Memory in Death (In Death #22)(61)

"What?"

"I don't have any pictures of you from before we met."

It took her mind a moment to catch up with the non sequitur. "Pictures?"

"Yes, from when you were a nubile young girl, or a green rookie in uniform, which I'm hoping you'll put on again one day soon. I do love my woman in uniform. I could access older ID photos, but I'd like it more if you could find something for me."

"I guess. Maybe. Probably. Why?"

"Our lives didn't start when we met." He touched her face, just a feathering of those wonderful fingers over her skin. "Though I like to think the best of them did. I'd like to have a piece or two of you, from before."

"That's pretty sappy."

"Guilty. And if you come across any photos of yourself at, oh, around eighteen, scantily clad, so much the better."

She couldn't stop the laugh this time. "Perv."

"Again, guilty."

She took his glass, scooted over, and set both it and her own on the bedside table. She shoved the black butter of her coat carelessly onto the floor.

"I feel like doing something else."

"Oh?" He cocked his head. "Such as?"

She was quick, and she was agile. In a flashing movement, she rolled, reared up, and had her legs clamped around his waist, her hands fisted in his hair, and her mouth fused hotly to his. "Something like this," she said when she let him breathe again.

"I suppose I'll have to make the time for you."

"Damn right." She flipped open buttons on his shirt, leaned down to take a sharp nip at his jaw. "You scolded me. Counting my session with Whitney, that's the second knuckle rap I've had today."

Her hands were very busy, and by the time they reached his zipper, he was hard as steel. "I hope you didn't have the same reaction with your commander."

"He's pretty studly, if you go for the big-shouldered, careworn type. Me, I like 'em pretty." She took another nip at his ear as she overbalanced them and shoved him to his back.

The cat might have been fat, but he was also experienced, and dodged aside.

"You're so pretty. Sometimes I just want to lap you up like ice cream." She tugged his shirt open, spread her hands on his chest. "And look at this, all that flesh, all that muscle. All mine." She scraped her teeth down the center of his torso, felt him quiver. "Now that's something to make girl yummy noises over."

His hands were on her, little thrills. But he let her lead, let her set the pace. He would let her, she knew, for the moment at least. And not knowing when he might take her over was another thrill.

She yanked open her own shirt, put her hands over his to slide them up her body, close them over her br**sts. And cruised on the sensation of those long, strong fingers against her. Then bowed back, eyes closed, as his hands skimmed down to unhook her trousers.

She came down to him again, bracing on her elbows. Mouth-to-mouth—long, sumptuous kisses punctuated by quick bites as her heart beat, beat, beat against his. When she offered her breast, he took it, and her breath caught, then released on a shudder.

His now, as much as he was hers. Her body was fueled for him. He rolled her over, pinned her hands to either side of her head. Her eyes were heavy with passion, dark with challenge.

"I want you naked. Lie still while I undress you."

He touched his lips to hers, then to the dent in her chin, lining little opened-mouth kisses down her throat, over her br**sts, down to her belly.

He rolled her pants down her hips, exposing more flesh, then traced his tongue over the tender dip where legs met her center. She arched, shivered.

"Ssh." A soothing murmur even as he used his mouth to drive her to the edge, finally to push her over it. When she went limp, he continued down her thighs.

He tugged off her boots, let her trousers fall in a heap on top of them. Then began to work his way up, slowly, tortuously.

"Roarke."

"Look at this flesh and muscle," he said, echoing her earlier words. "All mine."

Again, her body began to churn, that outrageous and breathless pressure building and building until everything inside her burst open. She could only reach for him.

He was inside her, deep and strong. His mouth on hers, his fingers linked with hers. Tasting, feeling, holding, they flashed together.

She thought, blind with love, that, yes, she could go home.

* * *

They lay quiet for a moment, settling. He'd rolled again so her head could rest on his shoulder, her hand on his heart that was still drumming.

"I should scold you more often."

"Wouldn't make a habit of it. Might tick me off next time. I felt off all day. I was doing the job, like you said, but I felt off. Almost like I was watching myself do the job. Passive or something. That's not my rhythm. I need to tune it up."

He gave her belly a light rub. "You felt tuned to me."

"Sex'll do that. With you, anyway." She pushed herself up. "I need to start at the beginning of this, in my head. Rub off this film that's been clouding my brain, and start over."

He stretched out to reach the wine. "Then that's what you'll do." She took a sip of the one he handed her. "What I'm going to do is take a shower and get dressed. Go over my own notes and reports from the scene, the statements. Take an hour and just line it up in my head."