Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Thirteen

Swain woke on the couch with a ray of sun stabbing his eyes. His head ached, which didn’t seem fair, considering he’d had maybe three beers and only a bystander’s high. Speaking of which, he craned his neck until he could see out the screen door. No black Honda sat in the driveway. Good. The last thing he needed this morning was Beavis and Butt-Head wearing out their welcome.

The first thing he needed was Eden. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his chest. Well, a shower and some clothes. Then Eden. And a fucking plan, because as of this moment, he really didn’t know how he should play things with her. Unsettling, that, because he always knew how to play a situation. Life had trained him well. Last night shouldn’t have happened—certainly not the way it had. He couldn’t regret sleeping with her. That part had probably been inevitable. Between the forced intimacy of their cover, the mutual chemistry, and his ever-deepening appreciation for all things Eden, he’d been a goner from the beginning. But she hadn’t, and she might be full of regrets this morning, especially given the whole thing probably amounted to a pity fuck on her part.

Mortifying as that thought might be, it didn’t faze his cock, which stood ready and eager to prove it could go the distance if she’d give him another shot. Since greeting her naked and horny was definitely not the way to play things, he grabbed his jeans off the floor and dragged his sorry ass down the hall to the bathroom. On the way, he noted the closed bedroom door farther down the hall. Still asleep, or avoiding him? Probably option two, he thought as he slipped into the bathroom and confronted his reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror.

Hell, Swain, you’re looking a little worse for wear.

He wasn’t hungover, as it turned out. His head ached because he had a bruise on his forehead. Faint but visible, though nothing a ball cap wouldn’t cover. Maybe there were some gaps in last night after all, because he had no memory of how it had come to be there. His eyes held a weary look—lack of sleep plus the stress of the nightmare—and he needed a shave.

He also needed an answer to a question stuck in the forefront of his mind. A larger assortment of lotions and potions now joined the makeup bag on Eden’s side of the sink, but a quick rifle through all of it failed to provide a definitive answer. Feeling uncomfortably like a sneak, he opened the medicine cabinet and took stock of the items she’d stored there. Ibuprofen, a box of Band-Aids, an emery board, and a small, quilted red bag—the kind of thing women always seemed to keep around and a man would have absolutely no use for. He picked it up, unzipped it, and looked inside. Birth control pills and a couple emergency tampons. The punch windows indicated she was conscientious about the doses. With a sigh of relief, he put it back and shut the cabinet. He might have been a short-sighted, irresponsible wreck last night, but Eden Brixton had her act considerably more together. No Plan B scramble for her.

He started the shower, winced at the moan of the pipes, and hoped the racket didn’t wake her if it was, in fact, sleep that accounted for the closed bedroom door. The completely innocent thought put an illicit image in his mind—her stretched out on the sheets, face nestled in the pillow, thin tank top ruched up to reveal the long, smooth line of her spine, and little sleep shorts clinging to her heart-shaped ass.

His cock throbbed. He stepped into the shower and let the water run cool, but after half a minute of standing there with his dick aching, he gave in and wrapped his fist around his shaft. Eyes closed, he imagined approaching the bed, leaning over her sleeping form, starting at her toes and kissing his way up her leg. When he reached the shorts, he kissed the sweet swell of one partially exposed cheek and slipped his hand into the shorts. Settled it between her thighs. In his mind, she moaned and squirmed, pressed her pussy into his palm, and rode it. He stroked her, and stroked her, slow at first, and then increasingly harder and faster as her hips pumped along to the pace he set. He licked and kissed her dancing ass.

When he sank his teeth into the lush crescent of flesh, her body stiffened. The low, shuddering moan that reached his ears was his own, as was the orgasm that dropped down his spine like a bolt of lightning to meet the countercharge shooting up from his balls. The energy flowed through his cock like a thousand watts of agonizing pleasure and drained him so completely he had to brace a palm on the tile to keep from dropping to his knees.

Jesus. How was he going to survive this assignment without the prospect of being inside her again? He’d have a permanent hard-on. Maybe if he begged, she’d pity fuck him on the regular? Or if he pissed her off enough, she’d hate fuck him. The idea of her slapping his face and fucking his brains out had him thickening again. He turned the water to full-on cold, which got matters under control, and then twisted the knob to off. The pipes gave a chirp and a thump.

By the time he finished shaving and pulled his jeans on, he felt almost functional. He still didn’t know what to say to Eden but figured coffee might help. Luck was on his side, because the bedroom door remained closed. He padded to the kitchen on bare feet, filled the carafe with water, poured it in the well, and spooned coffee into the filter-lined basket. After pressing go, he turned and—

“’Morning.”

“Holy shit, choux.” He pressed his hand to his racing heart. “You shaved ten years off my life.” She hovered at the entry to the kitchen, wearing the white robe and some short pink pajamas. The same ones she’d worn last night? Water sputtered through the coffeemaker. The scent of brewing Columbian roast filled the room. Were the shorts still damp from her body…and his? He willed his eyes not to stray from her face. Fearing he’d lose the battle, he turned and took two mugs from the cabinet. “Coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” He heard her come closer. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine. Good.” Stop talking, cooyon. He poured the quarter pot of coffee already brewed into a mug and handed it to her before shoving the carafe back into position. When he turned around this time, she’d propped a hip against the adjacent counter and eyed him speculatively over the rim of her mug.

“You kind of passed out last night. Do you remember anything?”

