Witness in Death (In Death #10)(24)

"Thanks." Bells were clanging. In the machine, in her head. She let him turn her so they were face-to-face. "Game's not over."

"Not nearly." His mouth came down on hers, hot and possessive. His hands had already snaked under her shirt to cup her br**sts. "I want you. I always want you."

Breathless, eager, she dragged at his shirt. "You should've lost a few times. You wouldn't be wearing so many clothes."

"I'll remember that." The need reared up so fast, so ripe, it burned. Her body was a treasure to him, the long, clean lines of it, the sleekness of muscle, the surprising delicacy of skin. Standing, wrapped tight, he sank into her.

She wanted to give. No one else had ever made her so desperate to give. Whatever she had. Whatever he would take. Through all the horrors of her life, through all the miseries of her work, this -- what they brought to each other time and time again -- was her personal miracle.

She found his flesh with her hands -- firm, warm -- and sighed deeply. She found his mouth with hers -- rough, hungry -- and she moaned.

When she would have pulled him to the floor, he turned, stumbled with her until her back was pressed against something cool and solid.

"Look at me."

His name caught in her throat as those skilled fingers slid over her, into her, and sent her spinning as madly as the silver ball under glass.

He watched her eyes cloud, then the rich brown of them go opaque as she came. "More. Again." While she shuddered, while her hands gripped his shoulders, he took her mouth, swallowed her cry of release.

His breath was as tattered as hers as he took her hips, lifted them, and plunged.

He pinned her, pummeled her system with a pleasure too outrageous for reason. Energized her so that she fought to give it back, beat for beat. When her hands slipped from his shoulders, she lifted them to his hair, fisted her fingers in all that black silk.

They drove each other up, and over.

"I didn't lose."

Roarke glanced over, smiled at the view of her pretty naked butt as she gathered up her clothes. "I didn't say you did."

"You're thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. I just don't have time to finish playing that stupid game."

"It'll hold." He fastened his trousers. "I'm hungry. Let's have something to eat."

"It'll have to be quick. I've got work. I want to go over and take a look at Draco's hotel room."

"That's fine then." Roarke wandered to the AutoChef, considered, and decided a cool, sleety night called for something homey. He ordered beef and barley stew for both of them. "I'll go with you."

"It's police business."

"Naturally. Just doing my civic duty again, Lieutenant." Because he knew that would irritate her, he offered her a bowl and a smile. "It's my hotel, after all."

"It would be." Because she knew he meant to irritate her, she scooped up a bite. And scalded her tongue. It wasn't a crime scene, she thought as she blew some of the heat from the second spoonful. And she could use Roarke's eyes, his mind, not that she wanted to admit it.

"Fine." She shrugged. "But you stay out of my way."

He nodded agreeably. Not that he had any intention of doing what she asked. Where was the fun in that? "Will we be picking up Peabody?"

"She's off. She had a date."

"Ah. With McNab?"

Eve felt her appetite take an abrupt nosedive. "She doesn't date McNab." At Roarke's look of surprise, she stubbornly stuffed more stew in her mouth. "Look, maybe, in some alternate universe far, far away, they have sex. But they're not dating. That's it."

"Darling, there comes a time, however sad for Mum, when the children must leave home."

"Shut up." She jabbed her spoon at him. "I mean it. They are not dating," she insisted, and polished off her stew.

Some might have called Ian McNab's ramshackle apartment on the Lower West Side an alternate universe. It was a guy's space, badly decorated, heavy on the sports memorabilia, and scattered with dirty dishes.

While he did, occasionally, think to stuff some of the worst of the debris in some dusty closet when female company was expected, it was a long way from the sumptuous space of Roarke's home, and it smelled a great deal like overcooked veggie hash. But it worked for him.

At the moment, with his heart stuttering and his skin slick from sex, it worked just fine.

"Jesus, Peabody." He flopped over on his back, much like a landed trout. He didn't bother to gasp for air. He had a lush, naked woman in his bed. He could die a happy man. "We had to break a record that time. We ought to be writing this down."

She lay where she was, stunned as she always was when she found herself in this situation with Ian McNab. "I can't feel my feet."

Obligingly he propped himself on his elbow, but as they'd ended up crosswise on the bed, he couldn't see past her knees. She had, he noted, really cute knees. "I don't think I bit them off. I'd remember." But with a grunt, he scooted down, just to be sure. "They're there, all right, both of them."

"Good. I'm going to need them later."

As the shock wore off, she blinked, stared at McNab's pretty profile, and wondered, not for the first time, when she'd lost her mind.