“It’s not too bad. Truth,” she insisted when he took her hand, pulled her up.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” At the side of the bed, he circled a finger in the air. “Robe off, lie down.”
“You just want to play doctor.”
“A favorite of mine.” To Galahad’s annoyance, Roarke lifted his bulk from the bed and set him down in front of the fire he had simmering low.
Eve shrugged out of the robe, sat on the side of the bed. “See, not too bad. She got a couple of shots in the ribs—fist, not bat. The bat bashed my helmet, then sort of bounced off my shoulder.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He started wanding the thunderous rainbow of bruising on her shoulder. “And was she the only one you dealt with hand to hand?”
“Couple more, but they didn’t really land anything. Carmichael’s sporting a mouse, and Reineke got a little bloody. Nothing major. Peabody got the worst of it on our side. A bunch of them got the worst altogether. One of them tossed out a mini boomer,” she remembered.
However casually she mentioned it, it still stopped his heart for a beat. “And no one was hurt?”
“On their side some because I fielded it and pitched it back in. Lucky for them it didn’t have much juice.” She turned her head, smiled at him. “I feel better.”
“Good. There’s some balm in the kit Summerset swears by. We’ll try some on your face, but the rest, as you said, isn’t too bad.”
“I feel better,” she repeated. “And I’m naked.”
His gaze shifted to hers. “I had noticed, but I’m trying to maintain my medical ethics.”
“Screw ethics,” she said, and whipped a leg over, shoved him back, straddled him. “I soaked in the stuff, did the ice, got the wand. The least you can do is polish me off.”
“When you put it that way.”
“You could put it this way.” She lifted his hands, pressed them to her breasts.
“You’re definitely feeling better.”
“Yeah. You’re so pretty. I’m glad nobody punched you in the face.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over his cheeks. “Dreamcake.”
“I’m sorry, that nickname’s taken. You have to think of your own.”
“I’ll come up with something. Meanwhile.” She stripped off his sweater, ran her hands up that excellent torso, then up over his chest, his shoulders, into his hair as she leaned down to take his mouth with hers.
A long, quiet kiss, one that soothed the soul, a soul that had felt more battered than the rest of her. Eased now, she thought, by his words, by his faith in her.
It warmed her, this moment, this easy mating of lips and tongues. Centered her again. And all the violence faded away.
His hands glided over her, gently, lighting little sparks inside the warmth, little flickers of need inside the love.
He felt her give, felt her slough off the day with all its trials and tensions. Pressed his lips to the bruises on her shoulder, the war wound on the constant soldier.
Shifting, he stripped off his pants so they could twine flesh to flesh. Her skin carried the scent of her bath, of forest shadows and secrets. He drew it in as he pressed his lips to her throat, to the pulse that beat there, to her life.
“My love, my own, my only,” he murmured in Irish.
The pulse quickened.
She took him in, slow, slow, slow, with a shuddering sigh. He filled her, beat by trembling beat, his hands skimming down her sides to cup her hips.
As she moved over him, and he in her, she felt the pleasure rise, felt it spread, felt it consume. All she was with all he was.
He came up to her to enfold her as they took each other, still slow, slow, slow. Wrapped around him, she found his lips again as that pleasure, a long, strong wave, rolled through her.
When her head fell back, she saw the moon, the white slice of it floating in the dark through the sky window. Beautiful and pure like the moment, like the easy mating.