Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“There’s nothing you have to do, and the thing is called a party.”

“You do stuff. Coordinate stuff, and approve it, blather with the caterer and that kind of thing.”

“I never blather, not even with the caterer, but if it’ll make you feel better you can help supervise the decorating up in the ballroom.”

“Am I going to need a list?”

“Several. Will that help with the guilt you’re feeling?”

“It’s a start. On Sunday, if Lombard’s still here, I’m going to see her.”

“Why?” Now he framed her face in turn. “Why put yourself through that, or give her any sort of an opening to stab at you again?”

“I need to make it clear to her she can’t. I need to do it face-to-face. It’s—and this is embarrassing enough that I’ll have to hurt you if you repeat it—but it’s about self-esteem. I hate being a coward, and I stuck my head in the sand on this.”

“That’s an ostrich.”

“Whatever, I don’t like being one. So, we do what we’ve planned to do tomorrow—because she’s not worth putting on the list—and if she’s still here on Sunday, I deal with her.”

“We deal.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. We deal.” She pressed her cheek to his. “You’re all sweaty.”

“I used my temper constructively, as opposed to kicking my desk.”

“Shut up, or I might not still feel guilty enough to offer to wash your back in the shower.”

“Lips are sealed,” he murmured, and pressed them to her throat.

“After.” She gripped his tank, yanked it up and off. “After I screw your brains out of your ears.”

“Far be it from me to dictate how you should assuage your guilt. Do you have a lot of it?”

She bit his good shoulder. “You’re about to find out.”

She toppled them both off the bench and onto the 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 teeth—yes, just a little bit mean—and 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.