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Authors: J. D. Robb
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working here.”
He flipped open the top button of her shirt as he backed her toward the elevator. “Me, too.” And the next as he nudged her inside the car. “I love my job,” he said, then brought his mouth down to hers.
And he was good at it, she thought, as his hands got busy and her pulse jumped to gallop. She let the kiss take her under, and was already sunk deep when the elevator doors reopened and her shirt hit the floor.
The cool air whisked over her bare skin; her eyes blinked open.
He backed her toward the roof terrace where the open glass dome let in the night. “What—” Then his mouth took hers again, and she could all but feel her brain dissolving.
“We had a walk outside, dined al fresco.” He pressed her back into the stone rail. “We’ll consider this a hat trick.”
She slid her own hands down, found him hard. “Well, I see you brought your hockey stick.”
With a laugh he flipped open her bra—the simple white cotton she preferred and that never failed to allure him—and toyed first with the fat diamond she wore on a chain. “Now I feel I should come up with something clever to say about your puck, but everything that occurs sounds crude.”
He skimmed his hands over her breasts. Small and firm, with the diamond he’d given her gleaming between them. He felt the trip of her heart under smooth skin, and the warmth of her spread under his hands. However clear her eyes, however much humor in them, he knew she was already as aroused as he.
He turned her, eased her down on the edge of a wide, padded chaise. “Boots,” he said, and lifted one of her feet. She leaned back on her elbows, watching as he stood in front of her pulling off one boot, then the other.
Naked to the waist, her skin glowing a little in the pale light of the urban moon, the faint smirk on her face—irresistible. He sat beside her to take off his own shoes, shifting to meet her mouth again when she went to work on the buttons of his shirt. And she angled, straddled him, pressed herself to him.
She dived now rather than sank. Into the heat, the need, the wonder they brought to each other. Now, as ever, it was a shock to the system, a stunning, breathless rightness she’d never expected to know. Here. Him. Hers. That gorgeous mouth seduced and demanded at the same time, and those hands—so skilled—possessed. Just the feel of him against her—skin to skin—so familiar now could still dazzle her senses.
He loved her, wanted her, needed her, just as impossibly as she loved, wanted, needed him. Miraculous.
He murmured to her, first her name. Just Eve. Only Eve. Then in Irish. A grha. My love. His love. And the rest was lost as his hands guided her, as in a dance, and she bowed back for him.
Those lips skimmed up her torso, a warm, gentle line, then his mouth took her breast with a quick, stunning hunger. Her sigh became a gasp that shuddered to a moan.
Everything and all things. That was Eve for him. Nothing he’d ever dreamed of, even in secret in the dirty alleys of Dublin, approached the reality of her. Nothing he possessed could ever be as precious. The taste of her in the cool night, in the pale light, stirred a craving he understood would never be fully sated.
He rose, lifting her with him, feeling that craving spike and tear when her mouth went wild on his. Once again he pressed her back to the stone, now dropping her to her feet as he yanked her trousers down. As she dragged at his.
“Mine,” he said, clamping her hips, thrust into her.
Yes, God, yes. The first orgasm burst through her, a reeling blow that left her dizzy, drunk, then desperate for more. She hooked a leg around him, opening so he would fill, and her hips pistoned, matching him stroke for frantic stroke.
The cool stone at her back, the heat of him against her, in her, drove her up again as he took and took.
When the need built again, when she felt herself about to fall into those wild blue eyes, she clamped around him. “Come
He flipped open the top button of her shirt as he backed her toward the elevator. “Me, too.” And the next as he nudged her inside the car. “I love my job,” he said, then brought his mouth down to hers.
And he was good at it, she thought, as his hands got busy and her pulse jumped to gallop. She let the kiss take her under, and was already sunk deep when the elevator doors reopened and her shirt hit the floor.
The cool air whisked over her bare skin; her eyes blinked open.
He backed her toward the roof terrace where the open glass dome let in the night. “What—” Then his mouth took hers again, and she could all but feel her brain dissolving.
“We had a walk outside, dined al fresco.” He pressed her back into the stone rail. “We’ll consider this a hat trick.”
She slid her own hands down, found him hard. “Well, I see you brought your hockey stick.”
With a laugh he flipped open her bra—the simple white cotton she preferred and that never failed to allure him—and toyed first with the fat diamond she wore on a chain. “Now I feel I should come up with something clever to say about your puck, but everything that occurs sounds crude.”
He skimmed his hands over her breasts. Small and firm, with the diamond he’d given her gleaming between them. He felt the trip of her heart under smooth skin, and the warmth of her spread under his hands. However clear her eyes, however much humor in them, he knew she was already as aroused as he.
He turned her, eased her down on the edge of a wide, padded chaise. “Boots,” he said, and lifted one of her feet. She leaned back on her elbows, watching as he stood in front of her pulling off one boot, then the other.
Naked to the waist, her skin glowing a little in the pale light of the urban moon, the faint smirk on her face—irresistible. He sat beside her to take off his own shoes, shifting to meet her mouth again when she went to work on the buttons of his shirt. And she angled, straddled him, pressed herself to him.
She dived now rather than sank. Into the heat, the need, the wonder they brought to each other. Now, as ever, it was a shock to the system, a stunning, breathless rightness she’d never expected to know. Here. Him. Hers. That gorgeous mouth seduced and demanded at the same time, and those hands—so skilled—possessed. Just the feel of him against her—skin to skin—so familiar now could still dazzle her senses.
He loved her, wanted her, needed her, just as impossibly as she loved, wanted, needed him. Miraculous.
He murmured to her, first her name. Just Eve. Only Eve. Then in Irish. A grha. My love. His love. And the rest was lost as his hands guided her, as in a dance, and she bowed back for him.
Those lips skimmed up her torso, a warm, gentle line, then his mouth took her breast with a quick, stunning hunger. Her sigh became a gasp that shuddered to a moan.
Everything and all things. That was Eve for him. Nothing he’d ever dreamed of, even in secret in the dirty alleys of Dublin, approached the reality of her. Nothing he possessed could ever be as precious. The taste of her in the cool night, in the pale light, stirred a craving he understood would never be fully sated.
He rose, lifting her with him, feeling that craving spike and tear when her mouth went wild on his. Once again he pressed her back to the stone, now dropping her to her feet as he yanked her trousers down. As she dragged at his.
“Mine,” he said, clamping her hips, thrust into her.
Yes, God, yes. The first orgasm burst through her, a reeling blow that left her dizzy, drunk, then desperate for more. She hooked a leg around him, opening so he would fill, and her hips pistoned, matching him stroke for frantic stroke.
The cool stone at her back, the heat of him against her, in her, drove her up again as he took and took.
When the need built again, when she felt herself about to fall into those wild blue eyes, she clamped around him. “Come
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