He could do a great deal with her in two hours.
He turned when she came to the bedroom door. He held out a hand.
“Beautiful, Moniqua. My love. Let’s discover each other.”
It was better this time. Even better. Lucias was right. He was always right. The excitement of knowing this experience would be her last, that he would be the last thing she saw, felt, smelled, even tasted was almost unbearably erotic.
Oh, she responded to him, tirelessly. Her heart stormed against his. And still she pleaded with him for more.
She gave him two hours. Two magnificent hours.
When he felt her dying, he watched her almost tenderly. “Say my name,” he whispered.
“Byron.”
“No. Kevin. I want to hear you say it. Kevin. I want to hear you scream it.”
He rammed himself into her, plunging toward the end. And when she screamed his name, he knew the most perfect pleasure of his life.
Because of it, he drew the sheet gently over her body, laid his lips on her brow in a soft kiss before he walked out of her apartment.
He couldn’t wait to get home and tell Lucias everything.
It was an hour later when she moved. Her fingers scraped over the sheet, the eyes behind her closed lids twitched. There was a numbness in her chest, and under it a kind of terrifying, unspeakable pain. Her head burned like the sun.
Tears leaked out, trickled down her cheek as she struggled to lift her arm. It felt dead, and the effort had small, strangled sounds trembling on her lips.
Her fingers brushed a glass on the table, knocked it to the floor where it shattered. And the sound of it was dim, like glass breaking under a pillow.
Her fingers crawled over the table, bumped the ’link. Sweat sheathed her as she forced those fingers up, forced her confused mind to count. Slot by slot until she reached the top key on memory.
She pushed it, then her hand fell limp and her body lay drenched in exhaustion.
“What is your emergency, Miss Cline?”
“Help me.” Her lips tripped over the words as if they were some exotic foreign language. “Please. Help me,” she managed to whisper before she fell back into unconsciousness.
Eve woke when the world started to sway. She opened gritty eyes and stared into Roarke’s.
“Why are you carrying me?”
“Because, Lieutenant, you need to sleep. Not at your desk,” he added as he stepped into the elevator in her home office. “In a bed.”
“I was just resting my eyes.”
“Rest them in bed.”
She should, on principle, insist he set her back on her feet. But it was kind of nice to get carted around, especially when she only had to turn her head to sniff his neck. “What time is it?”
“Just after one.” He carried her into the bedroom, climbed the short steps to the platform, then sat, cradling her, on the side of the bed.
“Do you know what I was thinking?”
She snuggled in. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
He laughed, ran a hand over her hair. “I can put my mind to that as well. But I was thinking when I walked into your office and saw you with your head on your desk and your face pale the way it gets when you’re finally too exhausted to take another step, that in a matter of weeks we’ll have been married a full year. And I’m still fascinated by you.”
“We’re doing okay, huh?”