Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Eighteen

God, Marc Swain never missed a trick. He really was good at the con, which didn’t surprise her. But he was also really good at taking care of her, which kind of had surprised her, because his careful attention, tenderness, and concern today couldn’t be written off as part of their cover. Too much of it had happened one-on-one. Maybe they were both going to have to accept that he was just really good, all around. As much as that realization made her want to smile, Eden pulled her lips into a frown. “You mean a sprained wrist and a few bruises? That’s a small price to pay for keeping a little one safe from harm.”

“Nah, baby.” His blue eyes narrowed in a flinch. “I mean the doctor’s bill. What all’d she do?” He counted off items. “X-ray, exam, bandages, wrist brace, plus her time. It’s going to set us back a grand, at least. Maybe more when you figure in the follow-up visit. That has to come out of the wedding budget ’cause we don’t have insurance yet. The plan through my work won’t kick in until I’ve been on the payroll ninety days.”

“What are you saying?” She pulled her hand out of his for effect.

Swain shot the guys a here we go glance, then turned his attention to her. “I’m saying we’re going to have to cut back some on those wedding plans you have your heart set on.”

“Cut back how, Swain?” She dredged up anger over something that seemed even more stupid after the day’s events. “Should I get married in jeans and a T-shirt? Is that what you mean?”

“I mean, choux, a thousand dollars is a lot of money to spend on a dress you’re only gonna wear once. A thousand dollars is a lot to spend on a photographer when you know your daddy is handy with a camera.”

She shot out of her chair in a show of temper, hissing a little as very real pain radiated from her bruised hip. “You want my father to take pictures at our wedding like he’s some kind of hired hand? And hey, I should be satisfied with a selfie of Daddy walking me down the aisle and a phone-captured video of our father-daughter dance. Maybe my mom can prepare and serve all the food? Jesus, Swain, most men would be proud of their fiancée for doing a good deed, but not you. You turn it into an excuse to be cheap.”

Head high, she marched into the house.

And…scene. Cut. Print. Done. Yes, she’d sidelined herself this time and left him to fly solo, but it worked too well not to play it that way. She trusted his instincts on how to use the situation to their advantage. Continuing through the house to the bedroom, she selected an old concert T-shirt she’d had since high school and a pair of soft, gray sweat shorts and slipped quietly into the bathroom. While she cleaned up and changed as silently as possible, she listened to the conversation on the porch.

“…has a point, man. She totally risked her life to save Gracie Stevens—never mind that kid was born with no fear and an honest-to-God death wish. It’s not fair that Eden has to give up something important to her because she stepped up.”

Good old Kenny.

“I never said it was fair,” Swain shot back. “Life’s not fair. Money’s for sure not fair. Some people work hard day in, day out and never have jack, while some people barely do anything and always seem to have plenty of cash for gas and beer and weed or whatever.”

Eden bit her lip. Swain was clearly making his move, but that might have been a little too on the nose. They still had the meeting with Kenny’s mom tomorrow afternoon about the wedding reception, which would give them yet another opportunity to stress their strapped financial situation to the guys.

“I mean, seriously,” Swain went on. “How much do you guys spend on that shit you smoked out back last week? Two hundred an ounce? Two fifty?”

“Well, I have a job at the Gas N Go,” Dobie explained, “and I live at home, so my, uh, overhead is low.”

“And I DJ at the Inn,” Kenny chimed in, “which is good for a few hundred bucks a gig. Living at home is what you’d call a trade-off. But it’s not like we’re loaded.”

“Nah. Not you guys. But whoever you buy from—think about it. That guy is making serious bank, free and clear, for doing next to nothing. Where do I find a setup like that? If you want to pay me back that favor, find me one, because I tell you, boys, it’s the only way I’m going to be able to afford the wedding she wants. That hero in there? Compromise is not in her vocabulary.”

