Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(25)

His mind emptied but for her, the hungry mouth, the urgent press of her body. Steam rose up, swirled around them as he took his hands over all those lovely, familiar places. Made her gasp and moan and reach.

He spun her around, pressed her to the wall and gave himself the pleasure of her back. The line of it, the tough cut of muscle under smooth skin.

He tapped a tile then filled his hands with fragrant soap. Slowly at first, slowly running it over her in a slick foam. Back and shoulders, hips and thighs, belly and br**sts, until her breath was deep and uneven, until the scent swirled like the steam.

Hands and mouth, only hands and mouth—still slow, lulling and seducing so his cop, his warrior, his wife trembled.

As did his own heart.

His fingers found her, teased, a featherlight torture.

Lost in him. Her hands fisted against the dripping wall as her system churned, yearned. She wanted to turn to him, take him in. Take him. But he’d trapped her, and used her, undid her.

Inch by inch he took her up, and held her, somehow held her back from that last reach so she quaked and writhed, steeped in pleasure, and just short of release.

“I can’t.”

“You can.” Once again he pressed his lips to the curve of her throat.

Release crawled through the madness of sensation. She couldn’t breathe without feeling. So much, so much. It rolled through her, a wave that built and built as it rose. Pleasure and relief blurred together, dizzying, glorious.

He turned her. She saw only the wild blue of his eyes, then his mouth was on hers again, ravaging, wrecking even as he drove into her.

Now the slap of wet flesh with the pounding drum of water, and the glory of mindless mating. He took her stroke by powerful stroke, stealing every thought, filling every void.

She fisted her hands in his hair, drew him back. She wanted his face in her eyes as well as her mind.

“You. Just you.”

The words, the magic of them struck his heart. Then for the last time he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, and breathing her, let go.

They held each other up. Eve figured she’d get her breath back in a day or two. It might take up to a week before she got any strength back in her legs.

Otherwise, all good.

She’d figured they’d have a quick, stress-reducing bang, and instead, they’d come together in a way that left her both unwound and energized. If she didn’t count her still-weak knees.

“I think we need to get out of here,” she managed.

“Not yet.”

“I’m pretty sure I can crawl.”

“We’ll do better. Decrease jet temp to eighty-six degrees.”

“Wait—” The water poured cool considering what it had been. She squealed, cursed, struggled, but he held her snug to the wall.

Laughing, he snuggled her closer. “It’ll wake you up, and it’s the same temperature as the pool. Hardly an ice bath.”

It felt like one to her. “Jets off! Off, off, f**king off!”

When they shut down, she shoved her dripping hair out of her eyes, scorched him with a look.

He only gave her the most pleasant of smiles in return.

Hadn’t she said men had juvenile senses of humor? “You think that was funny?”

“I do, yes. And refreshing. And I bet you can walk under your own power now.”

Because she certainly could—and not to prove him right—she strode straight into the drying tube, letting out a relieved breath when the warm air swirled.

Through the glass she watched him select a towel. He sent her a grin as he dried off, then slung the towel over his hips and walked back to the bedroom.

He’d pulled on jeans and a T-shirt by the time she came out, so she did the same.

She gave one brief thought to the fact most people were in bed, or at least thinking about getting there at this time of night.

Cops weren’t most people.

“I’m going to get started,” she told him.

“As am I.” He walked out with her. “I’ll give you whatever help I can once I’ve sorted some things out.”

They separated to their adjoining offices.

She set up her board first, lining up the faces of the dead, those who lived, and those who connected to them.

In her little kitchen, she programmed coffee, took it to her desk. There she sat a few minutes, feet up, eyes on the board. Let her thoughts wander.

Controlled. Callous—didn’t care who died. Even if it had been target specific on one or more vics, the collateral damage didn’t bother him, them.

Potentially that was the point. Kill as many as possible.

Political agenda unlikely. If there’d been one, credit would’ve been taken. That made it personal, but not intimate.

Not sexual. No monetary gain—none that showed, she amended.

Playing God—that’s what Mira had said, and that fit best.

She turned to the computer and began to run probabilities. She wrote a report on the interview with Carstein and Detweiler, checked her incoming, added what her teams had finished into the report.

Until she knew more about the Urban War connection, should there be one, she left it out of the reports. If the feds or Homeland came on board, they’d demand copies of all files.

When Roarke came in, she’d poured more coffee and was up, circling the board.

“What can I do?”