Was she really going to make it that easy for him? And was he going to let her? He considered going along, because if that’s how she wanted to play it, he ought to respect her wishes, even though the play held zero appeal for him. But then she brushed her hand over her forehead—an absent gesture—and his gaze snagged on a bruise by her hairline. A bruise very similar to the one he was sporting this morning.

“Ah, choux.” Fucking idiot. You’re a fucking idiot. He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?”

The concern in her voice forced his decision. Taking a deep breath, he faced her and brushed his thumb very gently over the mark. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Now she colored. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” She tried to step back, but the size of the kitchen prevented her from moving out of his reach.

He stepped closer, hemming her in, and placed the softest kiss he could manage next to the bruise. “I’m not likely to forget it.” Offering her an apologetic look meant to encompass more than just the injury, he confessed, “I’m not likely to forget any of it.”

Her lips twisted into a pained smile. Her eyes shifted beyond him. “Are Dobie and Kenny still around?”

“Nah. They’re long gone.”

She nodded, then scooted around him and took a seat at the kitchen table. He poured himself coffee and joined her. They sat for a moment, staring at each other. Then, without warning, her bare foot connected with his shin.

“Ow!” Surprise, more than pain, accounted for the reaction, but before he could ask what the hell the kick was for, she said, “You ditched me last night, partner.”

Oh. That. Suddenly the fake amnesia option sounded pretty good. “It seemed easier if one of us disapproved, which set up a plausible reason for the other to abstain.”

“Fine. You be the one with the allergy. I’ll be the one who’s cool to hang out but considerate of my fiancé.”

“I didn’t think of doing it that way,” he admitted, but he refrained from confessing he would have discarded the idea even if he had entered his mind, because he didn’t want her hanging out with those guys without him close by. He also didn’t want to get kicked again.

She picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Well, if we’d discussed your plan before you just”—she gestured across the table—“flew solo and left me grounded, we might have done it differently. Agreed?”

Doubtful. “Agreed.” He took a hit of the coffee.

“Did you learn anything while you were out there with them, shooting the shit for over an hour?”

“Eden, they were stoned within three minutes. I learned hanging out with them when they’re stoned is about a thousand times more boring than hanging out with them when they’re not stoned. Then I was stoned, too, and I honestly had no idea how much time went by.”

That appeared to mollify her somewhat. She relaxed and hitched an arm around the back of her chair. The move parted her robe. Different pajamas, he noted, strangely disappointed. His imagination was working overtime, and he was losing his shit.

“Want to tell me about the nightmare?”

Not particularly, no, but this was her price, and he figured he owed her as much. After fortifying himself with another swallow of coffee, he stared a hole through the table and tried to come up with a concise, abridged version. “The dream comes from a memory. It sneaks up on me sometimes when I’m tired. When things get outta hand.” When I feel out of control.

She leaned forward and cupped her hands around her mug. “Must be a hell of a memory.”

He nodded and inwardly flinched at the bruises on her wrists. More of his handiwork. “The last con my father ran with me involved a fraudulent real-estate development scheme—luxury condos near the French Quarter. He took a lot of money from a lot of people, but he kept holding out for this whale investor from New York. Dad never knew when to cut bait and sail. New York comes down for the meeting, and, unbeknownst to Romy, brings his brother-in-law. The brother-in-law just happens to remember Romy from a casino con he ran in Jersey about ten years earlier. Next thing I know, there’s a pillowcase over my head, an arm like a vice around my throat, and I’m getting my ass stomped seven ways from Sunday. I woke up eighteen hours later in a hospital bed, with tubes coming out of me, a doctor on one side, and two cops on the other.”

“That’s awful.” Her expression held so much compassion, he wanted to warn her not to waste the emotion on him. He didn’t deserve it.

“I know. That’s when the real pain began.”

“Don’t joke.” Her eyes went green in the sunlight. “If I ever see your father again, I may punch him before he can say hello.”

“You won’t see him again, choux. His appearance at graduation was an attempt to see if I’d lend him some credibility—‘my son the sheriff’—but since I don’t owe him a damn thing, I declined the loan. Instead, I sent his fiancée some interesting data on Romy Swain.” Trust no one, least of all family. “Big, ole shame, baby, but the wedding’s off. I’m thinking he’ll steer clear of me from now on.”

“Good.” She frowned. “Well, not good. I’m sorry you have a terrible father and the psychological scars of a shitty upbringing you were lucky to survive.”

Actually, never mind the sympathy fucks. He couldn’t handle being the object of her pity. “It’s not all as dire as that, Eden. I’m adaptable. I adapted.” He shrugged, even though his gut felt uncomfortably tight. “My past hardly ever ambushes me like it did last night.” He leaned across the table, lifted her hand, and brought her bruised wrist to his lips. “Sorry I took it out on you.”

“That’s all right.” She brought her arm back to her side as soon as he released her. “No harm. No foul. I’m…um…sorry I almost shot you.”

“Come again?”

She sent him a sheepish look. “It would have been an accident, obviously, but when I heard you moaning and moving around out there, I thought someone was in the house, attacking you. I got my gun from the closet and came running to your rescue, only to have you knock it out of my hand. I had a tense moment when I thought it might go off on impact.”

“Christ, Eden, or you could have been shot.” Last night just went from worse to worse. But, damn, she’d had his back. “Next time you think I’m being attacked, jump out the window and call for backup.”

“If you ever suggest that again, the next person who attacks you will be me.”

“That’s fine.” He held up his hands. “I can take a punch.” Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back and looked at her. “Anything else you want to talk about regarding last night?”

She stared at her fingernails. “Nope. I think we’ve covered everything that needs to be covered.”