In Death 28 - Promises in Death

hook of his trousers. Even when she found him, hot, hard.
    “In me, I want you in me. I want you crazy and inside me. I want to see what it does to you, while I feel what it does to me.”
    He would have lifted her, swept her up and to the bed. Driven himself, driven her beyond reason. But her mouth came back to his, so tenderly. Sweet, so sweet. He fell helplessly into the warm liquid mists of love.
    “Come to bed,” he murmured. “Come to bed with me.”
    “Too far.” In a lightning change of mood she hooked her foot behind his, shifted her weight. He landed under his hot-eyed naked wife on the couch.
    Before he could catch his breath, her mouth was on his, tongue teasing, teeth nipping. His body quivered as he tried to find his balance.
    “I’m going to take you.” Her breathless threat pounded through his blood. “I won’t stop till I’m finished, and you won’t finish until you’re in me. Until I let you in me.”
    She demanded, she took, she dragged him to the heady brink of control, only to leave him quaking while she soothed and smoothed tenderness over greed.
    He thought he might have begged her, or cursed her. And still she had her relentless way with his body, his heart.
    His eyes were wild, and those strong, toned muscles trembled under her hands, her lips. He said her name, again and again, mixed and jumbled with words in English and Gaelic. Prayers, pleas, curses, she couldn’t know. Didn’t care. His fingers dug into her, a bruising testament to his loss of control. When she offered, he feasted on her breasts like a man starving. Even when those fingers, that mouth shot her to orgasm, she held on. Held on.
    She would take him.
    Her breath screamed in her lungs; her heart beat to bursting. But she watched what she did to him, watched his eyes go molten with what she could do to him.
    She gripped his hands, a vise of fingers. “Now,” she said. “Now, now, now.” And taking him in, rode him like a demon.
    His vision blurred, and through the haze she was white and gold, slim and strong. His body bucked beneath hers, lashed to fury by pleasure. And striking, the dark blade of that pleasure carved him hollow.
    He didn’t move, wasn’t sure he was capable. Reason, reality crept in slowly so he realized they lay tangled together on the sofa, a sweaty, sticky mess of still-quivering limbs and gasping breaths.
    Christ Jesus, was there a luckier man in the universe?
    Her skin was still hot, almost feverish. Her head lay like a stone on his chest. He considered, seriously, simply closing his eyes and sleeping just as they were for the next day or two.
    Then she moaned, and she sighed. He searched for, and found, the connection between his brain and his arm so he could lift it and stroke her back.
    And she purred.
    “Bet you didn’t see that coming,” she murmured.
    “I didn’t, no. If I’d realized rapping your head would turn you into an insatiable sexual maniac who’d use me so brutally, I’d have cold-cocked you long before this.”
    She snickered against the side of his neck, then sighed again. “It wasn’t the head rap, it was the spaghetti. Or the spaghetti was the last in the line.”
    “We’ll be eating it for the rest of our lives. Every bloody meal.” She shifted a little, snuggled a little. “It just, it all just made me go all gooey—and I was going to be all gooey and romantic and seduce you.” She lifted her head, smiled down at him. “Then I got really hungry.”
    “I’m happy to be on the menu, anytime.”
    “I screwed your brains out.”
    “And then some.”
    “And now we’re really disgusting.”
    “No question about it.”
    “I guess we should grab a shower before we eat cold spaghetti.”
    “We can heat it up.”
    “I like it cold.”
    “Only you,” he muttered. “All right then, a shower. But you’ll keep your hands to yourself, you pervert. You’ve used me up.”
    She gave a snorting laugh. “Boy, when the tables turn, they really turn. Come on, pal, I’ll give you a hand.”
     
    T hey ate cold spaghetti, and since she’d proven herself quite healthy enough, Roarke poured her a glass of wine to go with it.
    “Tell me about Alex Ricker, the search and so on. I’m interested.”
    “I think he’s got as many clothes and shoes as you.”
    “Well now, that’s not right. I’ll have to make a note to add to my wardrobe straightaway.”
    “The thing is . . .” She wagged her fork at him, “I know you’re not joking.”
    “Why