Lover Undercover

by Samanthe Beck

Word was getting out. The realization sent claws of alarm skittering up her spine. “He’s fine. Good tipper.”

  As they closed in on the yellow Bug, Gary said, “Don’t let the good tips get in the way of your good sense. If this guy crosses the line, you let me know.”

  “Stacy, I need to talk to you,” a deep voice cut in from the shadows on the other side of the car. Trevor was little more than a dim outline, but she’d know him anywhere.

  “It’s quarter to three,” Gary barked. “Talk to her tomorrow. We’re closed.”

  Trevor ignored the blond man. “I’ll drive you home.”

  Eyes on Trevor, she told Gary, “It’s okay.” To Trevor, she said, “I can’t. I’ve got to be somewhere first thing tomorrow. I need my car.”

  Crossing his arms on the roof of the Bug, he looked at her, his expression inscrutable. “All right, you drive me home.”

  “Get in.” She tapped a button on her key fob and popped the locks.

  As Trevor got in, Gary whispered, “Ah, dammit, what are you doing? You don’t get involved with the clients. Never mix business and pleasure. I thought you were smarter than this.”

  “Gary…” She crossed her arms and banked her frustration. “It’s not what you think. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I used to think so, but lately, Stace, I’m not so sure.” With that, he stalked off.

  Yeah, well, join the club, she thought miserably as she opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. She slammed the door, started the car, and drove to the exit. Finally, because she couldn’t ignore him any longer, she turned and faced Trevor. “Which way?”

  …

  Straight to hell, Trevor thought, where he’d been since last Friday night, when he’d arrived at the scene of a homicide and found himself drowning in the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

  Those same eyes faced him now, holding a fascinating mixture of anger, desire, and fear. Anger and desire he could handle, give back in spades, but the fear clutched at him. Was she afraid of a killer at large? Afraid someone might discover whatever secret she guarded? Or was she afraid of him?

  Instead of asking, he gave her directions to his place, and then sat back and let the silence balloon while she drove. Sure, it was a psych 101 tactic, but often effective. People—women particularly—grew uncomfortable with prolonged silence. Discomfort compelled them to fill the void with conversation, and once the words started flowing, revealing monologues often followed.

  Not Stacy. He stared at her profile as the minutes ticked away. Apparently it would take more than silence to crack her tough little shell. Uninvited, images of how he’d like to crack it filled his mind. He wanted her under him, wanted to bury himself inside her, wanted to hear her scream his name as she came.

  Maybe his breathing changed, or maybe she read his mind, but she glanced over at him with big, wary eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.” Her voice sounded a little breathless. “I’m not on the job.”

  “What, you think just because you’re not airbrushed with makeup and wearing some skimpy costume you don’t turn heads? You’re a beautiful woman. Truth is, you’re even more beautiful now, in a T-shirt and”—he eyed her tight black pants—“whatever the hell those things are. You don’t need to dance around in heels and a G-string to make me want you.” He gave her a moment to let that sink in. “Turn right up here. I’m the third house on the right.”

  She drew in a shaky breath and looked at him again. “Do you? Want me, I mean?”

  “You know damn well I do,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. The deliberately naive question reminded him this was some kind of act on her part.

  Stopping in front of the flagstone driveway of his Laurel Canyon bungalow, she turned to him. Her eyes homed in on his fly. He felt the weight of her stare as palpably as a touch, and his body responded accordingly. Her sharply indrawn breath assured him she noticed, even in the darkened interior of the car.

  “You have the same effect on me,” she confessed. Without seeming to realize it, she leaned closer. Her lips parted. “I’ve never wanted—”

  Him either. They lunged at each other, mouths ravenous. He cupped her jaw in one hand, splayed the other along the back of her head. Her fingers dove into his hair and held on. When her hot mouth started roaming his chin, taking hungry nips from his jaw, he pulled her over the seat, sprang the door, and half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the car. “Inside,” he ground out between kisses. “Now.”