Mouth full of toothpaste, Eden froze and held her breath. He’d positioned himself well. The setup should work. Long, eternal seconds ticked by in silence. Finally, Dobie laughed. “Dude, we could start one of those pay-me pages for you. It’s the ultimate easy money. By tomorrow, everyone in town will know what Eden did. They’ll trip all over themselves donating money to cover her medical expenses. Put the page up, sit back, and let the cash roll in.”

Dammit. She spat and rinsed while Swain rejected Dobie’s idea.

“I can’t do it. A man’s got to have some pride. I work. I pay my way. I don’t want charity. I just need a low-hassle side hustle is all I’m saying, but something that’s worth my while. It makes no sense for me to bust my ass on a second job, working for minimum wage, so I can pay most of it to the government and never get an inch ahead.”

“We’ll keep thinking on it,” Kenny promised.

“You guys are awesome. Want another beer?”

They declined. Swain asked them if they’d be at Rawley’s tomorrow night, which was smart because it would give them another chance to stress the wedding costs. When Dobie said yes, Eden’s spirits stopped sinking. Swain told them they’d see them there. At the sound of farewells and footsteps on the porch, she turned off the bathroom light, dumped her dirty clothes in the laundry room, and went into the bedroom. Muted dusk filtered in from the window, filling the room with deepening shades of blue. It suited her mood. She crawled onto the bed and sat there, cross-legged in the center of the sagging mattress, absorbing the setback.

After a few moments, the closing blast of the front door shook the windows. Swain’s footsteps came down the hall and stopped at the bedroom door. She turned to see him standing in the shadows.

“Did you hear?”

“Yep,” she said softly. “I heard. If it’s any consolation, I thought it was going to work.”

Swain let out a breath and came into the room. “Me, too.” He stretched out on the bed beside her, propped his head on his hand, and ran the other along her bare thigh. “I fucked up and pushed too hard. They’re not going to do it.”

“Not yet. Maybe tomorrow at Rawley’s, after we meet with Kenny’s mom, they’ll decide to help you out and set up a meet.”

“I took my shot tonight. A swing and a miss.” He dropped his head into her lap, creating a vision of masculine defeat he couldn’t possibly realize. “Does this hurt?”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “No.” Still stroking his head, she asked, “So how do you want to approach things tomorrow?”

A low sound of appreciation rumbled from his chest. “Tomorrow night, the ask has to come from you. They’ll do it if you ask.”

“You think?” The notion of everything riding on her set off a small earthquake of nerves epicentral in her stomach.

“Yeah.” He turned his head and kissed high up on the inside of her thigh. “Does that hurt?”

Her hand went limp on his head. “No. Um, what if they say no to me, too?”

“It’s not going to happen. Trust me. How ’bout this, choux?” He kissed her at the apex of her shorts, moving his lips firmly enough to massage her clit through a layer of cotton. “Hurt?” His voice, low and a little hoarse, set off another small quake of a different sort low in her belly.

“Uh-uh.” Her blood felt heavy, and her limbs, and her eyelids. “Feels good.”

“I want to make you feel good.” Swain pushed up onto his knees, hooked his hands under her calves, and slowly uncrossed her legs. “I’ll be careful.” He moved his hands to the waistband of her shorts and watched her, his shadowed face solemn. “Really careful.”

Oh, God. He would be careful. Anyone else, she wouldn’t have risked it, but she trusted him completely with this. With her body. Probably with too much, but that trust had her planting the soles of her feet on the mattress and lifting her hips. He pulled her shorts down, then entirely off, before positioning her legs wide and crawling into the space between them. She felt a little odd, sitting there half-dressed while he regarded her. After a moment, he laughed. “How old is that shirt?”

She looked down and laughed, too, until he began tracing the lettering across her chest with the tip of his index finger. “I… It’s old. High school.”

“Justin Bieber?”

She rested her head against the pillows propped behind her as his finger scrolled over her nipple. “My first concert. I was fifteen.”

He traced his way back through the letters, lighting little fires all over her chest. “You were a Belieber?”

“Were?” She let her eyelids close and simply absorbed the sensations. “Who says I’m not still a”—she had to stop for air when he flicked his fingertip over her other nipple—“card-carrying member of his fan club?”

