In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

she could for a little while push everything outside but this.
    "Were you changing clothes?" she asked against his mouth.
    "I was. Ummm. A little more of that," he murmured and nipped at her bottom lip until she shivered.
    "Well, I think it's a waste of time." To prove it, she slipped her hands between their bodies and unbuttoned his trousers.
    "You're absolutely right." He pressed the release on her shoulder holster and shoved it aside. "I love disarming you, Lieutenant."
    In a quick move that had his brow arching, she twisted and had him pressed against the closet door. "I don't need a weapon to take you, pal."
    "Prove it."
    He was already hard when her hand curled around him. The blue of his eyes deepened with dark, dangerous lights flickering in them.
    "You haven't been wearing your gloves again."
    She smiled, sliding her chilly fingers up and down the length of him. "Is that a complaint?"
    "No, indeed." His breath was clogging. Of all the women he'd known she was the only one who could leave him breathless with so little effort. He skimmed his hands up to cup her breasts, rubbed his thumbs gently over the nipples before unfastening the buttons of her shirt.
    He wanted her under him.
    "Come to bed."
    "What's wrong with here?" She lowered her head, bit his shoulder. "What's wrong with now?"
    "Not a thing." This time he moved fast, hooking a foot behind hers to throw her off balance, then tumbling with her to the floor. "But I've a mind to take you instead of the other way around."
    His mouth clamped on her breast, sucking hard. Words strangled in her throat, images exploded in her brain, and her hips arched to him.
    He knew her, better, he often thought, than she knew herself. She needed heat, the potent flood of it, to drown out whatever was troubling her mind. Heat he could give her, and he would pleasure them both with wave after wave.
    She was thin. The weight she'd lost during her recovery couldn't be spared on her slim frame and had yet to be put back in place. But he knew she didn't want gentle strokes now. So he drove her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, until her breath was ragged and her heart slammed against his seeking mouth and hands.
    She writhed under him, her hands in his hair fisted tight, her breasts bared for him with the long tear-shaped diamond he'd once given her resting in the shallow valley between.
    He licked his way down her torso, over ribs, along the firm, flat belly, scraping teeth against the narrow line of hip as she began to buck. He tugged her trousers lower, exposing the soft curls between her thighs.
    When he swept his tongue over her, into her, the orgasm struck like a lightning bolt. Blood pumped under her skin, brought a dew of sweat to the surface. She was half in, half out of the closet, surrounded by the scent of him, trapped in it and glorying.
    She felt his fingers dig into her hips, lifting her, spreading her, taking her. Her own helpless moan echoed as he urged her up again. And flying, there was nothing left inside her but the driving need to mate.
    She reached for him, panting his name as her hands slid off his shoulders, around his back, as her legs lifted to hook around his waist.
    He glided into her, one smooth stroke of homecoming. His body shuddered once as she tightened around him, trapped him as she was trapped. His mouth crushed down on hers, feeding there as her hips began to pump.
    Fast and hard, with their eyes on each other now. Thrust, retreat, and thrust, breathing each other's air. Closer, still closer with the good, solid slap of flesh against flesh.
    She watched his eyes go opaque an instant before he rammed himself home. Her body erupted, shattered beneath his. When he lowered his head, pressed his face to her throat, she once more turned hers into his hair. Once more breathed in his scent.
    "It's good to be home," he murmured.
    She had her shower, her glass of wine, then what she considered the ultimate in decadence: dinner in bed with her husband.
    "Tell me about it." He waited until she'd relaxed, until she'd eaten. Now he poured her another glass of wine and watched the shadows come back into her eyes.
    "I don't want to bring my work home."
    "Why not?" He smiled, refilled his own glass. "I do."
    "It's different."
    "Eve." He skimmed a finger over the slight dent in her chin. "We are, both of us, very much defined by what we do for a living. You don't -- you can't leave your work outside the door any more than I can. It's inside you."
    She leaned back