Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(28)

“We are what we are,” he said and, gripping the back of her head, pulled her in for a long, possessive kiss.

“You don’t scare me,” she murmured. And added teeth.

“You haven’t read me my rights.”

Since he’d stripped down to his boxers already, it was easy to find him, to free him, to lift her hips and, lowering them again, take him in.

All the way in.

“No rights for you, ace.” His fingers dug into her shoulders as her hips moved, slow, a teasing rock. “Just hard labor.”

“And when I make you tremble?”

Still moving, still rocking, she dared him. “Try it.”

Eyes on hers, he slid a hand down to where they joined, pressing and playing his fingers, and shooting her system to a gasping peak.

She bowed back, helpless, not trembling but quaking until she tumbled down again, her head dropping to his shoulder.

“Tricky,” she managed.

“I know how to handle my cop.”

Her lips curved against his throat. “I know how to handle my criminal.”

“Never convicted.”

Laughing, she trailed her lips up his throat, over his jaw, to tease his lips, those wonderfully, perfectly shaped lips. All the while her hips moved, slow to languorous, arousing to torturous.

His hands glided up her sides—slim and strong—and over her breasts—soft and firm. Her heart beating under his palms; her nipples peaking under the brush of his thumbs.

When she bowed back again, he captured the soft and firm in his mouth, felt that heart pulse inside him. All but tasted it. And still she moved, moved, moved until the blood pounded under his skin.

Until his world whittled down to the taste of her, the feel, the heat, the all of her.

She flowed up to him again, smooth as water, cupped his face, near to destroyed him with a kiss before she eased back, stared into his eyes.

“Come with me.”

Quickening now, quickening.

“I’m with you, a ghrá.”

Her eyes, the deep gold pools of them. Her hips in tireless, glorious motion.

“Let go first.” Her breath tore; her eyes never wavered. “Let go first.”

Control, already tenuous, slipped away from him, a frayed rope that gave way to fling him off a cliff.

He heard her, a low, broken cry of release as he fell. He caught her against him as she fell after him.

She went limp, soft melted wax, and the sound she made was a long, purring sigh.

“I won.” She sighed again when he lay back with her pressed to his heart. “Bitch Cop wins.”

“I’ll concede the round. But demand a rematch.”

“I’ll take you on again.”

Eyes closed, a hand stroking her back, he smiled. Her words tended to slur when she was all but asleep.

He managed to maneuver them lengthwise on the bed, shifting her until she curled up against him. She muttered something incomprehensible, so he stroked her back again.

“Not to worry now,” he whispered. “Lights off.”

In the dark he felt the cat land on the bed, pad over, circle twice, then curl his considerable bulk in the small of Eve’s back.

Not to worry now, he thought again. This was as good as any man could wish for.

He gave the cat a stroke, then draped an arm over his wife and slept.

*

When Eve woke, the cat had switched allegiances and lay sprawled over Roarke’s lap. Roarke, dressed for another conquer-the-world day, sat on the new sofa in the sitting area, drinking coffee—mmm, coffee—working on his PPC. On the wall screen the day’s stocks and other mysterious financial information moved in a silent scroll.

She sat up, brain still fuzzed, spotted her discarded sleep shirt at the foot of the bed. She crawled over to retrieve it.

“Well now, that’s a fine sight to greet a man first thing in the morning.”

She grunted, dragged the shirt over her head.

“Even that.”

She stumbled her way to the bar he’d left open for her, programmed coffee. Decided after the first gulp she’d be able to function.

“How many ’link conferences already in the bag this morning?”

“Only two.” Eyebrows arched, he glanced over. “Back-to-back they were, so essentially one.”

She grunted again and went to shower. While the hot jetted water pumped more life into her, Eve outlined the start of her day.

Check on any search results here. In the field, morgue, and Morris first, then the waitress—potential for consult with police artist on description. Briefing, Peabody and McNab. Briefing, Commander Whitney. Contact Nadine.

And she had to be prepared to deal with the media. One of their own was dead—they’d push hard.

She came out, grateful for the chocolate-brown cashmere robe, and eyed the two dome-covered plates on the table.

She thought, Oatmeal. Damn it.

Still, he’d set a pot of coffee on the table, and she was ready for a second.

She poured, sat. “I want to check on the search results before I head out.”

“I already have. No other accounts. No real property, so far, tied to any we have. I’ve gone down another level.”

“Okay.”

When he lifted the domes, rather than the expected oatmeal—

“Waffles! How come?”