Memory in Death (In Death 22)

His hands, she thought on a fresh leap, his hands were as skilled as his mouth. And the fist in her belly tightened, tightened, then flew open in release.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripped all that black silk to guide him down, down to where the need was already bloomi

ng again, so full, so ripe, it took only a flick of his tongue to send her flying.

And he was with her, right with her through every breath and beat.

Now she quivered, and the heat poured off her. She was wet and wild and his. When he braced himself over her, looked down at her face, she gripped his hair again.

“Hard,” she told him. “Hard and fast. Make me scream.” And pulled his mouth to hers even as he drove himself into her.

He plunged, a beast on fire, and she raced with him. Her hips surged up, demanding more even as his lips muffled the scream.

They whipped each other mercilessly to the edge, and over.

* * *

She nearly had her breath back, and figured she’d recover the full use of her legs, eventually.

“Just remember, it was my fault.”

He stirred. “Hmm?”

“It was my fault, so I’m the reason you just got your rocks off.”

“Entirely your fault.” He rolled off her, onto his back, breathed. “Bitch.”

She snorted out a laugh, then linked fingers with him. “Do I still have my boots on?”

“Yes. It’s quite an interesting and provocative look, particularly since your trousers are inside out and hooked on them. I was in a bit of a rush.”

She braced on her elbows to take a look. “Huh. I guess I’ll get them the rest of the way off, maybe takea swim.”

“I believe you’re scheduled to wash my back.”

She glanced over. “Strangely, I’m no longer feeling guilty.”

He opened one eye, brilliant and blue. “But here I am, with my feelings so bruised.”

She grinned, then levered up to work off her boots. When he sat up beside her, she turned so they sat facing each other, naked, forehead to forehead.

“I’ll wash your back, but it goes on the credit side of my account, to be counted the next time I’m a complete asshole.”

He patted a hand on her knee. “Done,” he said, then pushed up, and offered her a hand.

* * *

In a small hotel room on Tenth Avenue, Trudy Lombard studied herself in the mirror. He thought he’d scared her, and maybe he had, but that didn’t mean she’d just turn tail and run like a whipped dog.

She’d earned that compensation for tolerating that nasty little bitch in her home, nearly six months of her. Six months of having that dirty child under her roof. Feeding and clothing her.

Now, the mighty Roarke was going to pay for the way he’d treated Trudy Lombard—make no mistake about it. It was going to cost him a lot more than two million.

She’d taken off her suit, put on her nightgown. Preparation was important, she reminded herself, and washed down a pain blocker with the good French wine she preferred.

No point in chasing the pain, she thought. No point at all. Though she didn’t mind a little pain. It sharpened the senses.

She took slow, even breaths as she picked up the sock she’d filled with credits. She swung it at her own face, striking between jaw and cheekbone. Pain exploded, nausea rolled in her belly, but she gritted her teeth, struck a second time.