  Somehow they made it across the front yard and in the door. As soon as he got the damn thing closed, he backed her up against it. Hands planted on either side of her head, he leaned in and captured her lips again. Sweet as berries, soft as cream against his tongue.

  He feasted like a starving man until they were both breathless. Slightly dizzy, he pulled back, hit the lights, and looked at her. Heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp lips greeted him. A pulse beat erratically at the base of her throat. Then those slumberous eyes blinked open and wide, dilated pupils fixed on him.

  Her hand curved along the back of his neck. She tipped her head back and whispered, “Please,” with such a mixture of longing and despair, something tightened in his chest. Something in the vicinity of his heart. Lowering his forehead to hers, he tried one last time.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding. You can trust me.”

  She closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I wish I could tell you,” she breathed. “I can’t. I promised someone—”

  “If this person cares about you, they don’t want you to put yourself in danger.” He drew back slightly to gauge the effect of his argument.

  She simply shook her head, and then leveled a conflicted gaze on him. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not holding back information that would solve this case.”

  “But it’s related. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so nervous. Tell me.”

  “I can’t.” She winced as she said it. “I have to, um, take the fifth.”

  His hands tightened on her arms. “Are you involved in something illegal?”

  The wince turned into a look of pure misery. “I don’t know. Maybe. But talking about it won’t help you find a killer. It would just look”—troubled eyes fled from his and took refuge somewhere over his shoulder—“bad.”

  He took her chin and pulled her attention back to him. “Bad for whom?”

  “For everyone.” Tilting away from his grasp, she shook her head and gave him a weak smile, filled with regret. “I should go. This is a terrible idea. I’m no good for you. Getting involved with me is going to land us both in trouble.”

  She was right. Getting tangled up with her bent all kind of rules, but when she turned and opened the door, all he thought was, Hell, no. Following instinct rather than reason, he reached over her head and slammed it closed. She jumped, but stubbornly faced the door.

  He leaned in, trapping her with his body. Inhaling her familiar scent, he said, “You’ve taught me something about myself.”

  Into the swelling silence she released a pent-up breath. “What’s that?”

  “I like bad girls.” He grazed his teeth along her neck, provoking an aroused little moan from her. “One in particular, I can’t resist. I may have to take you into protective custody.”

  He braced her palms on the door, nudged her feet apart with one of his, and then sent his hands under the hem of her T-shirt, up the silken ladder of her ribs. She moaned again when he cupped her breasts. Her hips shifted restlessly against him when he squeezed.

  “Oh, God. Are you frisking me?” Helpfully, she stepped out of her flip-flops. “I’m unarmed. I promise.”

  “You were born with weapons, and you know it.” Tugging her bra out of his way, he feathered his fingers over her puckered nipples. Her low, guttural cry of appreciation went high and sharp when he pinched lightly. Before she could recover, he grabbed the bottom of the shirt, whisked it over her head, and then coaxed her arms higher so he could pull the garment off.
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  After pressing her forearms to the door, he kissed his way down her back, pausing to unhook her bra. She shivered as it sprang open. Kneeling behind her, he sent his hands around to her breasts again and got to work there while his tongue slid over the curve of her spine.

  “The thing is…,” she panted.

  He rested his hand low on her stomach and swept his tongue under the band of her leggings. Her abs tightened beneath his palm. He scraped his teeth along her skin. “Thing is?”

  Her forehead bonked against the door. “Ah…jeez. The thing is, I’m really not—”

  Without further warning, he yanked her pants down, baring her spectacular ass to his view, save for the little black triangle of her thong.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  He cupped her cheeks, thumbs riding along the undersides and lifting slightly. Then he ran a finger under the back of her thong, all the way down between her parted thighs. Toned muscles trembled. “You’re really not what?” he prompted, brushing his lips against her smooth flesh.

  He sank his teeth into one luscious cheek, slid his finger beneath the panties and straight to the slick little pad of flesh throbbing for his attention. Her whole body stiffened and she gasped, “Oh, Lord. I’m really not a bad girl. I’m not. I’m not,” repeating the denial like a rosary prayer.

