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She knew what he would bring her, this time, every time, whether it was a slow, burning build or one breathless burst: pleasure, deep and dazzling, with the excitement that shimmered around it.
He found her breast, giving himself the thrill of taking her into his mouth. Soft, firm, his. Her back bowed, her breath caught, and beneath his busy tongue, her heart hammered.
His hand closed around the teardrop diamond she wore—a symbol that she had learned to take what he so needed to give her.
Then they rolled, tugging at clothes so flesh could slide and stroke torturously against flesh.
Her breathing quickened, firing his blood. She who was strong and steady could be made to tremble under him. He could feel her body straining toward release, see in her face those flickers of shock and delight as it built.
As he took her over, he closed his mouth over hers and swallowed her long, shuddering moan.
It wouldn't be enough. Even as her system started that lovely glide toward contentment, she knew he would drive her back up again. Drive her to where every pulse in her body pounded, every nerve sparked.
Braced and ready, she reached for him, struggling to give back even as her mind shattered and emptied, her system careened helplessly back into the heat.
She said his name, only his name, and arched up to take him inside her. The joining was smooth, and it was hot. Agile, eager, she pistoned her hips to meet each thrust. She could drive him as well as be driven. His fingers clamped down on hers, locked tight. Another layer of intimacy.
She could see in his eyes, so wildly blue, that he was as lost as she in this moment, this magic.
Only you. She knew he thought it, even as she did. Then those glorious eyes went opaque. With one breathless cry, she clung to his hands and threw herself over with him.
He lowered himself, sighing as he stretched out to rest his head between her breasts. Beneath him her body had gone lax as water. He knew she'd spring up soon enough, throw on her clothes, and go back to the work that consumed her.
But for now, for just a few moments more, she was content to drift.
"You should come home for lunch more often," he murmured.
She laughed.
"Fun time's over. I've got to get back."
"Mm-hmm." But neither of them made a move to rise. "We have dinner at eight at The Palace with some top-level staff and their spouses from one of my transportation arms."
She frowned a little. "Did I know that?"
"Yes."
"Oh. I've got this thing at seven."
"What thing?"
"Will reading. At B. D. Branson's."
"Ah. No problem, I'll shift dinner to eight-thirty and we'll go by Branson's first."
"There's no we here."
He lifted his head from her breast, smiled. "I think I just proved you wrong."
"It's a case, not sex."
"All right, I won't have sex with you at Branson's, but it might have been interesting."
"Look, Roarke—"
"It simply makes sense, logistically." He gave her cheek a pat and rolled aside. "We'll go from Branson's to the hotel where dinner is set."
"You can't just sit in on a will reading. It's not a public event."
