Climax made her sensitive, so he paused, lodged just inside her, and while he waited for her to stop trembling he leaned against the mirror and put his deft, knowing mouth to her neck. The sheer female submissiveness of the position coupled with the scrape of his teeth against her nape crashed over her in a wave of sensation. She tilted her head to give him better access, watched his hands smooth up her abdomen to cup her breasts, pinching the nipples firmly. The current running between her nape, her nipples, and the soft, aching walls of her pussy intensified.
Then he started to move, slowly but not gently, insistent demand in his rhythm and strokes. She took each thrust, balanced on the razor’s edge of pleasure and pain, and arched her back for more. Her attention wavered between the interior sensations of his cock churning millions of nerve endings into screaming need and the image in the mirror, her widespread knees, the damp curls at the apex of her thighs, his tanned hands on her breasts, her parted lips. Fire licked through her, and she turned her head.
It was a mistake, because in the mirrors to their right she could see the finely honed length of his ass and back rippling as he thrust, felt the head of his cock drag against swollen inner tissues. The ache contracted tight and hard in her belly. “Oh, God,” she gasped.
When he turned his gaze, dark and fierce with desire, and met hers, the jolt of recognition sent her over the edge. A second orgasm, deeper, more intense than the first, rocked through her, and she dimly heard soft cries echo in the room in time to the contractions. A growled curse, then he wrapped his arms around her torso, buried his cock inside her, and came.
“Was this payback for teasing you about the remote?”
A laugh ruffled the hair at her temple. “You looked too sweet to go after payback,” he said, low and assured. Then he bit her earlobe, the pressure enough to sting, the sting enough to remind her that no matter how often they’d done this, the heat never entirely went away. “Next time you’re wearing that leather outfit and you flip me that attitude, it’s game on.”
Sparks flew under her skin. “Promise?”
“Count on it,” he said. “Still thinking?”
He’d very effectively shut down her brain. “Not anymore,” she said with a smile.
“Good.” He pulled out and walked out of the room.
Water ran in the bathroom as she looked in the mirror. Her eyes were a languid green, amused and satisfied all at once, but as the pleasure continued to ebb from her body, realization stole through her consciousness.
She could do more than like him. He’d handled dinner with her family under strained circumstances, and come out unfazed. Reality was tilted on its axis, and she could easily feel more than she should.
He appeared in the doorway, dressed in cotton shorts and nothing else, and just the sight of his torso made her want to fuel up and start all over again.
“What?” he asked when he saw her still on the floor.
“Nothing,” she said. “Still up for pizza and the game?”
“Sure,” he said as he helped her to her feet and picked up her skirt, “but it’s a working dinner.”
“A working dinner?” She clutched her clothes to her belly and turned for the bathroom.
He gave her a smile that managed to be both rueful and energized at the same time. “Playtime’s over. We’ve got twenty-four hours to get you ready for a prolonged undercover operation.”
And with that, reality began to seep into the fantasy. “Right,” she said. “Just let me get dressed.”
*
On Tuesday reality returned with a vengeance. While Eve washed the lunch dishes, Matt sat down at the dining room table and armed himself. He pulled the leg of his jeans over the knife and stood up to find Eve watching him with wide eyes.
“Were you wearing all of that every time you came to work?” she asked while she wrung out the dishcloth.
“Not the Sig,” he said, trying to gauge her reaction. Sometimes women found it sexy, which was a little on the weird side, and sometimes they thought he was paranoid, which was probably true. But the stakes were higher now. Eve was putting herself in danger to help them. They’d install a radio in her apartment, but most of the time it was just him and his wits against a deadly threat that appeared with no warning. There was no room for mistakes. Things were different now. She was his to protect, for real.
She pressed her lips together and draped the dishcloth over the faucet to dry.
“The concealed weapons law doesn’t apply to law enforcement,” he pointed out. “I need a longer T-shirt too.”
“You can try a few of them on,” she said doubtfully, “but they’re designed to show off your body, not hide a gun in the back of your jeans.”
When the dishes were done she packed up her few toiletries and her clothes, gathering her things from around Matt’s bedroom and bathroom and zipping them into her overnight case. She was unusually silent as she worked, so he used the spare minutes for a pop quiz.
“My real cell.”
She shot him a look as the bag’s zipper caught on something inside, but recited the phone number.
“When do you call that?”
“It’s my ‘oh shit’ phone,” she said. “I use it only if I’m in trouble and you’re not with me so there’s no way to trace Matt Dorchester to Chad Henderson.”