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A muscle worked in Feeney’s jaw as he turned away again, muted the screen. He’d known that she?
?d been found in an alley at eight, beaten, broken, sexually abused. That was on record, and he never worked with anyone without knowing their official data. But he hadn’t known it was her father who’d done it. He’d suspected as much, but he hadn’t known. His stomach twisted, his hands clenched.
“I’m sorry for that. She never brought it up.”
“She didn’t always remember. Or, more likely, she did and refused to remember. She still has nightmares, flashbacks.”
“You got no business telling me this.”
“She’d likely say the same, but I’m telling you, anyway. She made herself what she is, and you helped. She’d go to the wall for you; you know that.”
“Cops back up cops. That’s the job.”
“I’m not talking about the job. She loves you, and she doesn’t love easily. It’s difficult for her to feel it, and to show it. Part of her may always be braced for betrayal, for a blow. You’ve been her father for ten years, Feeney. She didn’t deserve to be broken again.”
Roarke stood, and saying nothing more, walked out.
Alone, Feeney raked his hands up over his face, into his wiry red hair, then let them drop on his lap.
It was six fifteen when Eve rolled over, blinked at the light streaming through the windows. Roarke preferred waking to sun. Unless she snuck out of bed or climbed in well after him, she didn’t get her shot at pulling the privacy screens.
She felt logy, decided it was too much sleep, and started to slip out of bed.
Roarke’s arm swept out and pinned her. “Not yet.” His voice was husky, his eyes still closed as he tugged her back over.
“I’m awake. I can get an early start.” She wiggled. “I’ve been in bed nearly nine hours. I can’t sleep anymore.”
He opened one eye—sufficient to note that she did indeed look rested. “You’re a detective,” he pointed out. “I’ll bet if you investigated, you’d uncover the startling fact that there are activities that can be done in bed other than sleep.”
His lips curved as he rolled on top of her. “Allow me to give you the first clue.”
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was already hard, or that she would be so instantly ready for him. He slid inside her, smooth, slow, deep, and watched the lingering sleep clear from her eyes into awareness.
“I think I’ve figured it out already.” She lifted her hips, matched his lazy pace.
“You’re such a quick study.” He lowered his lips to nuzzle just under her jawline. “I like this spot,” he murmured. “And this one.” His hand trailed up her rib cage, cupped her breast.
The arousal was sweet, simple, and made her sigh. “Let me know when you get to something you don’t like.”
She wrapped her arms around him, her legs. He was so solid, so warm, the steady beat of his heart against hers so comforting. Pleasure built in gauzy layers, floating over her mind, stroking through her body.
“Go over for me.” He nibbled her lips, then swept his tongue inside to tangle with hers. To nip, to suck. “Go over,” he repeated. “Slow.”
“Well…” Her breath was already hitching, catching in her throat. “Since you ask so nice.”
The climax rolled through her, one long, lingering wave. She felt him follow, caught in the same current, and pressed her cheek to his.
“Was that like a cookie?” she wondered.
“Hmmm?”
“You know, have a cookie. You’ll feel better.” She put her hands on either side of his face, lifting it as he laughed. “Were you making me feel better?”
“I certainly hope so. It worked for me.” He dipped his head to kiss her lightly. “I wanted you. I always do.”
“It’s funny how men can wake up with their brains in their cocks.”
“It makes us what we are.” Still chuckling, he rolled her over him, patted her butt. “Let’s take a shower. I’ll give you another cookie.”