  Nibbling and licking his way to the other cheek, he used one hand to work the tights off her legs while the other stayed busy delving between her thighs, circling and retreating. She arched and writhed in a dance he found far more erotic than any routine she performed at Deuces.

  “I know,” he murmured. Hand on her hips, he spun her around, and knelt there until her dazed, blurry gaze locked on his. “I know,” he repeated, and nudged his face between her legs, then turned and kissed the inside of one trembling thigh.

  “Trevor,” she panted, “I’m not…I don’t know…”

  “Shhh.” He kissed the other thigh, and then watched her as he hitched that thigh over his shoulder and kissed her in between—where she was soft and wet and incredibly hot.

  “Please…” Her head fell back. Her hands sank into his hair, fingers curving to overlap at the back of his head while her body arched up to meet his mouth.

  “I’m about to please you,” he assured her. Then he dragged her panties aside and used his tongue.

  Her knees buckled when she came, but he caught her, held her tight, and devoured every sweet, fluttering pulse of her orgasm.

  Chapter Nine

  Before Kylie could catch her breath, Trevor swept her into his arms and started walking. Rich earth tones, wood trim, and old leather swirled in her vision like a merry-go-round of colors and textures. Then he lowered her onto a continent of a bed, switched on the bedside lamp, and stepped back to look at her. Even in the dim glow from the lamp, she couldn’t miss the hunger in his eyes.

  She also couldn’t miss the fact that their clothing situation remained as uneven as ever. There he stood, fully clothed, while she wore not a stitch.

  The realization brought her to her knees, still weak from the soul-rattling experience of her first non-self-administered orgasm. She planted a hand in the middle of his chest. “Wait.”

  He drew back. “Don’t you want to come again—with me inside you?”

  Oh boy, did she. Caution had officially fled the building, leaving reckless desire in charge. “Yes. Absolutely yes. But first…” Her shaking fingers scrambled over the buttons of his shirt. The feel of his muscular chest frayed her patience and in the end she simply tore the shirt open. His startled, aroused growl nearly drowned out the clatter of buttons on polished hardwood.

  She shoved the shirt down his shoulders, drinking in the sight of his broad chest, striated abs, and firm, flat stomach. “You’ve seen me naked, or nearly naked, plenty of times, but I never get to see you. I never get to touch your skin.” Determined to rectify the inequity, she indulged herself now, running her hands over his warm, hard body. It wasn’t enough. Somehow he sensed this, because he leaned in, knelt on the bed, and took her lips. Kissing him back, she leaned in, too, until her tight, aching nipples brushed his chest. Their moans mingled in the quiet room.

  “You feel so good,” she whispered.

  He choked out a laugh, even as his arm came around her back to support her. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I want to,” she said against his chest, while her impatient fingers tugged his belt. “I want to know all of it.” Desperately. If wanting him, surrendering to the want, was wrong, so be it. Stacy, her mom, heck, everyone she shared DNA with, gave in to these cravings whenever they struck. For once in her life, she would take the same freedom.

  Hands tangled as he helped her unhook his belt and open his fly. Reaching in, she found him straining toward her invading fingers with an enthusiasm that matched her own. Shoving his clothing away, she closed her hand around him. Dear heaven…all of him.

  Slowly, she let her eyes slide down. Her hand looked slim and delicate around his enormous erection. She’d felt it before, through his clothes. Those furtive explorations really hadn’t prepared her for how big he was. Huge, thick, and hard as granite. Excitement and trepidation fizzed in her chest.

  “Trevor—”

  He wrapped his hand over hers. “Jesus, it’s insane what you do to me with just a touch.”

  Overwhelmed, she rested her forehead against his chest and gave in to the impulse to stroke him. Breath burst from his lungs in a tortured whoosh. His scent, a heady mix of soap and pure, elemental male, invaded her nostrils at the same time his low groan invaded her ears.

  The next moment, her world twirled as Trevor flipped her flat on her back. She popped up on her elbows and stared at him. His face was dark with concentration as he opened a foil packet. Something quickened inside her at the sight of his hands on his penis, deftly rolling on the condom. Heat intensified between her thighs. She clenched them together to try to ease the sensation, but it didn’t help. Seeking relief, she opened her legs, offered herself.

