“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 her injuries at least. He gave her the controls, took his pleasure from the rise of her passion, from the sprint of her heartbeat under his lips.
When she took him in, she laid her hands on his face again. Her eyes looked deep into his. “You’re holding back. Don’t. Don’t hold back.
So he gripped her hips, careful to avoid the healing wound. And drove her as she drove him. Over the edge of that drowning pool.
With her brow resting on his, she fought to get her breath back. If anything twinged or ached, she didn’t feel it. All she felt was peace.
“Did you really have business downtown today?”
“You’re my business.”
She lifted her head, looked at him again. “You have to stop worrying.”
“That’s never going to happen. But I will stop hovering, which I’ve been doing a bit of. I love you beyond the telling of it, Eve, and what you went through—”
“We. We went through it.”
“All right, that’s true enough. What we went through doesn’t heal as quickly as a cut or a bruise.”
“Working on it, though. Okay?”
“Yes.” He pressed his lips to her healing shoulder. “Yes.”
“Okay. Well, now that I’m done with you, I’m going back to work.”
He sat where he was a moment as she got up, pulled the tank back on. “I feel so used. I find I like it.”
She rolled her injured shoulder, nodded in satisfaction. “Always more where that came from, ace.”
EIGHT
In her office she set up a second murder board while the cat sat on her sleep chair and watched her. Through the adjoining door she heard Roarke talking on the ’link. Probably dealing with business he’d postponed during the hovering mode.
Better now, she decided. Both of them were better now. Not just the sex, but the understanding that came with it—or out of it. And the normalcy that went hand in hand.
“Nothing normal about that,” she said as she studied the sketch. “Not a damn thing normal there.”
She circled around to her desk, noticed that her message light was activated. She called up the message, and actually jolted when Trina’s voice spiked into the room.
“Got the ugly bastard and the question. Could do the skin, hair, ears, nose, teeth, no prob. Could do the red eyes, but not so they look like red balloons coming out of the sockets. Couldn’t do the jaw, not that crooked. The answer is I couldn’t make anybody look like that, and I’m the best. You’ve got yourself a freakazoid, Dallas.
“You need a treatment—hair, face, body. The works. Mavis says she and Leonardo and Bella can come to your place for a visit on Saturday afternoon. I’ll be with them, and bring my gear.”
“Why,” Roarke wondered, “do you look more horrified by that than by the face on your board?”
“She’s coming. We have to stop her.”
“Don’t look at me. You could use a treatment.”
“Hey.” Though she was anything but vain, the careless comment gave her another jolt. “Insulting my hair, face, and body won’t get you banged again anytime soon.”
“You know very well I adore your hair, face, and body. You could use a massage, a relaxation treatment, and some downtime with good friends. In fact, so could I. I believe I’ll contact Trina and have her bring another operative. I’ll have a massage along with you.”
“Traitor.” She stomped to the kitchen for coffee, stomped back. “I’m not thinking about it. It’s not Saturday yet. Anything could happen.”