Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(36)

They eyed each other over the deadly vee.

“I take it you’ve fancied we’re enemies.”

“More fun that way,” she said, and spun back to return with another thrust.

He blocked, then worked her back a few paces. “That would depend.” He feinted, struck right, right again, then left. She repelled, a kind of testing denial before thrusting forward to force him back.

He swept up, under her guard, but she danced aside, then whirled, using the rotation to add speed and strength to the next attack.

“You’ve been practicing,” he commented while their blades whistled and sang.

“You, too.”

“Part of my job.” His blade clashed and shimmered against hers. “But you don’t see many cops in sword fights.”

“You never know.”

She knew him, knew he held back a bit. Knew he was amused by the situation, and that gave her an advantage. Using it, she smiled at him. “Sword’s got weight.” She gripped the hilt in both hands as if to test it, and when he lowered his sword a fraction, charged in.

She caught his shoulder, just a quick bite before he slapped her blade aside.

And she saw blood well.

“Oh Jesus. Oh shit. I cut you. How—”

“It’s not real.” He held up a hand before she could rush forward. They both knew he could have taken her down, ended the game in that moment of shock. “Just part of the program.” He inclined his head. “Your point, Lieutenant.”

“It could’ve happened that way. Something like that. Come on.” She used her free hand, wiggling her fingers in challenge. “Keep it going.”

“It’s your game. And I’d say that’s enough of a warm-up.”

He came in hard, driving her back. She nearly lost her footing, felt the rush of displaced air and adrenaline as his blade whooshed by her face.

This time when she gripped the hilt in both hands it was to gain the power necessary to repulse the attack.

She felt the sting, could have sworn she smelled her own blood, when he scored a glancing blow on her hip.

“Your point.”

They circled each other while in the valley below the battle raged on. Her sword arm ached from the weight, the effort, her hip throbbed, and sweat coated her skin. She could hear her own breath, wheezing a little now, and see the blood staining the torn leather on Roarke’s shoulder.

She was having the time of her life.

She lifted the sword high over her head, point toward her opponent, and once again planted her feet. “Tie breaker.”

He smiled at her, baited her with a crook of his finger. Though her eyes narrowed she wasn’t so easily caught. She pivoted, spun, met his thrust with a downward arc, then swiped up and barely missed that compelling face.

Sun eked through the clouds, shone on the biting blades as they whizzed, hacked, clashed. Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of battle pounding in the blood.

The wind and his own rapid movements had his hair dancing around a face damp with sweat. She thought his eyes brighter, bolder than the blades.

He gave no quarter; she wanted none. Thrust, strike, attack. Thrust, strike, defend. As they matched power against power, speed against guile, she felt the thrill of battle against a perfectly matched opponent.

Once more their swords crossed, held. They stared at each other, breath labored, sweat dripping.

“Screw the game,” he said.

“Oh yeah.”

They tossed their swords aside and leaped at each other.

They rolled over the thick, coarse grass, mouths meeting, clashing as their blades had. Breathless, desperate, she gripped his hair, used her teeth. Her breath came short and harsh as she tugged and yanked at leather.

“How the hell do you get this off?”

“How the devil do I know?”

“It’s your game.”

“Bloody hell.” He rolled her over, shoved her face down in the grass to attack the laces. “Bastard’s knotted like steel.” Inspired, he yanked the dagger from his belt and sliced them free. He flung the dagger point down in the grass.

Lowering to her, he gave himself the pleasure of her naked back, the lean length of it, the play of muscle under hot, smooth skin. When his hand passed over the wound in her hip, she flinched.

“How’s the hip?”

“Hurts—just enough to let me know I took a hit.” She flipped over, reared up, pulling the dagger out of the ground. “Shoulder?”

“I’ll live.”

She smiled. “Better hold still or I’ll win by default.” She sliced the dagger down the leather. Her eyes on his, she turned the blade. “Trust me?”

He gripped her wrist, shoved her arm down until her fingers opened on the hilt. “No.”

With a laugh, she pulled him down to her.

His mouth warred with hers, quick bites, sliding tongues while their bodies, slick with sweat, stained with blood, moved over the rough grass.

Smoke plumed from the valley below, and on its edges echoed the endless combat. It seemed apt, she thought. No matter how in tune she and Roarke might be, there was always another battle brewing under the calm.

And always with it, always this need to take, to consume, to have, to be. Even now, in the midst of this violent fantasy, she wanted nothing more than his hands on her, then his body mated with hers.