Apprentice in Death (In Death 43)

She propped up on an elbow and did just that. But when she started to reach for her clutch piece, he took her hands.

“Not quite yet.”

“I’m not going to sleep wearing it.”

“Not sleep.” Stretching out, he picked up her weapon harness. As he began to put it on her, she shoved out at him.

“What the hell?”

“Indulge my curiosity.” Quick and efficient, he hooked it on her, then pushed off the bed again to take a good long look.

Propped on her elbows, a wonderfully baffled expression on her face, her eyes still glazed from sex, she stirred his heart.

And propped on her elbows, a weapon on her ankle, another hitched over the shoulders of that lean and naked warrior’s body, she stirred something else entirely.

“Yes, I’ve imagined that.”

“You’ve imagined me wearing my weapons without a shirt? Or pants?”

“I see now that even my exceptional imagination fell short. So, Lieutenant.”

Her bafflement went to shock as he straddled her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not even remotely.” He gripped her hands again, pinned her.

“You can’t possibly . . .” She glanced down, saw he absolutely could. “How did you do that?”

“It’s something to do with being twisted, I suppose.”

When he thrust into her, she cried out, came instantly. “Oh my God.”

“I want to watch you, my well-armed cop.” He thrust again, again. “Watch you while I take you, and take you, until we’re both empty.”

He took her slowly down into the dark, drenching her, saturating her with sensation. He made her helpless, took her past the point of caring that she had no defenses. Into that dizzying desperate dark she slid, boneless, even as her body ached for more.

In the dark, he plundered until she was empty. Until he let himself go and emptied into her.

3

Eve woke by sluggish degrees, like someone who’d been drugged. When her brain roused enough to work her eyes, she opened them. It had already revived enough—first degree—to smell coffee.

Roarke drank his on the sofa in the sitting area, a tablet in one hand, the morning stock reports scrolling on the wall screen.

He’d already dressed as the ruler of the business world. Dark gray suit today, a shirt a few shades lighter, a perfectly knotted tie that picked up the gray in thin stripes on a navy blue background.

Since his half boots were the exact shade of the suit, she imagined one had been made for him to match the other. His socks, she decided, probably matched, too.

And, though it was just shy of oh-six-hundred, she bet her ass he’d already wheeled deals or made decisions and given orders in any number of foreign countries and off-planet projects.

She, on the other hand, had to order herself to sit up, to get the hell out of bed, without groaning.

“Morning, darling.”

She grunted—best she could do—stumbled to the AutoChef for life-giving coffee and, gulping it, stumbled into the bathroom and the shower.

“Full jets, one-oh-one degrees.” She gulped more coffee while the glorious caffeine and the hot pump of water woke her the rest of the way.

If world order depended on it, maybe she could go back to all those years of fake coffee and piss-trickle showers.