She pulled him down to her, steeped herself in the heat of it, the sizzle of blood, the fever of lips. So good to touch him, to feel the shape of him, to have his weight pressing on her. Lust and love were a glorious tangle in her system, and all of it was coated with simple happiness.
He was with her again.
He nipped his way down her throat, filling himself on the flavor of her skin. Of all of his appetites, his for her was the only one never quite sated. He could have her and still want her. And those days and nights without her, jammed with work and obligations, had still been empty.
Drawing her up, he dragged off her harness, shoving it aside, opening her shirt while her teeth, her lips, her hands wrought havoc on him, in him. He cupped her breasts through the thin tank she wore, watched her face as his thumbs teased her nipples.
He loved her eyes, the shape of them, the rich brandy color, and the way they stayed on his even when she began to tremble.
She lifted her arms, and he tugged the tank up, off. Then took her- warm, soft, firm-into his mouth. She gathered him closer, purring in her throat, arching her back to offer more. He took, she took, peeling and pulling away clothes so flesh could find flesh. As he worked his way down her, exploring, it was his name that purred in her throat.
Need gathered in her, a fist of excited pleasure that seemed to punch through her so that she moaned and shuddered on the release. Only to gather again, harder and tighter, until her fingers dug into him urging him up, drawing him back to her. Into her.
Her hips lifted and fell, a silky rhythm that bound them together, that quickened even as hearts quickened.
Deeper, he sank deeper into her, losing himself as he only could with her. And the sweetness of it followed him over.
When his lips pressed to her shoulder, she stroked his hair. It was good to drift on this quiet, this contentment. She often thought of these as stolen moments, a kind of perfection that helped her-maybe helped them both-survive the ugliness the world shoved at them day
after day.
"Did you get everything done?" she asked him.
Lifting his head, he grinned down at her. "You tell me."
"I meant with work." Amused, she gave him a little poke.
"Enough to keep us in fish and chips for a bit. Speaking of which, I'm starving. And by the heft of that data bag you hauled in, I'd say the chances of our eating in bed and having another round for dessert are slim."
"Sorry."
"No need." He bent his head to kiss her, light and easy. "Why don't we have a meal in your office, and you can tell me about what's in
that bag."
She could count on him for that, Eve thought as she pulled on loose pants and an ancient NYPSD sweatshirt. Not just to tolerate her work, the horrible hours, the mental distraction of it, but to get it. And to help whenever she asked.
Well, whenever she didn't ask, too.
There'd been a time-most of the first year of their marriage, actually-when she'd struggled to keep him out of it a great deal of the time. Unsuccessfully. But it wasn't simply the lack of success that had eased her toward using him on cases.
The man thought like a cop. Must be the flip side of the criminal mind, she decided. The fact was, she often thought like the criminal. How else did you get into their heads and stop them?
She'd married a man with a dark past, a clever mind, and more resources than the International Security Council. Why waste what was under your nose?
So they set up in her home office, one Roarke had outfitted for her to resemble the apartment where she'd once lived. It was just that sort of thinking-of knowing what would make her most comfortable- that had made her a goner almost from the moment they'd met.
"What'll it be, Lieutenant? Does the case you're working on call for red meat?"
"I'm thinking fish and chips." She shrugged when he laughed. "You put it in my head."
"Fish and chips it is, then." He moved into her kitchen while she organized the data discs and files out of her bag. "Who's dead?"
"Wilfred B. Icove-doctor and saint."
"I heard that on the way home. I wondered if he'd be yours." He came back with a couple of plates, steam rising from the fried cod and chipped potatoes, fresh from the AutoChef. "I knew him a bit."
"I thought you might. He lived in one of your buildings."