Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

Overwhelmed by it, she cupped his face in her hands, poured herself into the kiss.

“Eve,” he murmured.

“I’m alive.” She pressed his hand to her heart. “I love you.”

“You’re everything. All. Only. Everything.”

He shifted her so they lay facing each other, so he could glide his hands over her to soothe, to awaken. Gently, tenderly.

His only.

Every sigh, every murmur, every small tremble of response took him deeper into the beauty. The way she drew his sweater away to run warm hands over his skin, the way her mouth fit perfectly to his. He counted the pulse beats in her throat when he tasted there, felt the way her warrior’s body softened.

How she looked watching him, with firelight in her whiskey-colored eyes.

He could make her want simply by existing. There’d been no one else who could ever hold her heart with no more than a look, a word. He’d given her a life beyond survival, beyond even the badge that had been her world, and the symbol of that survival.

He’d given her love when she hadn’t truly believed in it, had never felt worthy of it.

And he’d made her believe, absolutely, she’d given him the same.

Now there was pleasure, pure and theirs. Flesh against flesh, hands and lips stoking that warm, glowing fire until it snapped and burned.

She arched when he undressed her, offering. She wrapped tight around him, giving. Her lips sought his, taking.

And when, as breath quickened, as pulses tripped, he slipped inside her, they shuddered together.

“A ghrá,” he said, and her pounding heart melted.

With every rise and fall, it poured out for him.

When they lay quiet, bodies slack and tangled together, she sighed again. “It’s official. I really like this bed.”

He turned his face into the curve of her shoulder, brushing warm skin with his lips. “Here’s to many hours of checking off both one and two on the list.”

“I’m for that. But God, now I need a shower. It feels like days.”

“A shower, some wine, a meal, I’d say.”

“All over all of that.” Lazily, she combed her fingers through his hair. “I need to set up my board. Not much more I can do at this point, but I need to do at least that.”

“Wine and food in your office then. And you can fill me in on the details.”

“I wish there were more of them, but I’d like your take.”

It was amazing, she thought, what a solid hour’s sleep, really nice sex, and a long hot shower could accomplish. And when you topped that off with a glass of really superior wine, a thirty-six-hour stint didn’t seem too bad.

She let him choose the meal—it seemed fair—even resigned herself to eating whatever vegetables she found on her plate. And since he set it all up while she worked on her board, she drafted herself to do the cleanup.

Comfortable in flannel pants, a sweatshirt, and skids, she stepped back to study the board.

“You might wish there were more details, but that’s a comprehensive murder board at this early stage.”

“Maybe.” Now she walked away from it, to the stylish new table by the new balcony doors. “What’s for dinner?”

He lifted the warming domes.

Her heart sang a happy tune when she saw steaks, salted-skinned potatoes, and …