Festive in Death (In Death #39)(57)

“No.” And God, dear God, that was a relief. “No, I wouldn’t. I’m not helpless now, not afraid for my life now. I’m a f**king cop.”

She shoved him back.

“I’m a cop,” she repeated. “And I’ll do my best by you.”

“I’m the best!” he shouted as she stepped down, walked toward the doors.

“You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing. But you’re mine.”

She walked out, into the night. She looked down at her hands, found them clean.

She woke in the soft gray light of morning in the warmth of her own bed.

“It’s all right,” Roarke murmured, drawing her closer. “You’re all right.”

“I’m all right,” she repeated. “My hands are clean.” She held one up, turned it in the quiet light. “My hands are clean.”

On a half laugh, she shifted, found his eyes open and on hers. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“That’s right. Me, too. But what are you doing here when the sun’s up? Why aren’t you conferencing with Zurich or buying a solar system?”

“I’m sleeping with my wife on a Saturday morning.”

“The day of the week doesn’t mean squat in your endless quest for world domination. Could be you’re slipping, pal. Then where will I get my coffee?”

“I can always buy a solar system this afternoon if it makes you feel more confident in my ability to supply coffee.”

“Shake my confidence there, I could go hunt for another supplier. He might not be as pretty, but I have my priorities.”

“Feeling playful this morning, are you then?”

“Maybe. My hands are clean.”

“So you keep saying.”

“It’s important. And since they are . . .” She ran a hand down his chest, and down, then closed her fingers around him. “Look what I found.”

“And now that you have?”

“I can probably think of something constructive to do with it.”

But first she simply rolled on top of him, her face buried in the curve of his throat, her heart beating lightly on his.

Warm, she thought, everything so warm and smooth and easy.

“We lose too many Saturday mornings.”

He ran a hand up and down her back. “The day of the week doesn’t mean squat.”

She laughed, pressed her lips to that curve, then lifted her head. “You’re right.” She kissed him, light as their heartbeats. “But since solar systems are for later . . .”

She touched her lips to his again, then took hers sliding down the line of his throat, over his chest. Whatever the day, it was lovely to have the time to just be with him, to feel as she felt now. Warm and smooth and easy.

As she rose up to straddle him, bells rang and there was an unmistakable sound of irritation just before the thump of the cat deserting the bed for the floor.

“We’ve annoyed the cat,” Roarke commented.

“Well, three’s a crowd anyway. Except it’s really not. One too many people in a given circumstances doesn’t make a crowd. Why are sayings so stupid?”

“Like the solar system, perhaps we can consider that later.”

“Good idea.”

She leaned down, and this time the kiss was long, slow, deep. Stirring them both so the hands sliding down her back fisted in the thin material of the shirt she wore.

Not too many people here, she thought, just the exact right amount. Just him. Just her. She felt his need for her, wakened so quickly, the strength of it, the depth of it. It was always a wonder to her. She hoped it always would be as the wonder added a layer of beauty over desire.

His heart beat a little quicker against hers. She swore she felt the vibration of it as she rose up again.

Those eyes, still watching her, madly blue and beautiful, as she crossed her arms, drew her shirt up and off. As she shifted. As she lowered. As she took him in.

The morning light bathed her in silver, the long torso, the lean sculpted arms. And in the morning hush there was no sound but her breath and his, and the soft slide of the sheets as she moved over him. Slowly, almost gently rocking to bring the pleasure in long, quiet waves.

The heat of her trapped him, gloriously, brought him light as surely as the sun slipping through the sky window overhead.

She gave them the morning, a reminder of what they were together no matter what the day might bring.

As her rhythm quickened, so did his heart, his blood, his need.

She arched back, a strong and slender bow, with a moaning sigh as she gave herself to that heat, to that light.

Then once again she bent to him, bracing herself as she captured his mouth. And moving, rocking, giving, took them both over that final wave.

She lay on him again, heart to heart, beats fast and thick now. This time her sigh was long and lazy and replete.

“They should make a law.”

Eyes closed, body loose, he stroked her back again. “There are so many already, aren’t there?”

“A law that every day has to start with an orgasm.”

“I believe I could adhere to that law without complaint.”

“You should run for office so you could make it the law.”

“If I ran for office I’d have myself committed as I would have, unquestionably, lost my mind.”