  He crawled forward until he knelt in the vee. “How do you like it?” he whispered.

  She didn’t know. She only knew she wanted it. Urgently. “I don’t care. Please,” she begged, and fluttered her legs in a restless motion.

  He slid his hands along the insides of her thighs, parting her legs even more, exposing her aching center and leaving her utterly vulnerable. She bit her lip, but an edgy moan escaped.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” And he did. One hand resting on her thigh, the other wrapped around the base of his erection, he ran the tip over her throbbing sex, and then pushed gently into her.

  Pleasure swelled at the point of penetration, coiling and contracting with every shallow thrust of his hips until, stretched to her limit, the sensations sharpened to an almost painful intensity. Another moan tore from her throat, this one half ecstasy, half plea for mercy.

  “Christ, you’re tight,” he ground out. She writhed under him, straining to find relief, but his big hand clasped her hip, holding her still. “Let me—” Hooking an arm behind her knee, he hitched her leg up high until her calf rode his shoulder. He sank a little deeper. His beautiful, intense face receded as her vision grayed along the edges. One more second and she’d break into a million pieces from the sharp, thrilling combination of pain and pleasure.

  Oh, God, help me, she prayed. Maybe she prayed out loud, because Trevor reached down between their joined bodies and strummed his thumb over her unbearably sensitive center. At the same time, he angled deep and drove into her.

  For one suspended moment, their eyes met. His lips moved and she heard his rough, shocked, “Jesus, Stacy.” Then sensations blasted through her like a shock wave. Eyes closed, head thrown back, she spasmed helplessly, endlessly. With a low, tortured sound, he plunged again, and she shattered in his arms.

  …

  Trevor stared at the woman asleep in his bed, and because he couldn’t help himself, brushed his fingertip lightly over her soft, sli
ghtly kiss-swollen lips. She was a beautiful contradiction, this provocative yet alluringly innocent stripper.

  The innocence hadn’t been an act—or not completely. The last time he’d taken someone’s virginity he’d been a sweaty-palmed teenager, but it wasn’t the kind of experience a man forgot. Until tonight, the woman nestled beside him had been a virgin. Not the sex-for-sport man-eater Vern had described to Ian. That left only two options. Either the people at Deuces didn’t know her at all, or the woman beside him wasn’t Stacy Roberts.

  A detail shook loose from the stack of facts stored in his brain. Just a small piece of information Ian had offered when he first ran their almost-witness. No brothers. One sister. He’d barely heard it at the time because they were looking at male relatives. They weren’t interested in her sister.

  He was now. Careful not to wake his exhausted bedmate, he slid out of bed and made his way to the dining room he’d converted into a home office. He sat at the small desk with his laptop, spotted his Yukon parked in the driveway through the curtains, and sent out a silent thanks to Ian. After entering the security codes, he accessed the online file for the Carlton Long murder. He scrolled through the file directories to witnesses, opened the folder, and scrolled again until he located the subfile for Stacy Roberts. Clicking the file, he paged through the scanned reports and homed in on the immediate family. He perused the information, reacquainting himself with her date of birth. Then he came to the sister: Kylie Roberts. Exact same birthday.

  Twins. He banged his fist against the desk before he could stop himself. How could they have missed this? He’d bet his left nut they were identical twins. He’d ante up the right one on the hunch the woman asleep in his bed was none other than Kylie Roberts.

  The deduction explained a lot. Like why, for him, the dry facts about Stacy never reconciled with the living, breathing woman. Why a seasoned stripper came across as an enticing but inexperienced novice, and turned out to be a virgin. It explained why she hadn’t recognized Carlton Long or Alex Montenegro during the first interviews, but later remembered exactly which routines she’d used with each of them. He’d interviewed Kylie. Then she’d run to Stacy and learned what she needed to know so she’d be prepared the next time they spoke. And she had been prepared, impressively so.