Her head dipped back to lay limply on the smooth side of the pool as she simply wallowed in the pleasure he offered her.
Slowly, slyly, his mouth roamed up, over her belly, her torso, her breasts, to linger at her throat where her pulse beat thick and fast.
"You've got amazing breath control," she managed, then trembled as gradually, inch by inch, he slipped inside her. "Oh God."
He watched her face, saw the heat flush her cheeks, the flickers of pleasure move over it. Her hair was slicked back, leaving it unframed. And that stubborn, often too serious mouth, trembled for him. Cupping her hips, he lifted her, moved in deep, deeper to make her moan.
He rubbed his lips over hers, nibbled at them while he began to move with an exquisite control that tortured them both. "Go over, Eve."
He watched those shrewd cop's eyes go blind and blurry, heard her breath catch then release on something like a sob. Even as his blood burned, he kept his movements achingly slow. Drawing it out, every instant, every inch until that sob became his name.
His own release was long and deep and perfect.
She managed to drag her hands out of the water and grip his shoulders. "Don't let go of me yet. I'll sink like a stone."
He chuckled weakly, pressed his lips to the side of her throat where her pulse still danced. "Same goes. You should get up early more often."
"We'd kill each other. Miracle we didn't drown."
He drew in the scent of her skin and water. "We may yet."
"Do you think we can make it over to the steps?"
"If you're not in a hurry."
They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. "Coffee," Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.
When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.
"Hungry?"
She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. "Starving. But I want a shower."
"Upstairs then."
Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. "Lower the water temp and die," she warned.
"Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing."
"You've already taken care of that." She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.
She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.
She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.
"I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night."
Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. "Am I going to have to apologize every time I'm called away on business that affects our personal plans?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. "No. The thing is I was headed out the door—I hadn't forgotten—and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn't track."
"The NYPSD has pitiful equipment."
"Not that pitiful," she muttered. "This guy's a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it."
"Now, that's insulting."
She had to smirk. "Well, you might get a chance at him. Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn't put it past him to contact me here."