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In the dark, curled against him, her body seemed so fragile. It wasn’t, he knew. His Eve was strong, tough and athletic. He’d seen her take a punch—more than once—and execute one. He’d been on the receiving end of her fist, so could attest she packed some power.
He’d tended her wounds, as she had his, and knew she healed well, healed fast. His resilient, hardheaded cop.
But there were parts inside that tough, disciplined body that remained fragile—perhaps always would. And those vulnerable places pulled at him to protect, to comfort, to do anything he could to spare her a bruise or blow.
The vulnerability undid him even as the strength brought him pride. And the whole of her brought him love beyond the measuring of it.
Of all he’d craved in his life, all he’d dreamed of having, all he’d fought to gain by fair means or foul, he’d never imagined having such as she as his own. Never imagined himself the man he’d come to be because she was.
Now he felt her begin to relax again, degree by degree, and hoped she drifted toward that quiet and that warmth where there were no bruises or blows. And he let himself drift with her, wrapped around her like a shield.
So when she lifted her face to his, when he lowered his lips to hers, it was another kind of dreaming, as soft and lovely as the firelight playing on the walls.
His heart poured to hers, a murmured stream of Irish while she melted against him.
She knew some of the words; he’d said them before. But there was more now. He always seemed to have more to give her. Now he gave her tenderness when she hadn’t known she’d needed the tender. He gave her unity when alone hurt.
A touch, a taste, all slow, all easy, as if patience and love were one steady heartbeat.
Worries that had dogged her in sleep broke apart, dissolved so there was only the welcome weight of his body, the lazy stroke of his hands, the stirring taste of him on her tongue.
She flowed along that gentle current of sensation, its lazy rise, its graceful fall. Breathing him, touching as she was touched. As if nothing in the world mattered more than the moment. And nothing existed in the moment but them.
When she opened, he filled. When he filled, she surrounded.
As they moved together in the dance of firelight, the tenderness brought tears to her eyes, a catch of them in her breath.
“I love you.” Overwhelmed, undone, he pressed his face to her shoulder. “A ghra. A ghra mo chro
i.”
“Love,” she sighed as she rose to peak, light as a feather on a cloud.
“Love,” she repeated when she lay warm against him. She rested her hand on his cheek. He curled his over her wrist.
She slept, in the quiet and warm.
Roarke slept with her.
When she woke to sunlight, it pleased her to see him in the bedroom sitting area, drinking coffee—the cat sprawled over his lap—while he watched the financial reports whiz by on-screen. And fully dressed in one of his god of the business world suits.
Which meant he’d been up an hour, probably more, and tended to some of his realm.
So not as worried about her.
She glanced at the time, grunted, then rolled out of bed to shower. In the drying tube, she closed her eyes as the warm air swirled around her. Time to get your head in the game, she ordered herself.
Who the hell had a head to get in any game before coffee?
She grabbed the robe on the back of the door, shrugged into it as she strode back into the bedroom and straight to the AutoChef.
She drank half the first cup as though her life depended on it, then turned, studied Roarke again.
“Morning.”
“She speaks.”
“And she’s going to have to do a lot more of it.”
