In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

tugged off her shirt, then the little scoop-necked tank beneath. Naked as a newborn, she raced to the sea and dived under the waves.
    "I intend to," he murmured, and watched her strike out, always just a little too far for safety, before he undressed.
    She swam like an eel, fast and fearless. For a time he paced himself to her, a companionable competition. Then he simply heeled over on his back to float in the current, to let the water, the sun, the moment, wash away the fatigue that had nagged at him.
    And to wait for her.
    She swam up beside him, treaded water. "Feel better?"
    "Considerably."
    "You looked tired before." And she wanted to stroke that fatigue away. "You hardly ever do."
    "I was tired before."
    She let her fingers tangle in his hair. "You get your second wind, I'll race you back to shore."
    He had his eyes closed and kept them that way. "Who says I don't have a second wind?"
    "Well, you're just floating there like flotsam. Or maybe it's jetsam. I never know which is which."
    "I've heard, in some circles, this is called relaxing. But..." His arm sneaked under the water, then around her. "Since you have all this energy to spare."
    "Hey." She laughed a little as their legs tangled. "We're way over our heads here."
    "Just the way I like it." His mouth came to hers, wet and teasing. His arm drew her close against him.
    And they went under.
    Warm, clear water, with the sun dancing on the surface. His mouth soft on hers, his body firm. For both of them, she let herself go, sliding deeper into the liquid blue. Sliding deeper into the kiss. When they surfaced, she filled her lungs and pressed her cheek against his.
    They let the water rock them, a steady, undulating rhythm that reflected the mood. Here, with light strokes over wet skin, was the tenderness they'd both needed. The brush of his lips on her shoulder made her smile and let her float on sensation as easily as she floated in the sea.
    She turned her face to his, found his mouth again, and drugged herself on the taste of him.
    They drifted lazily toward shore, rising up on the waves, sinking again, clinging together, drawing apart only far enough to touch.
    When she felt sand beneath her feet, she stood in the waist-high water and watched his face as he traced his fingertips over her.
    "I love the look of you, darling Eve. The way you look under my hands."
    Her breasts, small and firm, cupped neatly in his palms, seemed to heat as he captured them. Water sparkled over her skin, tiny diamonds that turned to tears and melted back into the blue.
    "Give yourself to me." His fingers trailed down her torso, over her hips. "Go under for me." And slid into her.
    She let out her breath on a sigh, caught it again on a moan. Pleasure, languid, liquid, lapped at her senses. The sun dazzled her eyes until all she could see was blue. He dazzled her body until all she could feel was bliss.
    Even as that pleasure swamped her, as her knees buckled from the thrill of it, the wave crashed over them, stealing her breath and sweeping them closer to shore.
    He rolled in it with her, felt her release crest, her body tremble while the water sucked them down, tossed them free again. She was locked around him -- trust, need, invitation -- everything he wanted as they lay tangled together in the surf.
    He took her mouth again, still patient, though the need had begun to throb through him like a restless heart. He skimmed his lips down her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, while her hands stroked, aroused, urged.
    The water streamed over them, receded, and to its constant, endless beat, he filled her, moved with her. Dreamily, with that pulse matching his own, he watched her head arch back as the crest took her again.
    "Roarke." Her voice was husky with passion, her breath already quickening again. "Give yourself to me. Go under for me."
    Love swamped him; more than need, it gushed through him, took his air, his heart, his thoughts. And with his eyes on hers, still and always on hers, he let himself drown.
    The hour had to end. But she wouldn't feel guilty for taking it. Dry, dressed, standing in her office, she fully intended to brief Roarke and scan his readout of the security system at Purgatory.
    Feeney would take a closer look at it, she thought, and coordinate with Roarke on that end. She'd station herself in Control, where she could oversee the club, monitor the moves, supervise all members of the team.
    And be ready for any move Ricker might make.
    "He knew my