In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

She would let him believe he had the control, let him take and take until he thought them both sated. She arched, offering herself to that greedy mouth, and absorbed every shattering thrill.
     
     
And when she felt him brace to plunge inside her, she rolled-quick as a snake-and reversed their positions. Now her hands cuffed his wrists, and her body pinned his.
     
     
"What's your hurry?"
     
     
His eyes were madly blue, his breath in tatters. "Christ, Eve."
     
     
"You'll just have to wait till I'm done with you."
     
     
Her mouth crushed down on his.
     
     
His system was one raw nerve, and she scraped pleasure over it without mercy. His skin was slick with sweat, his heart a painful hammer blow against his ribs, his blood already screaming in his ears. And still she used him.
     
     
He heard himself say her name again, again, then lost his own words in a frantic spate of Gaelic that might have been prayers, might have been curses.
     
     
When she rose over him, her skin gleaming in the last red lights of the dying sun, he was beyond any speech.
     
     
Now her fingers linked with his, and she took him in.
     
     
She bowed back, her body a slim and lovely arch of energy, and it shuddered, shuddered, as his did. Then she shifted her gaze, fixed her eyes on his. And rode.
     
     
He lost his senses, lost his mind as she drove him. Sensations pounded him, too hard, too fast for any defense. As his vision dimmed, he could see her face, and those dark eyes focused so intently on him.
     
     
Then he went blind as the pleasure shot through him, a hot bullet, and he emptied himself into her.
     
     
They were both still quivering when she slid down to collapse in a sweaty heap beside him on the floor. He could hear, as the roaring in his ears began to subside, her wheezing gasps for air.
     
     
It was good to know he wasn't the only one who'd been knocked breathless.
     
     
"It's gone dark," he managed.
     
     
"Your eyes are closed."
     
     
He blinked, just to make sure. "No. It's dark."
     
     
She grunted, and still wheezing, flipped to her back. "Oh yeah, it is."
     
     
"Funny, with all the beds in this house how often we end up on the floor."
     
     
"It's more spontaneous, and primitive." She shifted to rub her butt. "And harder."
     
     
"It's all of that. Should I thank you for doing your wifely duty?"
     
     
"I object to any term that contains the word 'wifely,' but you can thank me for fucking your brains out."
     
     
"Yes, indeed." His heart was still knocking, but he nearly had his wind back. "Thanks for that."
     
     
"No problem." She stretched, luxuriously. "I've got to go grab a shower, and put in some time on the case I caught today." She waited two full beats. "Maybe you'd like to give me a hand."
     
     
He said nothing for a moment, just continued to contemplate the ceiling. "I must have looked fairly pitiful when you came home. I get sweaty, burn up the carpet sex, and now you voluntarily decide to ask me for help on a case. What would be another word for 'wifely'?"
     
     
"Just watch it, pal."
     
     
When she sat up, he ran a hand affectionately up her back. "Darling Eve. I'd be happy to give you a hand in the shower, but then I've got some work of my own to see to. This business today's put me behind. But maybe you could tell me about it before we go our separate ways for the next couple hours."
     
     
"College girl, part-time clerk at a 24/7," she began as she rose to gather up scattered clothes. "Somebody killed her with a single stab to the heart late last night, and crammed her body into a recycle bin on Delancey, across from where she worked."
     
     
"Cold."
     
     
"It gets colder."
     
     
She told him of the images, the tip to Nadine, as they went upstairs to shower. It helped, she'd discovered, to run through the steps and stages of a case out loud, particularly with an audience who picked up on the nuances.
     
     
Roarke never missed a nuance.
     
     
"Someone she knew, and trusted," he said.
     
     
"Almost has to be. She didn't put up a fight."
     
     
"Someone who blends at the college," he added, grabbing a towel. "So if he or she was seen loitering, nothing would be thought of it."
     
     
"He-or she-is careful." Out of habit, she stepped into the drying tube and let the warm air swirl. "Methodical," she added, raising her voice. "Tidy. A planner. Mira's going to tell me, when she profiles, that the killer probably holds a job, pays bills in a timely fashion,