Page 25 of Treachery in Death

She turned, her eyes glimmering like burnished gold through the water.

“You missed a few spots.”

“Careless of me.” He filled his palm with soap, swirled it over her shoulders, her breasts, her torso, her belly.

Every inch of her yearned, here in the heat and steam, with the pounding and pulsing of water against tile, against flesh. His hands were magic on her body, triggering needs, tripping sensations, finding—owning—her secrets. His mouth, when he used it on her, infused her body with a thousand aches of pleasure.

His fingers found her, opened her, and wet to wet stroked her through those aches and beyond.

She wrapped around him, a sleek, fragrant vine, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth avid on his. Her heart beat wild and strong against his chest in quick, lusty kicks. And she filled her hands with soap, glided them over his back, his hips, slicked them between their slippery bodies to take him in that silkened grip.

To destroy him.

He all but heard the lead snap on his control and plunged into her. Trapping her against the wet tiles, capturing her cries even as her arms chained around his neck.

Hot jets of water pummeled their joined bodies. Drops glistened on skin, on the air. Steam rose and spread to blur them into one desperate form in that last mad rush.

She went limp in his arms. It was a moment he loved, when the pleasure overwhelmed her, left her weak. Just that instant of utter surrender to him, but more, to them.

Basking in it, she rested her head on his shoulder until he lifted her face, laid his lips on hers. Softly now, and sweetly.

He watched her eyes clear, watched them smile. “That wasn’t makeup sex.”

“Of course not.”

“Just confirming.”

“But it was an excellent prelude.”

“Worked for me. Coffee in bed, sex in the shower—makes a solid wake-up combo.”

She nuzzled another moment, then was gone—stepping out and into the drying tube.

While air swirled around her he ordered the water temperature to lower five civilized degrees.

When he walked into the bedroom with a towel slung around his waist she stood in a short robe doing something he rarely if ever saw her do. Actively studying the contents of her closet.

“This is weird,” she said, “but I need to ... Pick something out for me to wear, will you? I need to look in control, an authority, serious. Seriously in charge.”

Frustrated, she circled her hands in the air. “But without looking planned or studied. I don’t want it to come off like an outfit, but—”

“I understand you.” He stepped in, studied the jackets first. He’d selected every one of them himself as wardrobe—much less shopping for wardrobe—was dead low on her list of priorities.

“This.”

“Red? But—”

“Not red, but burgundy. It’s not bright, not bold, but deep and serious—and transmits authority, particularly in this very tailored cut. With these pants—a serious gunmetal gray, and this top in a slightly softer gray—no fuss, no embellishments. The gray boots, as they’ll give you one long line, with the jacket as the subliminal element of authority.”

She puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Okay. You’re the expert.”

Once she’d dressed she had to admit there was a reason he was the expert. She looked put together but not—how had she put it—studied. And the red—sorry, burgundy—did look strong.

Plus, if she got blood on it, it might not show. Much.

“Wear these.”

She frowned at the little silver studs he held out. “I hardly ever wear earrings to work. They’re—”

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