In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

ready for a bout. Later, she would think Roarke knew her thought process entirely too well.
    He dropped her on the bed, then dived onto her before she could shift into offensive mode. With one hand he handcuffed her wrists and drew her hands over her head.
    She shot him one hot, narrow-eyed look. "I won't go down easy, pal."
    "God, I hope not."
    She scissored her legs, clamped them around his waist, and managed to buck until they rolled. Galahad, who'd been enjoying a nap on the pillow, gave one ferocious hiss and leaped off.
    "Now you've done it." Eve grunted as he rolled on top of her again. "You annoyed the cat."
    "Let him find his own woman," Roarke muttered, then crushed his mouth to Eve's.
    He felt the pulses in her wrists give two quick, hard bumps, felt the head-to-toe shudder her body gave beneath his, but she didn't yield, wasn't ready to, he thought. There were times, he knew, Eve liked a hot, fast war.
    By God, he was in the mood for one himself.
    He bit her bottom lip, triumphing on the moan she couldn't quite swallow. With his free hand he released her weapon harness, tugged it down her shoulder. Then, because he could, because heat was already pouring off her in waves, he hooked a hand in the opening of her shirt and ripped it down the center.
    Now her body strained toward his, demanding, daring, even as she twisted under him in an attempt to evade or take control.
    "Christ, I want you. It's never enough." His mouth clamped onto her breast.
    No, never enough, was her last clear thought. She cried out, her strong body bowing up as those fierce pulls and tugs on her breast vibrated through her like wild music set to a furious beat.
    Heat seemed to roar from her center out.
    Freed, her hands dragged at his shirt, ripping at the silk until she found flesh with her fingers, with her mouth, with her teeth.
    Rolling again, they yanked at clothes, tormented skin with greedy nips and bruising strokes. When she reached for him, closed her fist around him, he was iron hard and smooth as satin.
    "Now, now, now." She arched her hips, and came violently the instant he drove into her.
    He held there, buried deep, panting as he blinked his vision clear to look at her. The fire that blazed in the hearth across the room shot flashes of light and shadow over her face, glinted into her hair, flickered in her eyes, which had gone dark and blind with what they brought to each other.
    "It's me who has you." He drew back, thrust again. "Always." He shifted, lifted her hips with his hands. "Go up again," he demanded and began to destroy her with long, hard strokes.
    She fisted her hands in the bedclothes as if to anchor herself. In the firelight she could see him over her, dark hair gleaming, eyes too blue to be real, muscles sleek, skin pale gold and dewed with sweat.
    Need rose like a flood, and pleasure swamped her. Her vision blurred, turning him into a shadow, gilded at the edges. She heard herself choke out his name as her body shattered.
    "And again." He lowered himself, taking her mouth with his, linking his fingers with hers, pounding his body into hers. "Again," he managed, as his blood rioted. "With me."
    And it was "Eve" he said, just "Eve," when he emptied himself into her.
    She lost track of time as she lay under him, firelight dancing on the ceiling. She wondered vaguely if it could be normal to need someone this much, to love to the point of pain.
    Then he turned his head, his hair brushing her cheek, his lips brushing her throat. And she wondered why she should care.
    "I hope you're satisfied." Her mutter wasn't as snippy as she'd hoped it would be, and she caught herself stroking a hand down his back.
    "Mmmm. I seem to be." He nuzzled her throat again before lifting his head and looking down at her. "It seems to be mutual."
    "I let you win."
    "Oh, I know."
    The twinkle in his eyes had her snorting. "Get off me, you're heavy."
    "Okay." He obliged, then scooped her up again. "Let's take a shower, then we can do the tree."
    "Just what is this obsession you have with trees?"
    "I haven't decorated one in years -- not since Dublin when I lived with Summerset. I want to see if I can still do it." He stepped into the shower with her, and she clamped a hand over his mouth, knowing his baffling preference for cold showers.
    "Water on, at one hundred degrees."
    "Too hot," he mumbled against her hand.
    "Live with it." And she sighed long and deep when the hot water began to pulse out from all directions. "Oh yeah, this