Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“If I’d known desk sex was on tonight’s agenda, I’d have worn less.”

“If I go with the command center, there could be regular command center sex. Dress appropriately.”

Laughing, he picked up his shirt—a soft slate gray with just a hint of blue—examined it. “Well now, it’s done for, I suppose, and a small price to pay.”

She took it, put it on. Subtly breathed him in. “We have to pick this stuff up. I can’t pick up murder files naked.”

“Apparently I can,” he said, and helped her pick them up, gather up the clothes they’d discarded. “You can organize it all in the morning.”

“I guess. Maybe we should put that desk in some sort of display. With a plaque.”

“‘Dallas and Roarke Banged Here’?”

“No—though we could make a secret plaque for that. Just something like: ‘It Served Us Well.’”

“You’re oddly sentimental over a desk.”

“I am now. I need my pants.”

“Why? We’re going straight to the bedroom.”

“And Summerset could be lurking somewhere between here and there.”

“I can promise you he’s tucked into his own quarters by now.”

“Maybe he’s in his coffin, maybe he’s not, but I’m not walking to the bedroom in nothing but your torn shirt.”

“We’ll take the elevator,” Roarke said, solving the problem by calling for it. “So, what was it you asked for? All I had. And more?”

“You pulled it off.”

“Not yet. That was all I had.” He pulled the bundle of clothes out of her hand, dropped them. “This is more.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

He just pushed her back against the elevator wall, and took her there. Fast and fierce.

When he was done, and very satisfied with himself, she started to slide bonelessly down the wall.

He plucked her up, restarted the elevator. Then carried her to the bed when the doors opened.

“You know what they say.” He wrapped an arm around her. “Mind what you wish for.”

“I didn’t mind.” But her voice was blurry as she slid toward blissful, exhausted, thoroughly used-up sleep.

Then she popped right up again. “Jesus cross-eyed Christ, the clothes! They’re still in the elevator.”

“They can be sorted out in the morning.”

“He’ll see! All those sex-tangled clothes. Get them back!”

“The elevator’s still there if it worries you.”

She leaped up, all but dived in to grab the clothes when the doors opened. Near to shuddering with relief, she dropped them in a heap on a chair.

She crawled back into bed, sighed, and slept in seconds.

Apparently, Roarke thought, sex-tangled clothes were acceptable when sorted out from a bedroom chair.