Free Chaos in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

dinner in the lieutenant’s office,” Roarke added to Summerset.
    “I’m shocked beyond speech.”
    “If only,” Eve muttered.
    “But before.” Roarke took her hand again, turned her toward the bedroom. “Let’s deal with that arm.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “You’re starting to favor it.”
    “It’s just a little sore.”
    “Which means it’s time for some of the physical therapy and treatment. Don’t be such a baby.”
    She jabbed him with a finger. “You just want to get my shirt off.”
    “Always a bonus. Peel it off, Lieutenant.” To make her smile, he leered. “And take your time.”
    So okay, it twinged a little when she took off her jacket, her weapon harness. Get it over with, she thought, and began the stretching exercises, working her range of motion as Roarke ditched his jacket and tie.
    Her shoulder gave a couple of clicks as she stretched, punched out.
    “It’s coming along.”
    “So I see. Try to avoid actually punching someone for a few more days,” he suggested as he got the topical cream from a drawer. He rolled up his sleeves as he crossed to her, then started to unhook her trousers.
    “I knew it. All you think about is getting in my pants.”
    “With every breath I take. But for now, I just want a look at that hip. It was the worst of the cuts. Nearly healed,” he murmured, tracing a fingertip along the edges where McQueen’s knife had sliced. “Mira does good work.”
    “We’ve both had worse.”
    His eyes lifted to hers, held, and said a great deal. So she leaned into him a little, touched her lips to his.
    “I’m okay.”
    “Nearly. Lose the tank and sit down. I’ll finish you up.”
    She did as he asked, thinking he needed the tending as much as, maybe more than, she. Then his hands—he had magic hands—smoothed the cream over the ache, and she closed her eyes.
    “Feels good. Really good.”
    “Mira credits your constitution, and your hard head, for the healing process. A couple more days, you’ll likely be good as new. Tell me if I hurt you.”
    “You’re not.”
    They hadn’t made love since she’d been hurt—and she realized she should have figured why he’d been so careful with her, hadn’t touched her that way, had avoiding being touched by her.
    “You’re not,” she said again and, opening her eyes, turned to him. “You won’t.” And took his hand, laid it on her breast. “Feels good,” she repeated. “Really good.”
    “I only want to give you time to heal. In every way.”
    “I have it on good authority I have an excellent constitution. Let’s test it out.” Going with the instinct that told her they didn’t just need the physical intimacy, but the fun that could go along with it, she tossed her leg over his lap, straddled him. “Get it up, pal.”
    Smoothing those magic hands down her sides, he smiled. “You’re very demanding.”
    “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She took his mouth, gave it a nice little bite as she ground against him. “There you are,” she murmured.
    “Well, you’ve left me no choice.”
    “A cock’s always ready to crow.”
    He laughed, wrapped his arms around her. “Crowing’s not what mine’s ready for.”
    “Show me.” She went to work on his trousers.
    Amused, aroused, he watched her. “In a bit of a hurry, are we?”
    “I’ve got to use you and get back to work, so no dawdling.” Then she laid her hands on either side of his face. “Okay, maybe a little dawdling,” she said and brought her lips to his again.
    “I’m okay.” She unbuttoned his shirt so she could press against him. Skin to skin, heart to heart. “I want you to touch me. I want you to be with me. I want you.”
    He could drown in her, he thought, every minute of every day he could lose himself in what she was, what she gave him, what she took. Now, with her warm and eager against him, he could drown himself, lose himself, and set his worry for her aside.
    She didn’t want him to be careful, but he would take care, of