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In Death 18 - Divided in Death

In Death 18 - Divided in Death

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curled in her belly expanded. She tipped her head to the side to give him better access. “I’m giving you twenty minutes, thirty tops, to get yourself under control.”
    “Thirty should give me just enough time to . . .” He trailed off as his gaze lowered to her breast. “Well now.” His voice came out in a purr as he rubbed his thumb lightly over the replica of her badge. “What have we here?”
    “One of Trina’s little brainstorms. It’s just a temp, and actually I got kind of a kick out of it after I got over the shock.”
    He said nothing, only continued to stroke and circle the image with his thumb.
    “Roarke?”
    “I’m amazed to find myself ridiculously aroused by this. How odd.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    His gaze lifted to hers, and that hot blue slammed through her. “Okay.” Nerves danced under her skin. Over it. “Not kidding.”
    “Lieutenant.” He gripped her hips again, and hitched her up in one clean jerk until her legs wrapped his waist. “You’d best brace yourself.”
    There was no bracing against that kind of assault on the senses, that sort of brutal invasion of the system. Since the bed was too far away, he simply spilled them both onto the sofa and took her over with lips and hands.
    She clamped around him. It seemed if she didn’t hold on, hold tight, she might shoot out of her own body. Sensations crowded inside her, careening through blood and muscle and nerve until she was quivering, until she was coming in a screaming rush.
    Staggered, she fought for air, then met, finally met, those hungry lips with her own. Partly in lust, partly in desperate relief that they were together, at least here, they were together, she tugged at his shirt. He wasn’t the only one who wanted the taste and texture of flesh. His was hot, as if he burned from the inside out for her.
    Her miracle.
    “Let me.” She fought with his belt. “Let me.”
    And they rolled off the sofa, hit the floor with a solid thud. Her breathless laugh shimmered through him. God, he’d needed to hear her laugh.
    He’d needed to hold her, and be held.
    Her scent, her shape, her flavor all burned through the lines on his already straining control. He wanted to lap her like cream, to devour her like a feast after famine. He wanted to bury himself in her until the world ended.
    If it was possible to love, to want, to need too much, he’d already passed the boundary with her. There was no going back. She shuddered under him, moved under him. Her hand reached out and closed over him, and took the hard length of him into the wet, wild heat of her.
    Pleasure swamped him, drenched him, a saturation of mind and body as her hips plunged up, and he drove down.
    He could watch her dark amber eyes that were blurry with arousal, and he could see her lips tremble an instant before her head arched back and the throaty moan escaped her.
    Undone, he pressed his lips to the symbol of what she was, and felt the heart that thundered for him beneath it. His cop. His Eve. His miracle.
    He gave himself over to it, surrendered himself to her.
    Her pulse was nearly back to normal when he rolled so she was sprawled over his chest instead of pinned under his weight. From that vantage point, she folded her arms and propped her chin on them to study his face.
    He certainly looked relaxed at the moment, she thought, all loose and satisfied, like a guy about to take a nice little nap.
    “Pink toenails and boob tats. What is it with men?”
    His lips curved, though he didn’t yet open his eyes. “We’re so easily played. Really, we’re at the mercy of the female, with all her mysterious wiles.”
    “You’re at the mercy of your glands.”
    “That as well.” He sighed happily. “Praise God.”
    “So you really go for all that stuff? The potions and lotions and paints and all that?”
    “Eve. Darling Eve.” He opened his eyes now and stroked a hand over her hair. “I go for you. That should be obvious.”
    “But you get off on all the jazz.”
    “With or without the jazz.” He scooted her up until he could brush his lips to hers. “You’re my own.”
    Her lips twitched. “Your own what?”
    “Everything.”
    “Slick talker,” she murmured and gave in to nuzzle him. “You’re some slick talker. Just so you know, I’m not keeping the tattoo, even if it turns you into my sex slave. Just a few days, and that’s it.”
    “Your body, your choices. But I can’t say I’d want you to make it permanent. Something about

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