Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(66)

Idly, Eve rubbed a hand on Roarke’s leg. “Did Patrick Roarke do that with you?”

“He didn’t, no. No toys or rewards. Neglect was his style, followed by beatings. Perhaps a grunt of approval now and then on a day I’d had particularly good luck with picking pockets or lifting locks. It’s crueler, I think, the reward and punish than the neglect. What sort of toys did he bring you?”

“The only one I clearly remember, probably because I really liked it, was this little music box thing with this ballet girl inside who’d twirl around when you opened it. Sometimes if I couldn’t sleep, I’d open it up, listen to it, watch the girl. Sort of, I guess, imagine being happy enough to twirl around. And one night he came in, raging, busted it to pieces, whaled on me pretty good.”

And because he could see it so well, the young, trapped girl dreaming, then brutalized, it broke his heart. Simply shattered it.

Eve drank again. “Reward and punish. Praise and denigrate. It’s how it works. Daphne’s not a child, but she’s got that softness so she’d have been a pretty easy mark. She’s not me, but I understand her. And I should get back to her.”

“Another minute,” he replied gently.

Because she’d made him sad, Eve realized. Because she’d put the image of that scared and helpless little girl in his mind.

So she leaned in a little more. “We got an early enough start on things, so maybe if we plow through it, we can watch a vid. I feel like something fun, where the good guys and bad guys are over the top, and lots of things blow up.”

“I think it’s time to introduce you to The Avengers.”

“Who are they? What are they avenging?”

“Your vid and graphic novel education is pitiful, darling. They’re classics.” Smiling, he turned his head to brush his lips to hers.

“Classic what?”

“Superheroes who band together to save the world.”

“Do they kick ass doing it?”

“Is there any other way?”

Now she smiled. “I’m in for that.” And kissed him back.

Decided she could absolutely take a minute—or two—and added some punch to the kiss.

He set his wine aside so he could slide his arms around her.

No sadness, she thought, no harsh images. Now only heat and pleasure for both of them.

She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, gave it a sharp little nip before she swung her leg over, straddled his lap. Then, easing back, studying his face, she drained the rest of her wine.

“Should probably work off the alcohol.”

She bowed back, lean and agile, set her empty glass beside his. Then flowed up, fast, latched her mouth to his, gripped his face with her hands as she plundered.

She rocked him to the core. She always could. That aggressive mouth lit lust’s short fuse so he hardened like steel under her, so the hands digging into her hips shot up to close over her breasts.

“This time it’s you wearing too many clothes.” His fingers flicked open the buttons of her vest.

“We’ll work around them because this has to be fast.” She used her teeth on the side of his throat. “Hard and fast. Got me?”

“I’ve got you, and I’ll be keeping you.”

He dealt with her shirt, managed to tug the tank out of her waistband despite the weapon harness. And found it acutely arousing to possess her breasts with her weapon still strapped to her side.

He had a dangerous woman in his hands, and yes, he’d keep her.

She rocked against him, tormenting them both, and as if starved for the taste, ravaged his mouth.

Candlelight and snowfall provided a romantic backdrop, a soft contrast to the greedy lust they spurred in each other. New York gleamed, a frozen city through the glass, as she dragged at his belt.

“Fast and hard,” she reminded him, her breath already tearing as she struggled to help him yank her trousers down past her knees.

She didn’t wait, but took him in, muffled her own moan against his mouth.

She rode him like a stallion, spurred into a mad gallop that left him no choice but to race with her.

The world blurred. There was no world but her and that strong, glorious body, those wild, pistoning hips. She came like lightning, a snap and flash that bolted through him like a current.

Melting from it, she dropped her head on his shoulder. “Just need to catch my breath.”

“You’ll find it later.”

Half mad, he dragged her jacket down her arms, trapping them, shoving her back to open her more. Now he rode.

She couldn’t free her arms, couldn’t grab hold. Couldn’t stop as the fresh orgasm built fast and brutal over the first.

“Roarke. I can’t.”

“Take. Just take.”

He watched her, all but drowned in her. The crisp, professional clothes disheveled from his hands, the weapon at her side as much a part of her as a limb.

Her face warmed by sex and the candlelight and alive with the crazed pleasure they brought each other.

And he watched as those eyes, those sharp and cynical cop’s eyes, went blind from it.

He dragged her back, wrapped tight around her. Let himself break.

She shuddered against him, quaking aftershocks. Then, fighting for breath, went lax.

“There you are.” He pressed his face to the curve of her neck, simply overwhelmed by her. “Relaxed again.”