Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(65)

Fifteen minutes, that would set her, then a big, fat burger while she played some of the data and speculations off Roarke. The man sure as hell knew about being the dominant personality.

She stepped out into the moist, fragrant warmth, into the lush green foliage and bright blooms of the tropical gardens of the pool house. Music came from the sparkling waterfall flowing down the wall—and the smooth, rhythmic strokes of the man cutting through the bold blue water of the pool.

He swam like a seal, she thought, sleek and fast, and looked like—well, if she couldn’t think it, who could? He looked like a damn Irish god, with that rangy body, the ripple of muscle, the streaming black hair. When he changed up strokes, executed a surface dive, she grinned. With an ass like that, who wouldn’t want to sink their teeth into it?

Maybe she could take more than fifteen minutes.

She stripped where she was, took position on the edge, and dove in. When she surfaced, he was treading water, and watching her with eyes that made the bold blue of the pool seem pale.

“It seems I’ve caught a mermaid.”

“You haven’t caught anything yet, pal. How many laps have you got in?”

“Twenty-two. I’m after thirty.”

“Then I’ll catch up.”

She pushed off the side. He paced her awhile, which made her kick in to up the speed. Still, they hit the wall together, rolled into the turn and push. She lost him after eight, but moments later heard the rumble that told her he’d settled into the grotto corner, and its jets.

So she lost herself in the rhythm, in the water, in the effort, and somewhere in the twelfth lap, her crowded mind cleared. When she hit thirty, her muscles were loose to the point of limp, her breathing shallow, and her mind utterly relaxed.

She skimmed under the water, surfaced in the grotto beside him.

“God! That was a good idea.”

“I have any number of them.”

She let her head fall back, her eyes close. Under the water her fingers linked with his until she had her breath back. “I’ve got one of those coming on. Oh yeah, there it is.”

She ducked under, rolled, then skimmed her way up to take him into her mouth. The water churned around her as she gripped his hips, as she felt the muscles she’d admired quiver for her. She surfaced, letting her lips run up his belly, his chest, his throat to where his mouth waited to mate with hers.

“I like your idea better than mine.”

“Thought you might.” She scraped her teeth over his throat. “Mira said I should recharge.” Tossing her head back, she shot him a look of pure challenge. “So, recharge me.”

He pulled her under with him, into that breathless, beating blue.

He’d thought himself prepared. Relaxed, comfortably aroused watching his wife burn off the day as he had. He’d imagined persuading her into wet, lazy love once she had. Instead the need for her had simply leaped into him, torn through him as a hungry animal who wanted feast and conquest.

It burned through him, a fever in the blood as he devoured her mouth, as his hands sought and took. Her gasp for air when they surfaced ended on a cry of shocked pleasure that only stoked the flames.

Her hands dug into his shoulders when he took her breast. Greedy mouth, demanding teeth. Wet and warm from the water, she trembled from the assault.

And still she said, “Yes.”

“Yes,” as the water closed over them again.

Her ears roared from the pound of the water, from the pound of her own blood. How could anyone survive wanting, being wanted, like this? How could anyone live without it? He set a storm inside her of feelings, sensations, of desires that throbbed toward pain. A storm that raged and blew and thundered until there was nothing left of her but a drowning, helpless love.

Rough hands pushed her back to the wall where hers gripped the edge, where her moans echoed in the heavy air as his mouth streaked up her thighs, as his tongue arrowed inside her. He tugged, shifting her so the gush of hot jets pulsed over her, inside her—hot, relentless—as his mouth worked her toward frenzy.

“I can’t. I can’t. God!”

The orgasm was brutal and fierce, a ripping of self from sanity.

He felt it break through her, felt the force and wonder of release. And saw when he looked into her eyes again the complete surrender to it. To him.

“Take. Take me.” He drove into her, into that surrender. And lifting her hips, plunged deeper yet. As the madness pummeled him, whipped him, he heard his own voice, thick and breathless, murmuring demands and pleas in Irish she couldn’t possibly understand.

And still once more, as his body battered hers, she said, “Yes.”

On that single, whispered word, he surrendered.

Sprawled in the pulsing water, limbs like melted wax, Eve wasn’t sure who was holding up whom. She thought, vaguely, that a double drowning was a distinct possibility. But couldn’t seem to care.

“Maybe it’s something in the water, some sort of sex drug. You could bottle it, sell it, and make another fortune.”

“Hell with that. I’m keeping it all for us. Did I hurt you at all? I’m a bit bleary.”

“I can take care of myself, pal.” She let her head fall like a rock onto his shoulder. “Besides. My idea.”

“And a bloody good one it was.”

“I was going straight up to work. Got big, fat, sticky piles of it, so I was going straight up to work. Then the gargoyle said you were down here. I thought maybe I’d take fifteen minutes for a swim, loosen up.”