However irritated he remained, he gathered her up.
She jerked, might have struck out. Fortunately for both of them her reflexes remained keen.
“I was just—”
“Past the point where coffee can keep you going,” he said as he carried her to the elevator.
“I drank the water.”
“Good.”
He carried her into the bedroom where Galahad was already sprawled on the bed, belly-up like roadkill. After sitting her on the side of the bed, Roarke sat himself to take his boots off.
His boots, she thought, not hers. Maybe a small, stupid thing, she considered, but she knew a flick in the eye when it stung her.
She was, as he’d thought himself only minutes before, very good at reading nuances.
“If you want to stay pissed off—”
“It isn’t a matter of want.”
“Fine. If you’re going to stay pissed off, I can stay right there with you.” She yanked off her own boots, tossed them aside before she shoved up to strip off her weapon harness.
“I took him off the list, didn’t I? I’m not going to report him over the fraudulent ID. But you should tell him he’s on my scope now.” In angry clicks and bangs, the contents of her pockets hit the dresser. “So if he’s not retired, or he gets a yen to come out of retirement, I’ll bust him. And that’ll be on him.”
Roarke rose to take off the sweater he’d changed into after his workday. “I did.”
“Fine. Good.” She dragged off her belt with a snap like a whip. “And goddamn it, if I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t get within fifty klicks of an investigation.”
“Unless it suited you.”
Hot, molten, flaming fury erupted against his cold and bitter ice. “Bullshit.” She stalked over to him. “Bullshit, bullshit.” Shoved him. “Bollocks.”
“Careful.” His voice, dangerously quiet, only pumped up the heat for her.
“Oh, bite me.” Shoved him again. “I opened the door, and I can close it because I’m the one with the badge. I’m in fucking charge. I opened it, and I leave it the hell open because I trust you. So knock it off.”
Viciously pleased to see flashes of heat melting the Arctic ice in his eyes—damned if she’d be the only one on boil—she pushed again. Then added an insulting gesture he’d once pulled on her. She flicked his shoulder.
&nb
sp; “There, I knocked it off for you.” And there it was, the hot blue center of the flame. She started to flick his other shoulder. He grabbed her hand; she lifted her chin.
And they lunged at each other.
They landed on the bed in a grappling heap. The cat didn’t just leap up, he hissed, nearly spat before he stalked away. Ignoring him, they rolled over the bed, fighting for dominance.
Until she grabbed Roarke’s hair by the fistfuls and dragged his mouth down to hers.
A brutal meeting of lips, teeth, tongues became a greedy ravishing. Temper-fueled lust scorched through blood, burning away any thought of care, of caution, as he tore her sweater away, yanked down her tank.
And when that greedy mouth fixed on her breast, the shock of sensation held her on the tenuous edge between pleasure and pain. She clung there, breath tattered, a red haze of need clouding her mind, and her body alive, wildly alive.
Her fingers dug into his back, his hips, nails biting. She wanted flesh—the feel, the taste of flesh, wanted him—hard, hard, hard—inside her. She scissored her legs, shifted the balance to roll again, fought to strip him, strip herself, to take what she wanted.
Take him. Be taken. And now.
He reared up, and now his hand took her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. Fed there while his hands moved roughly down her body, that long warrior’s body he craved like his next breath.