Golden in Death (In Death 50)

And with a smirk, he took her mouth.

Well, what the hell, she decided, and tugged at the knot of his black belt. Before she could finish, he hauled her up and over his shoulder.

“What?”

Carting her over, he dumped her on a mat. “Might as well have a soft landing,” he said as he dropped down to pin her.

“I’m not looking for soft.”

Still a little winded, he laughed, then yanked off her sports bra. “I am.”

He took her breasts with his hands, his mouth, and let himself revel in the taste, the feel of her skin, damp from the fight.

Evenly matched, he thought as she tugged his hair free of the leather strap he’d used to tie it out of the way. As she fisted her hands in it, arched up.

The sparring had been foreplay; they both knew it. Quick and agile both, they stripped each other.

He slipped inside her, into the wet and the heat.

They moved together, watched each other as damp flesh met, as hard and soft joined. Slow and easy now, the fight done. Just pleasure, all pleasure with the sound of water gently striking water, the sound of breath mixing, of hearts beating.

He felt her rise up, heard her sigh deep as she slid over. Pressing his lips to her throat where her pulse beat for him, he went with her.

Loose, warm, and oh so very soft, she lay under him with her hand stroking his back.

“That worked,” she murmured.

“I should hope so.”

“Well, yeah, that always works. I meant the whole deal. A good, sweaty fight, some good sex. I had paperwork brain, and now it’s all cleared up.”

“Cleared my own of a similar thing with the session.” Lightly, he nipped at her jaw. “But I liked parts two and three much better.”

“How about a few laps for part four?”

“I wouldn’t mind a swim.” He eased back to study her face. “You didn’t close it.”

“No, but we’re working an angle. It feels like it might be pretty solid.”

“Well, we’ll have that swim, then we’ll go up, have a drink and some food. And you’ll tell me.”

Yeah, she thought, she would. Because that always worked, too.

When she sat with him over that meal, she gave him a rundown of her day.

“Difficult, isn’t it,” he commented, “to sit with the newly grieving and ask them questions about the one they’ve lost.”

“It’s part of the job.”

He just looked at her.

“A really hard part of the job,” she conceded. “The upside of it in this case is, unless I’m missing something, the spouse, the family, they’re clear.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“The same with his staff, with the staff and volunteers at Louise’s clinic. There’s just nothing there.”

“Which takes you to your random-specific assassination by a mad scientist.”