“Uh-oh. This sounds serious. Did you draw hearts all over your notebooks and write Eden Bieber inside them?” He placed his finger in the valley between her breasts and started drawing a big heart on her. “Eden Brixton-Bieber?”

“Maybe. But Selena was and always will be his one true love, no matter who he’s married since, and I knew it. Stop making fun of me and my one true love.” The V of the heart ended just shy of her clit, making her squirm.

“When you close your eyes, tell me, what are you dreamin’?” Though he sang the lyrics, the amusement in his voice couldn’t be missed.

“I’m dreaming of Justin.” She stretched her body but kept her eyes closed. “Always. In fact, don’t take it personally if I accidentally call you Justin.”

“Ah, I don’t think that’s likely. You’ve been crying my name loud enough to raise the rafters pretty regularly.”

“I was being…polite.” The feel of him pushing the shirt up her torso caused her to struggle with the last word. “But in my mind, it was all Justin…Justin…Justin.”

He gently moved her splinted wrist from where she’d laid it on her leg to the pillow beside her head, then pushed her shirt up to bare her breasts. “Tell you what, choux. You think of anybody you want if it gets you hot. I’m not worried.” Warm breath feathered over her skin. “I know when you come, you’re coming for me. And I guarantee it’s my name in your mind.”

With that guarantee issued, he kissed his way down her body, starting with the inside of her forearm, just above the wrist brace, moving to her lips, her collarbone, the point of one nipple, the underside of the other breast. Beyond the sound of her panting breaths, she belatedly realized he was humming something as he slowly but surely melted her into a quivering puddle of need.

“If I Was Your Boyfriend.”

Seconds later, the humming stopped as he got down to the business of demonstrating exactly what he’d do if he was her boyfriend. Being a gentleman might not be high on the list, but it turned out he would gift an extravagant amount of attention to her clit—tonguing it, kissing it, capturing it between his lips and sucking until she whimpered out loud and lifted her hips to beg him for more.

Eyes open, she levered up onto an elbow to watch his head move between her thighs—watch his hips rock as he humped the mattress. Her inside clenched, jealous he squandered his thrilling erection on the bedding. “Justin…”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “You think I won’t be your Justin, choux? I’ll be whatever you want. Whatever works. That’s part of my skill set, remember?” With his eyes on hers, he eased a finger inside her. Her head fell back, and a grateful sound she had no chance of holding in escaped from somewhere soul deep.

Hand to his head, she moaned, “Thank you, Justin.”

His laugh vibrated through her pussy, pulling another moan out of her, then yet another when he resumed fucking her with his mouth, and his finger, and another finger when she writhed for more. Sweaty, shaky, and suddenly desperate to come in his arms with his perfect cock inside her, she pushed herself up on the pillow and pulled his head up until their eyes met. “I want to come with you inside me.”

“You can come this way.” He kissed her trembling thigh. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Oh, God. He was trying to be a gentleman. But she couldn’t take it. “This hurts,” she pleaded, casting pride aside. “It hurts not to be filled with you. It hurts not to feel you moving inside me. It hurts to watch you grind yourself into the mattress when you should be giving all of that to me.”

He stared at her, and silence ruled in the darkened room for one heartbeat, two… “Jesus, Eden. It’s a miracle I don’t come right here, staring into your eyes. Don’t move. Not a muscle. I mean it. You could ruin me with a crook of your finger.”

He backed off the bed, swept his shirt over his head, and dragged his jeans off in half a minute. Then he was crawling toward her again, his big chest heaving, his cock long and thick and jutting toward her like the answer to her prayers. He stopped deep between her thighs, slid an arm under her waist, and hauled her up in one smooth move. She wrapped her good arm around his shoulders to anchor herself. He sat back on his heels and positioned her over his lap. Nodding at her sprained wrist, he said, “Put your elbow on my shoulder. That’s my girl. All good?”

