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“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.
Chapter Nineteen
Swain lassoed his wandering attention and reeled it around to the opposite side of a polished oak desk in the fussy rose-and-lilac office where Sarah Whelan gushed over the various wedding reception packages offered by the Riverview Inn. Eden, for her part, was doing the job like a pro, oohing and ahhing about linen choices, meal options, live band versus DJ, full host bar versus beer, wine, and champagne only.
He ought to get his head in the game and start grumbling about cost, but was his head in the game? Nope. His head was all the way back over on the edge of the county line, back to where he’d rented that cabin he’d yet to move into, wondering again how tough it would be to break the damn lease and find a place in Bluelick proper.
A place closer to Eden.
Because the assignment wasn’t going to last forever, despite his joke last night. If Dobie and Kenny didn’t take the bait tonight, Buchanan and Malone might give them another few days—a week, max—to try again, but after that, they’d pull the plug. Writing up misdemeanor possessions until somebody cracked wouldn’t get the ideal result, but it would get a better result than the nothing at all he and Eden had delivered thus far.
