Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(34)

A sound of pleasure hummed in his throat and his hands glided down her back. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He bit her bottom lip. “Wherever I take you.”

Circling her, he guided her back into the elevator. “Holoroom,” he ordered, then backed her into the corner and cut off her question with one long, mind-numbing kiss.

“Something wrong with the bedroom?” she asked when she could breathe again.

“I have something else in mind.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he drew her out. “Engage program.”

The large, empty room, with its stark black mirrored walls, shimmered, shifted. She smelled smoke first, fragrant, faintly fruity, then the tang of some spicy scented flower. The lights dimmed and wavered. Images formed.

A crackling fire in a big stone hearth. A window wide as a lake with a view of steel-blue mountains and deep, feathery snow that gleamed icily in the moonlight. Urns of hammered copper filled to bursting with flowers in whites and rusty hues. Candles, hundreds of candles, white as the snow, burning with flickering flames out of polished brass holders.

Under her feet the mirrored floor became wood, dark, nearly black, with a dull sheen.

Dominating the room was an enormous bed with head- and footboards fashioned of complicated curves and loops of thin, sparkling brass. Spread over it was a cover of dull gold that looked thick enough to drown in, and dozens of pillows in shades of precious gems.

Scattered over all were white rose petals.

“Wow.” She looked toward the window again. The view, those towering peaks, the miles of white, did something odd to her throat. “What are those?”

“A simulation of the Swiss Alps.” One of his greatest delights was watching her reaction to something new. The initial wariness that was the cop, the slow bloom of pleasure that came from the woman. “I’ve never managed to take you there in reality. A holographic chalet is the next best thing.”

Turning, he picked up a robe that was draped over a chair. “Why don’t you put this on?”

She reached for it, frowned. “What is it?”

“A robe.”

She shot him a bland look. “I know that. I meant what’s it made of? Is this mink?”

“Sable.” He stepped forward. “Why don’t I help you?”

“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” she murmured as he began unbuttoning her shirt.

His hands skimmed over her bare shoulders as he brushed the shirt aside. “It seems I am. In a mood to seduce my wife. Slowly.”

Need was already kindling, spreading. “I don’t need seduction, Roarke.”

He laid his lips on her shoulder. “I do. Sit.” He nudged her down so he could tug off her boots. Then, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned over and took her mouth again.

Just mouth to mouth, warm and soft, a skillfully tender sliding of lips and tongue, a cleverly gentle scrape of teeth. Her muscles quivered, then went lax. Feeling her surrender was his own seduction.

Drawing her to her feet, he unhooked her trousers. “The wanting of you never stops.” His fingers skimmed over her hips; the trousers pooled at her feet. “The loving of you never peaks. There’s always more.”

Undone, she leaned against him, her face buried in his hair. “Nothing’s the same for me since you.”

He held her a moment, for the simple pleasure of it. Then, reaching down, he lifted the robe and draped the soft pelt over her shoulders. “For either of us.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

And her arms reached out for him.

She knew what it would be like. Overwhelming, unsettling. Glorious. She’d come to crave each separate sensation he could bring her, to crave the feel of him against her the way she did air or water.

Without thinking of it, and unable to survive without it.

There was nothing she couldn’t give, or take, when their bodies came together. Sunk deep in the feather bed she met his mouth eagerly, reveling in the slow burn of her blood. Sighing, she tugged at his shirt, helping him shrug it aside so flesh could meet flesh.

The long and lovely slide of it. A slow roll, a low moan. The silk of the petals, the satin of the spread, the ripple of muscle under her hands — all tangled together in an exotic mix of textures.

The quick, bounding leap of the heart. A delicious shiver, a soft sigh. The flicker of candlelight, the spill of the moon, the shifting shimmer from the fire melded into one sumptuous glow.

She tasted and was tasted. She touched and was touched. Aroused and was aroused. And trembled her way up the long curve of a peak as smooth as polished silver.

He felt her rise up, shudder, then slide lazily down again. Their limbs tangled as they rolled over the bed, to touch again, to adjust the fit of bodies. He could see the lights flicker over her face, her hair, in her eyes, the rich brandy of them. Eyes he could watch go glassy as he nudged her, inch by inch, toward that peak again.

Her hands, strong, capable, and beautifully familiar, moved over him, a grip, a caress. Quiet sounds of pleasure hummed in her throat, sighed into his mouth, whispered over his skin.

His breath began to quicken, and need became a thunder in the blood. Warmth turned to heat and heat to a dangerous flash.

Then she was rising over him, her body slim and silvered in the shift of light and shadow. Her moan was long, a throaty sound of greed as she lowered to him, enclosed him, took him in. When his fingers dug into her hips, she arched back into a gleaming curve, rocking, rocking, with her eyes golden brown slits, her breath rushing between parted lips.