In Death 13 - Seduction in Death

herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.
    Gently, his lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue. And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at her breast.
    She smelled of her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to. So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the heat.
    She drifted on a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let herself sink into it.
    She heard him murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred. It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.
    "What does it mean?" Her voice was sleepy.
    "My heart. You're my heart."
    He traced a line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He rubbed his lips over her belly.
    The muscles quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.
    Still he took his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan, until that tough, toned body trembled.
    When he took her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.
    And the sea where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.
    Desperate now, he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses. Maddening himself even as he maddened her. "Go up. Go up." Breath heaving, he drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. "I want to watch you. Again."
    "God!" Her eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.
    As she shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside her.
    Her eyes cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.
    When her pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away the tear that spilled down her cheek.
    "My heart," he said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.
    She lay with her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day. "Roarke."
    "Hmm? You should sleep for a bit."
    "I don't have the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most."
    "I know what they are." He toyed with the ends of her hair. "Turn your mind off, Eve, and rest a while."
    She shook her head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she thought, and still be hers?
    "Say what you said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you."
    He smiled. Took her hand. "You'll never pronounce it."
    "Yes, I will."
    Still smiling, he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and repeated the words.
    She saw emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. "You undo me, Eve."
    He sat up, dropped his brow against hers. "Thank God for you," he murmured in a voice gone raw. "Thank God for you."
    She refused to sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat cross-legged on the sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
    The combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.
    "Morano broke down in interview," she began.
    "I'd put it that you broke him down," Roarke corrected. "I watched you." And had seen the way she'd stared into the glass. Into herself. "He wouldn't have known how difficult it was for you."
    "Not so difficult, because I knew I'd break him. I didn't know you