In Death 22 - Memory in Death

mat. “Well, ouch. I take it guilt doesn’t bring out your gentler side.”
    “What it does is make me edgy.” She straddled him, planted her hands on his chest. “And a little mean. And since I’ve already kicked my desk …”
    She lowered down, her breasts skimming his damp chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin on their way to the waistband of his shorts. She tugged again, freed him.
    Then her mouth clamped over him like a vise.
    “Oh, well then.” He dug his fingers into the mat. “Have at it.”
    His mind switched off, his vision went red, and pulsed. She used her teethyes, just a little bit meanand tore the breath out of him. Muscles he’d tuned and oiled in temper began to quiver, helplessly. And a moment before his world imploded, she released him. Slicked her tongue up his belly.
    He started to roll her over, but she scissored her legs, shifted her weight, and pinned him once more.
    Her eyes were dark gold and full of arrogance.
    “I’m starting to feel a little better.”
    He caught his breath. “Good. Whatever I can do to help.”
    “I want your mouth.” She crushed it under hers, using her teeth, her tongue, her lips, so his own blood pounded through him, a hundred drums.
    “I love your mouth.” Hers was wild on his. “I want you to do things to me with it.” She dragged and pulled at her own shirt. This time when her breasts skimmed his chest it was flesh to flesh.
    She let him flip her to her back, arched up to him so that his mouth, hot and ravenous for her, could
    take. Her stomach clenched, twisted, a fist of need and pleasure. Her breath was already going ragged when he yanked down her pants.
    His hands, she thought on a fresh leap, his hands were as skilled as his mouth. And the fist in her belly tightened, tightened, then flew open in release.
    Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripped all that black silk to guide him down, down to where the need was already blooming again, so full, so ripe, it took only a flick of his tongue to send her flying.
    And he was with her, right with her through every breath and beat.
    Now she quivered, and the heat poured off her. She was wet and wild and his. When he braced himself over her, looked down at her face, she gripped his hair again.
    “Hard,” she told him. “Hard and fast. Make me scream.” And pulled his mouth to hers even as he drove himself into her.
    He plunged, a beast on fire, and she raced with him. Her hips surged up, demanding more even as his
    lips muffled the scream.
    They whipped each other mercilessly to the edge, and over.
    * * *
    She nearly had her breath back, and figured she’d recover the full use of her legs, eventually.
    “Just remember, it was my fault.”
    He stirred. “Hmm?”
    “It was my fault, so I’m the reason you just got your rocks off.”
    “Entirely your fault.” He rolled off her, onto his back, breathed. “Bitch.”
    She snorted out a laugh, then linked fingers with him. “Do I still have my boots on?”
    “Yes. It’s quite an interesting and provocative look, particularly since your trousers are inside out and hooked on them. I was in a bit of a rush.”
    She braced on her elbows to take a look. “Huh. I guess I’ll get them the rest of the way off, maybe take
    a swim.”
    “I believe you’re scheduled to wash my back.”
    She glanced over. “Strangely, I’m no longer feeling guilty.”
    He opened one eye, brilliant and blue. “But here I am, with my feelings so bruised.”
    She grinned, then levered up to work off her boots. When he sat up beside her, she turned so they sat facing each other, naked, forehead to forehead.
    “I’ll wash your back, but it goes on the credit side of my account, to be counted the next time I’m a complete asshole.”
    He patted a hand on her knee. “Done,” he said, then pushed up, and offered her a hand.
    * * *
    In a small hotel room on Tenth Avenue, Trudy Lombard studied herself in the mirror. He thought he’d scared her, and maybe he had, but that didn’t mean she’d just turn tail and run like a whipped dog.
    She’dearnedthat compensation for tolerating that nasty little bitch in her home, nearly six months of
    her. Six months of having that dirty child under her roof. Feeding and clothing her.
    Now, the mighty Roarke was going to pay for the way he’d treated Trudy Lombardmake no mistake about it. It was going to cost him a lot more than two million.
    She’d taken off her suit, put on her nightgown. Preparation was important, she