Enjoy it while you can, Roarke thought as he began to strip.
He also noted the wheels turning behind his wife’s eyes as she unhooked her weapon harness, pulled off her boots.
He decided, as a dutiful husband, he should take her mind off work so she could get a good night’s sleep.
He waited until she’d stripped it all down and reached for a sleep shirt. And scooped her off her feet.
“Hey!”
“We need that shower.”
“I’ll catch one in the morning. I know your pervy games, pal.”
“Maybe I have some new pervy games.” In the bath he ordered the jets on several degrees hotter than his own preference. And took her mouth with his as he stepped with her into the pulsing spray.
She decided a shower wasn’t a bad idea after all, so she wrapped around him when he set her on her feet. Steam already pumped, and the pulsing hot beat of the jets felt nearly as good as the glide of his hands on her naked skin.
To get back some of her own, she backed him against the slick, wet tiles and got busy with her own hands, her own mouth.
No, not a bad idea at all, she thought as she gripped and dug into tight, rippling muscle, as she felt his heart trip against hers. She used her teeth, quick, hungry bites, as wet flesh slipped and slithered against wet flesh.
Hitting the dispenser, she filled her palm with liquid soap. Slicked and stroked it over him, around him. Down the solid wall of his chest, down the narrow cut of torso, down the taut belly.
Down.
She might have guided him into her, taken the moment, taken him, but he spun her around. With one arm chained around her waist, pinning her back against him, he glided his hand, the silky soap over her breasts, cupping them, thumb stroking the nipple while he feasted on the back and side of her neck.
Down that long, lean torso while his blood beat hot as the jets. A tease along the blades of hips as those hips began to pump in invitation.
Not yet, not yet, though he could have devoured her like a man starving. Instead, he trailed his fingers over her belly, felt the quiver of her need. A light stroke, to torment them both, down the inside of those smooth, strong thighs.
On a moan she reached back to hook her arm around his neck, trembling now, trembling for him.
Ready and open and his.
A brush, just a brush over her center, lightly cupping her there while her body arched against his restraining arm. And inside her, light, almost lazy while her quickened breath escaped in gasps.
Slow, he thought, slow though his own needs pounded. Slow as he felt her fall into the pleasure, melt in it, surrender to it.
It saturated her, seemed to turn even her bones to butter. She sank into it, all those honeyed sensations, floated through them on the thick, steamy air. And when they lifted her, up, up, she clung to the heights, then embraced the staggering fall.
“Ride it,” he urged her when she went limp. “Just ride it.”
He could take her up again, and would. Not so slow now, not so light.
Nothing, nothing aroused him more than having his tough, hard-eyed cop steeped in what he could give her. Once more, he thought as his own muscles quivered, just once more as he felt it build inside her again.
When he felt her shuddering on that edge, her body bow-taut, he whipped her around. With her back to the tiles, he plunged into her, hard, fast, deep. Held there, chained himself there while her cry of release echoed.
“God. God.” Her head dropped to his shoulder as she fought for air.
No air, she thought, dazed and drugged, just heat.
Then he began to move again.
“There’s more,” he said as she lifted her head.
His eyes, impossibly blue, so intense, so focused on her. Only her. Love speared like an arrow, burst through lust so the mix of both overwhelmed her.