She swallowed and nodded and looked down between their bodies at his straining hard-on. Her insides wept with anticipation. She rocked onto her knees, as high as possible. “Can you…um…”

“You want me to feed it in, choux?” He wrapped his fist around the base of his cock. She nodded again and held herself still and open for him—as still as her trembling body allowed. “I can do it,” he assured her. “Nice and slow…”

He dragged the head of his cock through her center, circled it, and did a figure eight. She chased it, groaning. “Justin, you sadistic tease.”

He pressed his face against the side of her neck and smiled against her ticklish skin, making her shiver. “What’s that you called me?” The arm locked around her shifted, and a big hand spanked her butt.

“Ow. Sadist,” she panted. “I called you a sadist.”

“That’s funny, choux, ’cause I feel more like a masochist right now.” He stroked the wide, blunt head of his cock through her folds again. “Put us both out of our misery and ask me nicely…Swain, can I please have your big, talented cock inside me?”

“Can I please…oh, God, not again,” she digressed when he played his way around her entrance. “Can I please have your big, talented cock inside me?”

A groan shuddered out of him. “Close enough,” he said, and then, sweet heaven, he pushed in. She inhaled quickly, lifted higher on her knees to accommodate the thrust, and then slowly, slowly settled onto his lap, taking him in fully.

He held still, eyes closed, forehead supporting hers. “Okay, Eden?”

“Oh, yessss.” She rocked her hips, crushing her clit against the base of his cock, and felt the heavy presence of him move inside her. So good. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said, repeating the move. He let her do as she chose, giving the slightest boost here and there to drive her higher, faster, setting off little jolts of pleasure. Soon the little jolts elongated, merged, became a liquid flow without discernible beginning or end, and all she could do was cling to him with her trembling limbs and ride each breathless peak.

Suddenly, the arm around her tightened. He bounced her once, brought her down solidly on him, and held her there. “Who’s fucking you, Eden?”

“Oh, God. You are.”

Another bounce. Another hold. “Who?”

She had to move. She was coming apart. “Swain. Marc Swain.”

A hot mouth covered hers, swallowing her cries as she raced toward the orgasm. He swept her up and held her in a helpless thrall while lightning crashed through her. His voice echoed in her ears—her name, over and over—as his powerful body shuddered against hers.

When the last twinges of pleasure subsided, she blinked sweat from her eyes, lifted her head, and stared down at him. “I suppose you’re proud of yourself, cooyon?”

Eyes closed, smile lazy, he pinched her ass. “Yes, ma’am.”

She squirmed. “Hey, now. Enough abuse. I’m already injured.”

“That you are.” Tightening his arm around her, he lowered her to the bed, smoothed her shirt down over her breasts, and arranged her sprained wrist on the pillow. Then, eyes locked on hers, he slowly pulled out. “Time to say good night to my big, talented cock.”

“Good night.” She knew her eyelids fluttered. She knew a flush heated her cheeks. She bit her lip when he slid free, then moaned her appreciation when he pressed his palm to her center.

“Don’t worry, choux. I won’t leave you lonely.” He shifted her onto her side, settled in behind her, slid his leg between hers, and placed a warm hand between her thighs. “Better?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She snuggled in and closed her eyes. Her post-orgasmic body couldn’t have been more relaxed. Her bumps and bruises didn’t hurt. Even her wrist barely throbbed. But her brain… Her brain kept circling around a question, poking at it and batting at it like a cat with a ball of yarn. Finally, she opened her eyes and stared into the dark.

“Swain?” she whispered.

“Yeah, choux?” came his low, tired reply, complete with thicker accent.

“What happens if I take my swing tomorrow night and it’s also a miss?”

“Won’t be. Don’t fret about it.”

“I’m not fretting. I’ve never fretted in my life. I’m wondering. What if they don’t agree to set up a meet?”

“Well, choux, in that case, we’ll just have to continue the assignment. Who knows—it might take years. Maybe the rest of our lives.” The hand between her legs tightened slightly, almost possessively, before going heavy and lax. “’Kay?”

She stared at the wall long after his breathing evened out to slow, measured inhales and exhales. Yeah, she silently acknowledged. Insane as it was, that would be just fine with her.