Golden in Death(33)

Roarke is in the dojo.

She decided on some martial arts instead of the swim, and changed into yoga pants, a sports bra.

She took the elevator down, slipped into the dojo to see Roarke in a classic black gi, working with the hologram of the master. His movements managed to be both flowing and powerful as he executed the complex kata.

A battle dance, Eve thought, precise, disciplined. She could hear the crack of the gi with the elbow jab, the side kick. And see, in the quiet light he’d chosen, the faint sheen of sweat on his face.

The master might have stood quiet as the light, his hands folded, his face inscrutable, but he pushed you to work, and work hard.

She still considered the gift of the dojo, the lessons both live and holographic, the best Christmas present ever.

When the kata ended, and Roarke shot out his fists in salute, the master nodded.

“Your form and focus are good, show improvement. There is room for more improvement. You require more time and practice to reach your true potential.”

“You’re not wrong.” Roarke walked over, grabbed a towel to mop his face. “But I’m grateful, Master, for the time I have under your instruction. Program end.”

He started to reach for his water bottle, spotted Eve.

“Not bad,” she said as she moved into the dojo. “How long were you at it?”

“I gave it thirty, as my cop wasn’t yet home.”

“Now she is, and you should be pretty warmed up.” She planted her feet, fisted her hands, saluted.

“Seriously?”

With a smirk, she repeated the salute.

“Bloody hell.” He gulped down some water, set the bottle aside. And, moving back to her, returned the salute.

They both crouched into a fighting stance.

She went straight at him, spinning into a chest-high kick, coupled with a backfist. He blocked, would have swept her legs out from under her if she hadn’t been quick and agile.

Their forearms slammed together on the next block, but she whipped in a fist that stopped a breath from his face.

“My point,” she said as they stepped back.

They circled.

He feinted; she blocked, and barely avoided his follow-up. He went under her fist, pivoted, slapped away the jump kick, shifted his weight. And his foot from a side kick stopped just short of her midsection.

“And that would be my point.”

Circling, striking, she crouched into a snake pose, lured him in. Flipped back, used the pump of her arms to shoot her legs up.

“Must you always go for the face?”

She smiled. “It’s so pretty I can’t resist. My point.”

After five sweaty minutes, though she nearly took him down on the move, he scored with a backfist.

She could hear his breath laboring a bit, as hers was, over the soothing tinkle of the waterfall.

When he moved, she saw his guard drop slightly, sprang into a flying kick. Her point.

But he was also agile and quick, reengaged. She blocked, pivoted. And she spun back to find his fist a breath from her face.

“My point.”

Before she could step back, he grabbed her.

“And I’m calling a draw.”

“Maybe I’m not done yet.”

“I didn’t say anything about being done, did I now?”

She knew that look, answered with one of her own. “Seriously?”

And with a smirk, he took her mouth.

Well, what the hell, she decided, and tugged at the knot of his black belt. Before she could finish, he hauled her up and over his shoulder.

“What?”

Carting her over, he dumped her on a mat. “Might as well have a soft landing,” he said as he dropped down to pin her.

“I’m not looking for soft.”

Still a little winded, he laughed, then yanked off her sports bra. “I am.”

He took her breasts with his hands, his mouth, and let himself revel in the taste, the feel of her skin, damp from the fight.

Evenly matched, he thought as she tugged his hair free of the leather strap he’d used to tie it out of the way. As she fisted her hands in it, arched up.

The sparring had been foreplay; they both knew it. Quick and agile both, they stripped each other.

He slipped inside her, into the wet and the heat.

They moved together, watched each other as damp flesh met, as hard and soft joined. Slow and easy now, the fight done. Just pleasure, all pleasure with the sound of water gently striking water, the sound of breath mixing, of hearts beating.

He felt her rise up, heard her sigh deep as she slid over. Pressing his lips to her throat where her pulse beat for him, he went with her.

Loose, warm, and oh so very soft, she lay under him with her hand stroking his back.

“That worked,” she murmured.

“I should hope so.”

“Well, yeah, that always works. I meant the whole deal. A good, sweaty fight, some good sex. I had paperwork brain, and now it’s all cleared up.”

“Cleared my own of a similar thing with the session.” Lightly, he nipped at her jaw. “But I liked parts two and three much better.”

“How about a few laps for part four?”

“I wouldn’t mind a swim.” He eased back to study her face. “You didn’t close it.”

“No, but we’re working an angle. It feels like it might be pretty solid.”