In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

for him.
    She knew what it would be like. Overwhelming, unsettling. Glorious. She'd come to crave each separate sensation he could bring her, to crave the feel of him against her the way she did air or water.
    Without thinking of it, and unable to survive without it.
    There was nothing she couldn't give, or take, when their bodies came together. Sunk deep in the feather bed she met his mouth eagerly, reveling in the slow burn of her blood. Sighing, she tugged at his shirt, helping him shrug it aside so flesh could meet flesh.
    The long and lovely slide of it. A slow roll, a low moan. The silk of the petals, the satin of the spread, the ripple of muscle under her hands -- all tangled together in an exotic mix of textures.
    The quick, bounding leap of the heart. A delicious shiver, a soft sigh. The flicker of candlelight, the spill of the moon, the shifting shimmer from the fire melded into one sumptuous glow.
    She tasted and was tasted. She touched and was touched. Aroused and was aroused. And trembled her way up the long curve of a peak as smooth as polished silver.
    He felt her rise up, shudder, then slide lazily down again. Their limbs tangled as they rolled over the bed, to touch again, to adjust the fit of bodies. He could see the lights flicker over her face, her hair, in her eyes, the rich brandy of them. Eyes he could watch go glassy as he nudged her, inch by inch, toward that peak again.
    Her hands, strong, capable, and beautifully familiar, moved over him, a grip, a caress. Quiet sounds of pleasure hummed in her throat, sighed into his mouth, whispered over his skin.
    His breath began to quicken, and need became a thunder in the blood. Warmth turned to heat and heat to a dangerous flash.
    Then she was rising over him, her body slim and silvered in the shift of light and shadow. Her moan was long, a throaty sound of greed as she lowered to him, enclosed him, took him in. When his fingers dug into her hips, she arched back into a gleaming curve, rocking, rocking, with her eyes golden brown slits, her breath rushing between parted lips.
    She tightened around him when the orgasm slashed through her, then curled into him when he reared up, when his mouth fixed hungrily on her breast.
    Lost now, captured, he pushed her back so both her mind and body went spinning. And he drove into her, one wild animal thrust after another, with a sudden pounding greed that ripped her past control. Her fingers wrapped around the thin, curving tubes of the headboard, gripping hard as if to anchor herself, a scream of mindless pleasure strangling in her throat as he pushed her knees back to go deeper.
    When her body erupted beneath him, his mouth swooped down to hers. And he let himself go.
    She was covered with rose petals and nothing else. Those slim, disciplined muscles were as lax as the melted candlewax pooled fragrantly beneath the white tapers.
    As her breathing slowed to normal, Roarke nibbled at her shoulder, then he rose to get the robe and draped it over her.
    Her response was a grunt.
    Both amused and pleased that that was the best she could do, he moved to the far corner of the room and ordered the jet tub to fill at one hundred and one degrees. He popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, set it back in its bucket of ice, then snatched his limp wife off the bed.
    "I wasn't asleep." She said it quickly and with the slurred tone that told him that's just what she'd been.
    "You'll blame me in the morning if I let you sleep and you don't do your probability scan." With this, he dumped her in the hot, frothing water.
    She yelped once, then moaned in sheer, sensual delight. "Oh God. I want to live here, right here in this tub, for about a week."
    "Arrange for some time off and we'll go to the Alps for real and you can soak in a tub until you turn into one big pink wrinkle."
    It was exactly what he wanted -- to take her away, to see that she was completely healed and recovered. And he imagined he had as much chance of doing so as he had of convincing her to kiss Summerset on the mouth.
    The image of that even made him grin.
    "Joke?" she asked lazily.
    "Oh, it would be a delightful one." He handed her a flute and, taking his own, climbed in to join her.
    "I have to get to work."
    "I know." He let out a long breath. "Ten minutes."
    The combination of hot water and icy champagne was just too good to refuse. "You know, before you, my breaks used to consist of a cup of bad coffee and a... a cup of bad coffee," she decided.
    "I