J Robb - Imitation in Death

There wasIreland in his voice, dreamy wisps of it that could, unexpectedly, wind around her heart. He set the cat aside, and walked over to tip up her chin. Rubbed his thumb in the shallow dent in its center.

“I heard about what happened inChinatown. That’s what pulled you out of bed so early this morning.”

“Yeah. She’s mine. Just clearing my head before I get back to it again.”

“All right.” He touched his lips to hers. “You want a swim, then?”

“Eventually.” She rolled her shoulders to loosen them up. “Hand-to-hand’s next up. I was going to use the droid, but since you’re here…”

“Want to fight with me, do you?”

“You’re better than the droid.” She stepped back, began to circle him. “Marginally.”

“And to think some men come home after a day of work and are greeted by their woman.” He rolled up to his toes, and back, glad he’d changed with the idea of a workout. “A smile, a kiss, perhaps a cold drink.” His grin flashed. “How tedious for them.”

She lunged, he countered.

She kicked out, her foot coming within a half-inch of his face. He slapped it away, then swept her standing leg out from under her. She went down, rolled, and was up again in seconds.

“Not bad,” she acknowledged, and scored a hit mid-body before their forearms slapped together in a block. “But I was holding back.”

“Can’t have that.”

She came in on a spin-left hook, right cross-that would have knocked his head back if she’d connected. His backhand stopped a hairbreadth from her nose.

With the droid, she’d have pounded and gotten pounded in return. But this-the demand for control-was more challenging. And a hell of a lot more fun.

She got under his guard, flipped him, but when she leaped on the mat to pin him, he was already up again. She had to somersault aside, and came up just enough off balance to give him the opening.

Her breath whooshed out as she hit the mat, flat on her back, with his weight pinning her.

She stared up into his eyes as she got her wind back, lifting a hand so she could trail her fingers through the wonderful mane of black hair that nearly hit his shoulders.

“Roarke,” she murmured, and with a little sigh, tugged his hair to bring his lips to hers.

And when he relaxed, started to sink into her, she scissored her legs, arched, and flipped him over.

She was looking in his eyes again, and grinning as she pressed the point of her elbow lightly to his throat. “Sucker.”

“I do tend to fall for that one, don’t I? Well then, it appears you’ve taken this-” He broke off, winced.

“What? You hurt?”

“No. Just must’ve jammed my shoulder a bit.” He rotated it, winced again.

“Let me take a look.” She eased back, shifting her weight.

And found herself flat on her back under him again.

“Sucker,” he said and laughed when her eyes went to slits.

“Foul.”

“No more foul than the seductive murmur of my name. You’re down, darling.” He touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “Well pinned.” His fingers linked with hers as he held her hands down. “Now I’m going to have you.”

“You think?”

“I do.Victor, spoils, all that. Not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he asked with his mouth rubbing hers.

“Who says I lost?” She arched her hips. “Like I said, you’re better than the droid.” She arched again. “Touch me.”

“I will. Let’s start with this.”

His mouth came down on hers, warm and soft, sliding her into the kiss, deepening it until, once again, she lost her breath.

“It’s never quite enough,” he whispered, trailing his lips over her face, down her throat. “Never will be.”

“There’s always more.”

So he took more, skimming those lips, scraping his teeth over the swell of her breasts beneath the loose cotton T-shirt.

Her heart began to thud, anticipation. Her fingers curled tighter against the ones that held her hands prisoner. She didn’t try to free herself, not yet. Here, too, was control. His and hers. And trust. Absolute.

When he drew her hands down to her waist, roamed with that busy mouth over her torso, she braced herself for the onslaught of pleasure.

Her skin was already damp, her muscles taut. He loved the feel of them, hard and strong, under all that smooth skin. He loved the lines of her, and the subtle, almost delicate curves.

He released her hands, then drew the shorts down. With a slight frown, he traced a fingertip over her thigh. “You’ve a bruise here. You’re always coming up with bruises.”

“Hazard of the job.”

She faced worse hazards, they both knew. He lowered his head, touched his lips lightly to the faint discoloration.

Amused, she stroked his hair. “Don’t worry, Mom. It doesn’t hurt.”

The laugh caught in her throat as his mouth got to work.

Her hand fisted in his hair now, and her other hand dug into the mat as her system shot from rest to revved. A shockwave of heat, a stunning ache that gathered in a fist of pressure, then imploded inside her.

“Teach you to call me mum,” he said, and nipped lightly at her thigh while she shuddered.

She got her breath back, whistled it out again. “Mom,” she repeated, and made him laugh.

He wrapped his arms around her so they rolled, playfully now. Hands sliding over flesh, tugging off clothes, lips meeting for nibbles or longer tastes.

She felt free and careless, and foolishly in love as she held him against her. Easy enough to laugh even as her body quaked, to rub her cheek against his in innocent affection even as he slid into her.

“Looks like I’ve pinned you again.”

“How long do you think you can keep me down?”

“Another challenge, is it?” His breath was backed up in his lungs, but he moved slowly, watching her watch him.

With long, smooth, almost lazy strokes he urged her up again until he saw her eyes begin to blur, and the flush deepen in her cheeks. And then heard her low sound, that helpless sound, of pleasure.

“There’s always more,” he said and captured her lips with his again and let himself fly with her.

They ate in the dining room at Roarke’s suggestion that they have a meal like people who have lives outside their professions. The remark was pointed enough to haveEve checking her intention of grabbing a burger at her desk in her home office. But her initial enjoyment of the crab salad was spoiled by his reminder that they had plans the following evening.

“Charity dinner dance,” he prompted when she stared blankly. “ Philadelphia. We need to make an appearance.” He sipped his wine and smiled at her. “Not to worry, darling. It won’t hurt very much, and we won’t have to leave until after seven. If you’re running late, you can change on the shuttle.”

She poked sulkily at chilled crab. “Did I know about this?”

“You did. And if you ever glanced at your personal calendar, you wouldn’t so often be surprised and appalled by these little obligations.”

“I’m not appalled.” Dinner, dancing. Fancy outfit, fancy people. God. “It’s just that if something breaks at work-”

“Understood.”

She bit back a sigh because it was true. He understood. She heard enough comments from other cops about spouses or lovers who didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t, to appreciate it.

And she knew she wasn’t nearly as flexible and understanding about the role she had to play as the wife of one of the richest and most influential men on or off planet.

She stabbed more crab and made an effort to pull her marital weight. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It might actually be fun. Sunday promises to be.”