In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

quickened.
    She'd been wrong, she realized. The rage in him wasn't ready to cool, and wouldn't be quenched with gentle strokes and quiet sighs. It was heat that would smother heat.
    Watching him, she hit the release on her weapon harness, let it slide to the floor behind her. Watching him, she unbuttoned her shirt, shrugged it off. Beneath she wore a thin cotton tank, dipping low. She saw his gaze shift down, felt her nipples throb as if his mouth had already claimed them.
    But he didn't touch her. Knew the moment he did, the chain would break and he'd ravish. Devour, he thought, furious with himself, when she was offering him comfort. He gathered himself, touched a hand lightly to her cheek.
    "Let me take you to bed."
    She smiled, and there was nothing comforting about it. "Let's take each other." She stretched up, stripping the tank over her head and tossing it aside. "Right here."
    She fisted her hands in his hair, curved her body to his, sliding flesh to flesh. "Put your hands on me," she demanded, then crushed her mouth to his.
    His control snapped. In one violent move she was under him, pinned. He fed on her, filling himself, swallowing each ragged breath. He put his hands on her, taking greedily, recklessly driving her to that first frantic peak.
    And when she cried out, he took more.
    His mouth closed over her breast, teeth nipping tiny, delicious pains into sensitive flesh. The thrill of it drummed through her so that she arched up, urging him on, digging her nails into his back. She twisted under him, her hands searching, her mouth seeking. Their needs matched, desperation for desperation. And their limbs tangled as they fought with clothes.
    Sweat-sleeked flesh.
    With that savage rage whipping through him, he could think of nothing but her. Of mate. The long, agile length of her. The curves and dips of her that miraculously fit against him. The pale, beautifully delicate skin that rode so smoothly over hard muscle. The taste of that skin when the heat of passion bloomed over it.
    More. All, was all he could think while his blood burned.
    She was hot, so hot and wet when his fingers stroked into her. Smooth and tight as her hips pumped. He wanted, needed, to see her come, needed to feel it, to know when her system exploded, everything she was, was his.
    Her body arched, a tight little bridge of sensation. Her breath tore out into a sob. She poured into his hand.
    Still, he couldn't stop, gave her no chance to slide gently down again. Instead he drove her ruthlessly, rushing up her body with teeth and tongue.
    When his mouth was on hers, when he could feel her about to shatter yet again, he plunged into her, knocking her over the edge with that first rough stroke.
    And still he thought: More.
    Even as she shuddered, he shoved her knees up and went deeper inside her. His vision blurred, but through the red haze of lust he could see her eyes. Deep, dark, glazed like glass to throw his own reflection back at him.
    "I'm inside you." He panted it out as he pushed them both to madness. "Everything I am. Body, heart, mind."
    She struggled through layers of pleasure to say the one thing he needed. Her hands wrapped around his wrists to hold the beat of his blood. "Let go. I'll stay with you."
    He pressed his face to her hair, let both heart and mind go, and let body rule them both.
    Eve wasn't sure how much time had passed before her brain cleared enough to allow a clear thought through. But when she managed to remember her name, Roarke was still pinning her to the cushions. His heart continued to gallop against hers, but his body was very still.
    She stroked her hand down his back, gave him an affectionate pat on the butt. "I think I'm probably going to need to breathe sometime within the next ten or fifteen minutes."
    He lifted his head, then considerately propped himself on his elbows. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly curved, her eyes half-closed. "You look pretty pleased with yourself."
    "Why shouldn't I? I'm pretty pleased with you, too."
    He leaned down just enough to touch his lips to the dent in her chin. "Thank you."
    "You don't have to thank me for sex. We're married."
    "Not for the sex, though that was worthy of a few cheers. For understanding me. For, let's say, tending to me."
    "I've had a lot of practice on the other side of it." She reached up, brushed the hair from his brow. "Feeling better?"
    "Yes." He shifted, and as he sat up drew her with him. "Let me just hold this for a minute," he