Connections in Death (In Death #48)(26)

Not yet, not yet, though he could have devoured her like a man starving. Instead, he trailed his fingers over her belly, felt the quiver of her need. A light stroke, to torment them both, down the inside of those smooth, strong thighs.

On a moan she reached back to hook her arm around his neck, trembling now, trembling for him.

Ready and open and his.

A brush, just a brush over her center, lightly cupping her there while her body arched against his restraining arm. And inside her, light, almost lazy while her quickened breath escaped in gasps.

Slow, he thought, slow though his own needs pounded. Slow as he felt her fall into the pleasure, melt in it, surrender to it.

It saturated her, seemed to turn even her bones to butter. She sank into it, all those honeyed sensations, floated through them on the thick, steamy air. And when they lifted her, up, up, she clung to the heights, then embraced the staggering fall.

“Ride it,” he urged her when she went limp. “Just ride it.”

He could take her up again, and would. Not so slow now, not so light.

Nothing, nothing, aroused him more than having his tough, hard-eyed cop steeped in what he could give her. Once more, he thought as his own muscles quivered, just once more as he felt it build inside her again.

When he felt her shuddering on that edge, her body bow-taut, he whipped her around. With her back to the tiles, he plunged into her, hard, fast, deep. Held there, chained himself there while her cry of release echoed.

“God. God.” Her head dropped to his shoulder as she fought for air.

No air, she thought, dazed and drugged, just heat.

Then he began to move again.

“There’s more,” he said as she lifted her head.

His eyes, impossibly blue, so intense, so focused on her. Only her. Love speared like an arrow, burst through lust so the mix of both overwhelmed her.

Her breath in tatters like his, she gripped the wet silk of his hair, dragged his mouth to hers. Fed there while all the wild and wonderful needs spread again.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she looked into that miraculous blue once more. “I can take it as long as you can.”

She boosted up, wrapped her legs around his waist. “Now you ride it.”

He couldn’t stop. Tossing aside any semblance of control, he drove into her, again, again, with a blind, nearly brutal desperation. He heard her cries as he thrust, as his fingers dug into her hips. Not cries of surrender, not this time. But of triumph.

Now it was he who was lost, undone, conquered. When his release came, it slashed like blades to open him, to empty him.

He nearly staggered, had to brace a hand to the wall, pin Eve there with his body to keep them both upright. Then he gave that up, just slid both of them to the floor of the shower and tried to catch his breath.

Steam puffed and plumed. Jets of water sliced through the thickened air and rained down on them. He should turn that off, he thought idly as Eve sprawled over him.

“Maybe you do have some new pervy games.”

“What?”

“Some shower.”

He managed a laugh. “We’ll have to get up and out of it at some point.”

“It feels good.”

She nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder, as if—he thought—she intended to bed down right there for the night. “Do you know how to cook a frog?”

“Why would anybody want to cook a frog? And you don’t cook anyway.”

“You put it in a pot of water, and turn the heat on very low. The water heats, but it’s a gradual thing, so the unfortunate frog doesn’t try to get out of the pot because it doesn’t realize it’s being slowly boiled to death until it’s done.”

Her brows drew together. “You’ve cooked a frog?”

“It’s an analogy. Right now we’re the frog, and in this case, I’d say we’re gradually being steamed to death. So.”

He managed to shift her, to get them both sitting up. Then he smiled. “Wet’s one of my favorite looks on you.” He leaned over to kiss her between the eyes. “Jets off.”

They pulled each other up. Eve stepped out and into the drying tube. Roarke grabbed a towel.

She eyed him through the warm whirl of air. “We have good sex, right?”

He glanced over, watched the air send her short chop of hair flying. “I think we just confirmed that.”

“Right.” She stepped out, walked back into the bedroom.

When he came out, she’d pulled on a sleep shirt, had pulled back the duvet in an attempt to dislodge the cat—who ignored her.

So she crawled in, giving the sprawling lump of cat a solid nudge toward Roarke’s side. Roarke lifted an eyebrow, solved the matter by hauling Galahad up, and dumping him at the foot of the bed.

Sliding in, he hooked an arm around Eve, drew her back to him.

“We even have, like, adventurous sex.”

“Again, just confirmed. What’s in that mind of yours?”

“I figure people can do whatever they want, sex wise, as long as everybody’s an adult and willing. As long as nobody ends up on a slab. But . . .”

She turned over, and since he hadn’t yet called for lights off, looked him in those eyes again. “I’m never going to whack your balls with a shock stick to get you off.”

“It’s difficult to find the proper words to express my gratitude for that.”