Visions in Death (In Death #19)(71)

"You could put Peabody with Louise."

"Sick. You're a sick man."

"Just playing the game." He took her hand as they walked upstairs to the bedroom. "You seem to have your second wind, Lieutenant."

"I think it's my third, maybe fourth of the day. I actually feel pretty good." She booted the door shut behind her. "In fact, sitting around in all that sizzle's got me hyped. How about some gooey sex?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Hooking an arm around his neck, she jumped so he could catch her in his arms. She calculated her weight, his, narrowed her eyes. "How far do you figure you can carry me?"

"To the bed would be my first guess."

"No, I mean how far do you think you could haul me like this? Especially if I'm..." She went limp, dropped her weight, let her arms dangle.

She felt him shift and adjust, not quite stagger. "Tougher this way, right?"

"I still think I can manage the bed, where I certainly hope you plan to revive a bit."

"You're in good shape, but I bet you'd feel it if you had to carry me, say, twenty, thirty yards like this."

"Since I haven't strangled you, yet, I won't have to."

She boosted back up as he climbed the platform with her. "Sorry. No murder in the bedroom tonight."

She kept her arms locked around his neck when he lowered her to the bed. "You touch me."

Obviously amused, he nipped at her chin and that wonderful hair brushed her cheeks like strands of silk. "That's definitely on the agenda."

"No." She laughed again, then rolled over on top of him. "When we're just hanging out, when you don't even think about it. I like it."

She leaned down to rub her lips over his, and linking fingers, stretching sinuously down, slid his arms over his head. "I like this."

"Enjoy yourself," he invited.

"Probably should make it fairly quick, in case I lose this third, fourth wind." She closed her teeth over his jaw, nipping lightly.

Keeping his hands locked with hers, she ran her lips down his throat, traced them back to his. Then she curled back like a cat to unbutton his shirt.

"Yeah." She rubbed her hands over his chest. "You're in shape." Then her lips.

She could feel his heartbeat pick up, drum lightly under her hands and lips. He wanted. Wasn't it amazing he always wanted her?

The muscles of his belly quivered when she tasted there, and jumped when she ran her tongue under his waistband. She slid down the zipper, freed him. Tormented him.

Then uncurling, she watched him as she peeled off her shirt, as she took his hands and pressed them to her br**sts.

On a low hum of pleasure her head fell back. His hands were hard and smooth and skilled. The long, liquid tugs began, from heart to belly, from belly to loins, when he used them on her.

"Let me. Let me have—" He reared up, clamped his mouth on her, and the hum became a sob, the tugs a burn.

Now it could be desperate, now it could be urgent. Slick body straining to slick body, hands and mouths greedy for more. The sharp nip of teeth, the quick bite of nails, the hot slide of tongues.

She was trembling when she straddled him. Once again their hands and eyes locked. She took him in, took him deep. And cried out.

Breathless, she lowered her brow to his, fought for breath, for sanity. "A minute," she managed. "It's too much. Wait a minute."

"It's not too much." His mouth seared over hers. "It's never too much."

Never would be. She rose up, and rode.

Chapter Fifteen

While Eve was curled in dreamless sleep against Roarke, a woman named Annalisa Sommers split her part of the check and said good night to a few friends.

Her monthly post-theater club had broken up a little later than usual as everyone had a lot of news to share. The club was just an excuse, really, for her to get together with some of her friends and have a bite to eat, a few drinks—and talk about men, work—men.

But it also gave her the benefit of several opinions on whatever play they'd seen. She used them, as well as her own, for her weekly column in Stage Right Magazine.

She loved the theater, and had since she'd played a yam in her first-grade Thanksgiving Day pageant. Since she couldn't act—though she'd pulled the yam off well enough to have her mother cry a little—had no skill for design or direction, she'd turned hobby into career by writing observations, rather than straight reviews, on plays on and off—way, way off—Broadway.

The pay was lousy but the benefits included free seats and regular backstage passes as well as the buzz of being able to make a semblance of a living doing something she enjoyed.

And she had a good feeling that the pay was going to improve, very soon. Her column was growing in popularity for the very reasons she'd hyped when talking herself into a job with Stage Right. Regular people wanted to know what other regular people thought about a play. Critics weren't regular people. They were critics.

After ten months on the job, she was beginning to get recognized on the street and enjoyed having people stop her to discuss, to agree or disagree, it didn't matter.

She was having the time of her life.

Everything was going so well. With work, with Lucas. New York was her personal playground, and there was no place else on earth she'd rather be. When she and Lucas got married—and her friends agreed things were definitely heading in that direction—they'd find a mag apartment on the West Side, throw fun and quirky little parties, and be ridiculously happy.