mistake, she silently corrected as she caught the gleam of her gun in the corner.
She tiptoed over and retrieved it. At least you didn’t shoot yourself in the foot.
But she kind of had—just not literally.