In Death 26 - Strangers in Death

off the day as he had. He’d imagined persuading her into wet, lazy love once she had. Instead the need for her had simply leaped into him, torn through him as a hungry animal who wanted feast and conquest.
    It burned through him, a fever in the blood as he devoured her mouth, as his hands sought and took. Her gasp for air when they surfaced ended on a cry of shocked pleasure that only stoked the flames.
    Her hands dug into his shoulders when he took her breast. Greedy mouth, demanding teeth. Wet and warm from the water, she trembled from the assault.
    And still she said, “Yes.”
    “Yes,” as the water closed over them again.
    Her ears roared from the pound of the water, from the pound of her own blood. How could anyone survive wanting, being wanted, like this? How could anyone live without it? He set a storm inside her of feelings, sensations, of desires that throbbed toward pain. A storm that raged and blew and thundered until there was nothing left of her but a drowning, helpless love.
    Rough hands pushed her back to the wall where hers gripped the edge, where her moans echoed in the heavy air as his mouth streaked up her thighs, as his tongue arrowed inside her. He tugged, shifting her so the gush of hot jets pulsed over her, inside her—hot, relentless—as his mouth worked her toward frenzy.
    “I can’t. I can’t. God!”
    The orgasm was brutal and fierce, a ripping of self from sanity.
    He felt it break through her, felt the force and wonder of release. And saw when he looked into her eyes again the complete surrender to it. To him.
    “Take. Take me.” He drove into her, into that surrender. And lifting her hips, plunged deeper yet. As the madness pummeled him, whipped him, he heard his own voice, thick and breathless, murmuring demands and pleas in Irish she couldn’t possibly understand.
    And still once more, as his body battered hers, she said, “Yes.”
    On that single, whispered word, he surrendered.
     
    S prawled in the pulsing water, limbs like melted wax, Eve wasn’t sure who was holding up whom. She thought, vaguely, that a double drowning was a distinct possibility. But couldn’t seem to care.
    “Maybe it’s something in the water, some sort of sex drug. You could bottle it, sell it, and make another fortune.”
    “Hell with that. I’m keeping it all for us. Did I hurt you at all? I’m a bit bleary.”
    “I can take care of myself, pal.” She let her head fall like a rock onto his shoulder. “Besides. My idea.”
    “And a bloody good one it was.”
    “I was going straight up to work. Got big, fat, sticky piles of it, so I was going straight up to work. Then the gargoyle said you were down here. I thought maybe I’d take fifteen minutes for a swim, loosen up.”
    “Well, we sure as Christ loosened up.”
    “Then I saw you knifing through the water. All wet and ripply and…you.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “I saw you, and that’s all it took. Sometimes I can’t breathe, I love you so much.”
    “Eve.” Emotion deepened his eyes as he kissed her, very sweetly, then he just rested his brow against hers.
    “I keep thinking, well, this’ll settle down. It’s bound to level off and settle down. But it doesn’t. Even when things are just going smooth and we’re just…living, I can look at you, and I’ve got no breath left.”
    “Every minute with you, I’m alive. I never knew before there were pieces of me unborn, just waiting for you. I’m alive with you, Eve.”
    She sighed, touched his cheek. “We’d better get out of here. We’re getting mush all over the pool.”
     
    I t was back to murder as she pulled on the comfort of her old NYPSD sweatshirt and a pair of worn-out (just the way she liked them) jeans. While they dressed, she relayed to Roarke the conversation she’d had with Mira.
    “You’re worried now she’ll find a way to dispose of this subordinate—as you’re thinking of her, or him.”
    “Gotta have a plan for it. I think she thinks this individual wouldn’t dare betray her, but she’ll have a plan. She’s got Brigit Plowder, who doesn’t strike me as a moron, completely wrapped. Pretty much ditto on Tribble’s wife. But Plowder…”
    “Are you looking at her? At Brigit Plowder?”
    “I look at everyone, but no, she doesn’t strike me as a subordinate or…what’s the word? What is it? Supplicant. Yeah, that’s what our Ava likes. She likes having her supplicants. She bought herself plenty of them with