J. Robb - Seduction In Death

"It's deadly. Neither of us may make it out alive."

Inside the elevator, he pressed her back against the wall. Felt the strength of her – and the yielding. "Master bedroom," he ordered, then ravaged her mouth. "I live for danger. Tell me more."

"It involves a lot of physical exertion. Timing…" Her breath clogged when his teeth found her throat. "Rhythm, coordination has to be perfect."

"Working on it," he managed and swung her out of the elevator into the bedroom.

The cat, stretched across the bed like a fat, furry rag, leaped up with a hissing complaint when they dropped onto the mattress beside him. Roarke reached out, gave him a light shove that sent him jumping down with a thud.

"This is no place for civilians."

With a snort of laughter, Eve locked her arms tight around him. "Naked." She raced kisses over his face. "Get naked. I want to sink my teeth into you."

Tugging at clothes, they rolled over the bed. Her shirt tangled in her weapon harness, making her curse breathlessly as she fought free of both. Their mouths met again, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues that had the blood rushing hot through her veins and her body plunging under his.

She tugged at his shirt, yanking it down from his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into that hard ripple of muscle and test strength to strength.

But he caught her hands in his, drew her arms over her head. Stared down at her with those depthless blue eyes until her own muscles began to quake.

"I love you. Darling Eve. Mine." He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, soft kiss that turned those trembling muscles to water.

His mouth left hers to skim along her jaw, down the column of her throat. He would know, she thought as her heart shuddered. He would know she needed more than the flash and the fire. She needed the sweet and the simple.

She relaxed and drew it in.

He felt her open, surrender herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.

Gently, his lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue. And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at her breast.

She smelled of her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to. So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the heat.

She drifted on a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let herself sink into it.

She heard him murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred. It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.

"What does it mean?" Her voice was sleepy.

"My heart. You're my heart."

He traced a line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He rubbed his lips over her belly.

The muscles quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.

Still he took his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan, until that tough, toned body trembled.

When he took her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.

And the sea where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.

Desperate now, he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses. Maddening himself even as he maddened her. "Go up. Go up." Breath heaving, he drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. "I want to watch you. Again."

"God!" Her eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.

As she shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside her.

Her eyes cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.

When her pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away the tear that spilled down her cheek.

"My heart," he said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.

She lay with her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day. "Roarke."

"Hmm? You should sleep for a bit."

"I don't have the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most."

"I know what they are." He toyed with the ends of her hair. "Turn your mind off, Eve, and rest a while."

She shook her head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she thought, and still be hers?

"Say what you said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you."

He smiled. Took her hand. "You'll never pronounce it."

"Yes, I will."

Still smiling, he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and repeated the words.

She saw emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. "You undo me, Eve."

He sat up, dropped his brow against hers. "Thank God for you," he murmured in a voice gone raw. "Thank God for you."

She refused to sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat cross-legged on the sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

The combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.

"Morano broke down in interview," she began.

"I'd put it that you broke him down," Roarke corrected. "I watched you." And had seen the way she'd stared into the glass. Into herself. "He wouldn't have known how difficult it was for you."

"Not so difficult, because I knew I'd break him. I didn't know you were there."

"I was part of the operational team." He twirled a bit of her pasta onto his fork. "And I enjoy watching you work."

"It was a contest to them, and the women game pieces. All I had to do was box Morano into a corner, and game over. The way he sees it, it was Dunwood's fault, and he was just trying to keep up. Bankhead was an accident, Cline didn't die, and McNamara, well that was, in his view, a kind of self-defense. I looked at him, and I didn't see anything calculating or particularly vicious. He's just empty, weak and empty. A kind of – it sounds hokey – void of evil."

"It sounds accurate. Dunwood's a different kettle, isn't he?"

"And then some." She picked up her wineglass, sipped, then leaned over to sample some of Roarke's linguini with clam sauce. "Mine's better," she decided, pleased. "After the session with Renfrew in Whitney's office – "

"What session?" *

"Forgot. I didn't tell you."

So, between mouthfuls of spaghetti and the herbed bread he offered, she did. "I can't believe I practically told Whitney to shut up. He should've slapped me down for it."

"He's a smart man. And a good cop. Renfrew now, he's just the type of cop who made things relatively easy for me. During a past, and regrettable period of my life," he added soberly when she frowned at him. "More ambitious than clever, narrow of view and focus.Lazy."