Free In Death 32 - Treachery in Death by authors_sort Page A

“Which I’m hoping that isn’t.”
    “I can agree to those terms.” She climbed into bed.
    “Then it’s a date.” He slid in beside her, wrapped her against him.
    “I have to program the alarm.”
    “What time?”
    “Ah, I’m going to contact Whitney at six-hundred sharp. I should probably give myself an hour to prepare.”
    “Five then. Don’t worry. I’ll wake you.”
    Trusting he would, she closed her eyes.
    She’d have sworn five minutes passed when she woke to the seductive scent of coffee. She slitted her eyes open and saw him.
    He sat on the side of the bed holding a huge mug of coffee a few inches from her nose. He’d ordered the light on, about twenty percent, she judged, so the room held a soft dawn glow.
    “You brought me coffee in bed?”
    “You could consider me the prince of husbands—or just that I was awake before you. It’s just gone five,” he added.
    “Ugh.” She pushed herself up, muttered a thanks, then took the mug and glugged. Then she closed her eyes and let the beauty of caffeine slide through her system. “Good.” Glugged some more. “Shower.” She crawled out of bed, said, “More,” and drained the mug before pushing it back into his hands.
    Halfway to the bathroom she glanced back over her shoulder. Crooked a finger. And pulling off the T-shirt, let it drop to the floor as she walked the rest of the way naked.
    Roarke set the empty mug on the nightstand. “Who am I to refuse such a gracious invitation?”
    She’d ordered the jets on full, and—of course—brutally hot. He’d never get used to her love of boiling herself, and often himself as well, in the shower. Steam pumped, blurring the glass of the big, open area. She stood, sleek and wet, face lifted, eyes closed.
    “A prince would probably wash my back.”
    Obliging, Roarke tapped a panel and, when it opened, cupped his hand to catch a creamy fall of soap. “You slept well, I take it.”
    “Mmmm.”
    Her back, narrow and smooth, with just a hint of gold from their days in the sun on their recent holiday, arched—just a little—at the glide of his soapy hands.
    He loved the feel of it, the soft skin over tensile strength. The long length of it tapered to her waist then gave way to the subtle flare of her hips.
    Lean and angular, his cop, built for both speed and endurance. And yet he knew her vulnerabilities, where a touch—his touch—would weaken or incite.
    The delicate curve at the back of her neck, the little dip at the base of her spine.
    He continued down, sliding, circling the silky liquid over slim, strongly muscled thighs. Up again, fingers teasing, advance and retreat, in lazy seduction.
    She hooked her arm around his neck, arching back. And in a limber twist from that narrow waist, turned her head until her lips found his, until they parted for a long, deep mating of tongues.
    She turned, her eyes glimmering like burnished gold through the water.
    “You missed a few spots.”
    “Careless of me.” He filled his palm with soap, swirled it over her shoulders, her breasts, her torso, her belly.
    Every inch of her yearned, here in the heat and steam, with the pounding and pulsing of water against tile, against flesh. His hands were magic on her body, triggering needs, tripping sensations, finding—owning—her secrets. His mouth, when he used it on her, infused her body with a thousand aches of pleasure.
    His fingers found her, opened her, and wet to wet stroked her through those aches and beyond.
    She wrapped around him, a sleek, fragrant vine, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth avid on his. Her heart beat wild and strong against his chest in quick, lusty kicks. And she filled her hands with soap, glided them over his back, his hips, slicked them between their slippery bodies to take him in that silkened grip.
    To destroy him.
    He all but heard the lead snap on his control and plunged into her. Trapping her against the wet tiles, capturing her cries even as her arms chained around his