In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

under her eyes, the shadows in them. She looked so pale,-as if he could pass a hand through her, and if he did, she'd vanish like one of his own dreams.
     
     
He didn't have to be told to be gentle, didn't need her long, quiet sigh to know it was.love that would-feed her now.
     
     
"When I came in and you were sleeping, I thought: There's my soldier, exhausted from her wars." He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. "Now, I look, and I think: There's my woman, soft and lovely."
     
     
Her lips curved as he undressed her. "Where do you get this stuff?"
     
     
"It just comes to me. I've only to look at you, and the world comes to me. You're my life."
     
     
She reared up, threw her arms around him. The sob wanted to leap out of her throat, but she feared if she let it out, it would never stop. With her lips pressed to the warm curve of his neck, she rocked. Take me away, she silently begged. Oh God, take me away, just for a little while..
     
     
As if he heard her, he began to stroke. Gently, to soothe, to comfort. Whatever he crooned quieted her troubled- soul until she relaxed in his arms, and let him lead the way.
     
     
His lips were soft, soft and warm when they found hers. He took the kiss deep, but slowly, so she could drift into it, and into him, degree by degree. He felt her surrender to it, his strong and valiant soldier until she was pliant as wax, fluid as water.
     
     
Her mind misted over. There were no nightmares here, no shadows lurking in the corners. There was only Roarke, and those almost lazy caresses, those soft and dreamy kisses that took her under, into a quiet eddy of peace; Sensations layered, each one tissue thin, coating over the fatigue and the despair she hadn't realized had bloomed inside her. mouth cruised over her breast, stirred up her heartbeat as his tongue circled her, tasted her. She ran her hands over his back, tracing the shape of him, the muscle and bone. Death, with its infinite faces, was a world away.
     
     
When his mouth, his hands became more demanding she was ready, ready for those first shimmers of heat. Those long, liquid pulls inside her belly turned her sigh into a moan.
     
     
He took his time, endless time, arousing, fascinating, and being fascinated. Her body was a joy to him with its long, sleek lines, the supple skin, the surprising curves. He could watch the pleasure bloom on her, feel it spread through her with little quivers and shifts.
     
     
And at last, when they were both ready, he felt it burst through her, that gorgeous throaty moan, that lovely and helpless shudder.
     
     
The orgasm was a long hot wave that flooded body, heart, mind. The sheer release of it was glorious-like life. She would have folded herself around him then, wrapped him tight, taken him in, but he linked his fingers with hers and used his mouth to give her more.
     
     
She couldn't resist. He weighed her down with tenderness. And when a sob did escape, it was one of stunned joy as she crested again.
     
     
A thousand pulses beat, thickly. Nerves danced over her skin,-shivering at every brush of his lips. Her muscles had gone lax, and everything she was lay open to him.
     
     
He watched her face as his lips rubbed lightly over hers. Her fingers tightened on his, and her lips curved before she said his name. Before she rose up to meet him.
     
     
When they were. still and quiet, he lay with his head on her breast. He thought she might sleep again, more peacefully now, but she lifted a hand, threading her fingers through his hair.
     
     
"I was so tired," she said quietly. "I had to put the car on auto. I felt so weighed down and punchy and stupid. I had a pretty crappy day in a really crappy case. It's not just the victims, not just the women. It's like he's pointing a finger at me when he kills them."
     
     
"-And that makes you one of them."
     
     
Thank God, was all she could think. Thank God he understands. "One of them, and not... ". she said, thinking of her dream. "One of them, and the one who's standing for them when it's too late."
     
     
"Eve." He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. "It's not, it's never too late. You know that better than anyone."
     
     
"Usually. Usually I do."
     
     
There was something in her tone that had him sitting up, drawing her with him, then cupping her face so he could study it. "You know who he is."
     
     
"Yeah, I know. But the trick's stopping him, proving it, putting him away. I knew, in my gut, from the start. I