The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [639]
Her mouth took his now, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues. She felt his moan start low, start deep, then merge with her own. She let herself tremble, let herself ache, then pulled back, pulled away a breath before surrender.
“Eve.”
She heard the strain in his voice, enjoyed it as she picked up their glasses again. “Thirsty?”
“No.” He started to reach for her, but she shifted away, thrust out his glass. “I am. Have a drink. I want to go to your head.”
“You do. Let me have you.”
“I will. After I’ve had you.” She picked up a small remote, pressed a series of buttons. On the side wall, panels opened. The bed that had been tucked behind them was heaped with pillows. “That’s where I want you. Eventually.”
She took a long sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “You’re not drinking.”
“You’re killing me.”
Delighted, she laughed, and the sound was like smoke. “It’s going to get worse.”
Now he did drink, then set his glass aside. “Praise God.”
She walked back to him, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. “I love your body,” she murmured, slowly working open the buttons of his shirt. “I’m going to spend a lot of time enjoying it tonight.”
It was a powerful rush, she thought, to make a strong man quiver. She felt that dance of muscles as she traced a fingertip down his chest to the hook of his trousers.
Instead of releasing them, she smiled. “You’d better sit down.”
There was a throbbing in his blood, primal, edging toward violent. It took a great deal of effort not to yield to it, to drag her to the floor and answer that urgent beat.
“No, not here,” she said, and lifting his hand, nipped lightly at his knuckles. “I don’t think you’ll be able to manage to cross the room when I’m done.”
It wasn’t the wine making his head swim. She guided him across the room, a kind of lazy, circling dance with her in the lead. When she eased him down to sit on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, brushed her hands slowly, intimately down his legs. And took off his shoes.
She rose. “I’ll just go get the wine.”
“I’m not interested in wine.”
She walked away, tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You will be. When I start licking it off you.”
She topped off the glasses, brought them back to set them on the small, carved table by the bed. Then, watching him, her eyes gold and full of the light from the candles, she began to peel the dress down her body.
He wondered that his system didn’t simply implode.
“Christ. Christ Jesus.”
The Irish had leaped back into his voice, as she knew it did when he was distracted, angry, aroused. The simple sign made her glad she’d taken the time and trouble to, well, dress for the evening.
The siren-red lingerie was an erotic contrast against her skin. The silk and lace body skimmer rode low over her breasts so they all but spilled out of the top. Then it cinched in, sheer and seductive, slicked over her hips. Her hose was sheer and shimmering, and braked to a teasing halt at mid-thigh.
She stepped out of the dress, kicked it aside with the toe of one spiked heel.
“I thought we’d have dinner first.”
He managed to lift his gaze to her face even as his mouth fell open.
“But . . . I guess it’ll keep.” She stepped forward, planted herself between his legs. “I want you to touch me.”
His hands burned to take, but he skimmed them lightly over her, following angle, curve. “I’m lost in you already.”
“Stay there.” She bent down, took his mouth.
She knew he held back, let her hold the reins. And because she knew it, she gave him everything she had.
The candlelight glimmered, warming the scent of the roses as she slid onto the bed with him. As she took her hands, her mouth over him. Erotic and tender, passionate and loving. She wanted to show him all, everything.
And as she did, he gave back. Long drugging kisses that weighed the limbs, lazy, lingering caresses