Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(70)

She heard voices, laughter. All so distant and disconnected. In part of her mind Eve knew she was fogged out by the drug. Roarke would pay for that.

She wished he would hold her again, just hold her in that way that made everything inside her stretch and yearn.

Someone was rubbing her back, her shoulders. The moan of pleasure was trapped in her mind, but it was low and it was long.

She smelled him, just a whiff in passing of the scent that was Roarke.

Then there was water, warm, bubbling, swirling around her. She was floating in it, weightless, mindless as a fetus in the womb. She drifted there, endlessly, feeling nothing but peace.

A flash of heat on her shoulder. A shock. Someone was whimpering inside her head. Then cool, cool liquid over the heat, soothing as a kiss.

And under she went again, sliding down and down until she rocked on the soft bottom and curled there, sleeping deep.

When she surfaced, it was dark. Disoriented, she lay very still, counting her own breaths. She was warm and naked, stretched flat on her stomach under the billowing cloud of the duvet.

Home in bed, she realized, as the last hours of her life slipped in and out of focus. Trying to bring it clear, she rolled over, and her legs tangled with Roarke’s.

“Awake?”

His voice sounded alert — a little skill of his that was a mild irritation to her. “What — “

“It’s nearly morning.”

She was indeed warm, and naked, her skin soft as dewed petals thanks to Trina, and she smelled like the cool juice of hothouse peaches.

“How do you feel?”

She wasn’t entirely sure. Everything in her was so loose and smooth. “I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“Good. Then you’re ready for the final phase of your relaxation program.”

His mouth took hers, whisper-soft, his tongue already sliding in to tangle. Her mind, which had just started to clear, clouded again. This time with pure and healthy lust.

“Hold on. I’m not — “

“Let me taste you.” His mouth skimmed down her throat to nibble and destroy. “Touch you.” His hand glided up to her hip, down, parted her legs. “Have you.”

When he slipped inside her, slowly, she was already hot and ready.

She couldn’t see. The predawn light was like ink. He was a shadow moving over her, a steady, glorious force moving inside her. She tripped over the first peak before she could find the rhythm.

With long, slow, torturous strokes he pleasured them both. Her breathing thickened to match his, her hips lifted and fell until their paces meshed. Now when their mouths met, they swallowed each other’s groans.

Warm, soft waves of sensation cradled her, then swept her up and over silky crests. When she felt his body tense, she enfolded him, wrapping herself around him, welcoming that final thrust that pinned them both to peak.

He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in.

“You are feeling better.” He murmured it, his breath tickling her skin and making her smile.

Then her mind cleared.

“Goddamn it.”

“Uh-oh.” Chuckling, he rolled, taking her with him until her body was sprawled over his.

“You think it’s funny.” She shoved up and away, blowing at her hair as she sat up. “You think it’s a joke? You push me around, bully me into taking some tranq.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to bully you into anything if you hadn’t been ready to drop.” He sat up as well. “Lights, ten percent.” At his order the room filled with a soft glow. “You look good,” he said after a moment’s study of her furious — and rested — face. “Despite her rather extreme personal taste, Trina knows what suits you.”

The way her mouth dropped open and her eyes bugged out had Roarke fighting back a roar of laughter. “You let her work on me while I was out? You sadistic, treacherous son of a bitch.” She might have taken a swing at him, but she was already leaping out of bed toward the mirror.

The relief that she looked normal, fairly much the way she looked every other morning wasn’t quite enough to cut through the temper. “I ought to throw you both in a cage for this.”

“Mavis was in on it, too,” he said cheerfully. She hadn’t moved that quickly or easily in several days, he noted. And her eyes were free of shadows. “Oh, and Summerset.”

Now she had no choice but to sit down. She staggered back to the bed and dropped down on the edge. “Summerset.” It was a horrified croak.

“He worked on your shoulder after I ran a quick diagnostic. The muscles had flamed up. Why the hell don’t you take normal steps to deal with discomfort?”

“Summerset” was all she could say.

“He’s had medical training, as you know. He simply treated your shoulder. How does it feel?”

Maybe it was pain free for the first time in days. Maybe her entire body felt gloriously energized and fresh. That didn’t make Roarke’s methods acceptable.

She pushed off the bed, snagged the robe that was draped over a chair, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. “I’m going to kick your ass.”

“All right.” He got up agreeably and found a robe for himself. “It’ll be a fairer match than it was last night. You want to go at me here, or down in the gym?”

Before the last word was out of his mouth, she sprang. She came in low. He had time to start a pivot, but not to complete it, and ended up sprawled on the bed, his wife on top of him, with her knee planted firmly, worrisomely, between his legs.