Page 40 of Calculated in Death

When he filled her, joy married pleasure. Movement echoed need. Slow, slow, then building into a rise and fall that shut out everything but that mating, that merging. She took his face in her hands as each thrust took her higher.

In his eyes she saw herself fly. And saw him fly after her.

•••

Since her body clock was already inside out and backwards, she didn’t see any reason not to just lie there a few more minutes. Maybe the mind-clearing/recharging agenda hadn’t gone exactly as she planned.

But this was better.

“I’ve talked to too many people today,” she commented.

“Tell me about it.”

She stared up at the sky window above the bed, wondered when it had gone full dark. “You never get tired of talking to people.”

“You’d be wrong about that.”

“You can pay people to talk to the people. Even pay people to talk to the people talking to the people you don’t want to talk to.”

Amused, he linked his fingers with hers. “And who would talk to them?”

“You could do it all by text or e-mail and never have to speak to a living soul. I can only dream of days like that.”

“Ah, but if I paid people to talk to the people—which I actually do when necessary, and then paid more people to talk to the people I paid, there’s no doubt some things would be lost in translation, and I’d end up having to talk to even more people after it all got bollocksed up.”

“Maybe. But you like people more than I do.”

“That’s probably true, until you factor in you risk your life for people every day.”

“Not today, especially.”

“Then we should celebrate. God, I want a bloody glass of wine.”

She lifted his head with her hands, took a long look. “You had a bad day.”

“No, a bumpy one, a long one, but in the end not bad at all. Especially the homecoming portion.”

“Well that part goes without saying.”

“It should always be said.” He nudged up to kiss her.

“Then I’ll say it, too. And I want a shower, maybe some wine, and since I paid you in advance I want you to look at the vic’s file.”

“A deal’s a deal. Shower, wine, food—and my end of the bargain.”

“I had food before.”

“Before what?”

She laughed, rolled out of bed with him. “I had a fake Danish this morning, and magic chicken soup this afternoon.”

“More cause to celebrate.”

They walked into the shower, with Roarke already resigned to having his skin boiled off.

“It was really good soup from a deli near the crime scene.” She ordered jets on full, one-hundred-two degrees.

He winced and bore it.