Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(37)

He glanced up. “Ah, some sort of sage, if I recall.”

“Like what Peabody’s going to burn in the playground once we toss this asshole in a cage?”

“I couldn’t say.” What he could do was switch the search to auto.

“Do you ever sit on the couch? I’ve never sat on this couch.”

He rose, walked over, sat. “We’re sitting on it now.”

“Your office is about three times the size of my office at Central.”

“Easily.”

“But it’s smaller than mine here. Why is that?”

“First, because the original purpose of yours was to replicate your apartment so you’d give it up and live with me. And second, I don’t need the room to gather up teams of cops, feed them, brief them as you often do here. Or need the room so we can sit for a meal together.”

“You put in a lot of time over there, with teams of cops and without. Expert consultant, civilian.”

“I do.”

“I don’t spend much in here, consulting or whatever.”

“You don’t.”

“Do you want me to?”

He brushed a hand over her hair. “I would very much appreciate no.”

She let out a short laugh. “You don’t think I could help negotiate a deal for a couple rings of Saturn or give input into the design of the next indispensable widget?”

“I think it’s very fortunate the purchase of any of the rings of Saturn—which aren’t on the market, by the way—or the design of the next indispensable widget aren’t a matter of life and death, law and order, or justice served. But if they were, you’d find a way.”

“I think that’s an insult wrapped in a compliment. Or the other way around.”

She started to get up; he tugged her back down. “It occurs to me this very nice sofa has yet to be used to its full potential.”

Because sometime during the sitting she’d relaxed, she didn’t object when he eased her back.

“For napping?”

“Some other time.” He released her weapon harness; she tugged the tie out of his hair.

“It’s comfortable. We’ve got a big bed probably being used by a cat right now, but this is comfortable.”

“And roomy enough,” he added as he pressed his lips to the pulse point in her throat. “Lights, twenty percent,” he ordered. When they dimmed, he looked down at her. “Quieter. It’s nice to have some quiet time with you.”

She smiled, raised her head to nip at his bottom lip. “Bet it doesn’t last long.”

“Is that a challenge or a request?”

She bit him again, not quite as lightly. “Guess.”

He responded exactly as she wanted with a deep, dazzling, drugging kiss that washed the day away. If she could have gotten her hands between them, she’d have gone to work on his shirt buttons. Since she couldn’t, she just wrapped around him.

Quiet time could wait. She welcomed the need and the wild, the demands and the desperation.

It felt right, it felt necessary, to just shove aside everything but their bodies, locked tight, their hearts, already drumming in tandem, their wants, already meshed.

She dragged his shirt out of his pants so her hands could rush under it to skin.

When he simply tore her shirt to get to hers, she let out a quick laugh that ended on a moan. Then his mouth was on her, taking, feeding, feasting. Everything in her reached for more so she arched against him, ground center to center.

Primal. After a day struggling to find logic inside insanity, she wanted the primal.

He reached for more, fighting to shove her harness, her tattered shirt off her shoulders. But she reared up, took his mouth with hers again until his blood burned.

He muttered in Irish, lost, lost in her, in the feel, the taste of her, in the need that radiated from her to lodge in him and spread, spread to scorching.

He pulled at her belt, and she ripped his shirt as he had hers.

Half-mad, half-dressed, they grappled with clothes, and, in the rush, rolled onto the floor. He hit first, so she straddled him. Already breathless, she took him in.

Deep, deep, fast, crazed. Hips pumped as if life itself hung in the balance.

He filled her, as he’d filled so many empty spaces. Outside the window, the city lights spoke of the world she’d sworn to protect and serve. But here, here, this belonged to only them.

He rose up, wrapped around her as she had him. Their mouths met again, ravenous. When she arched back, when he watched her fly, when her body shook, and her cry of release was his name, he said hers and went with her.

They lay tangled in clothes or remnants thereof. She still wore one boot, with her pants leg trailing from it. He, she noted, had managed to get both his fancy shoes off, and his pants.

“I believe I guessed correctly.”

Even in her current sexual haze he made her laugh. “I gave you a pretty big hint.”

“You did, and I believe you lured me over to the sofa so you could have your way with me.”

“Worked, too, though ways were had all around. This used to be a really nice shirt. Yours, too.”

“More where they came from. I do, however, believe we’ve earned the big bed. Galahad will have to make room.”

“We still didn’t bang on that sofa.”