“Here now.” He set her on the bed, where the cat had already made himself comfortable. He took off her shoes, then fetched her a nightshirt while she pulled off her sweater.
After dropping the shirt over her head, he began to undress.
“A favor? I’d like it if we’ve given her enough time and attention until tomorrow.”
“No problem with that.” She finished undressing, slid into bed.
Tired, she thought, in her mind, in her body. But the need was stronger than the fatigue. And because she knew him—she did know him—she understood he’d have that same need.
So when he lay beside her, holding her as he always did for sleep, she tipped her face up to find his mouth.
“Be with me,” she murmured. “I need you to be with me.”
“Always.”
Tender, so tender, each touch, each taste.
The cat gave a kind of sigh before he jumped off the bed.
Soothing each other, she thought, this quiet, gentle mating that brought warmth instead of heat, and comfort more than passion.
She gave herself to it as she gave to him. Love, just love, with no questions, no doubts. He murmured to her as his hands skimmed and glided. In Irish, words she knew now, others she didn’t. But all from his heart.
The sound of them, soft in the dark, made her feel cherished.
She gave them back, the words she knew, and added her own.
And the sound of them, soft in the dark, made him feel cherished.
His fingers skimmed over that faint bruise on her back as if to erase it, and for a moment, he held her tighter as the thought of losing her destroyed him.
“Don’t think about it,” she whispered—because she knew him. “Don’t think about it now. I’m here. Be with me here. I love you. Roarke. I love you.”
And took his mouth again so he could taste the words.
Be with me, she thought again and drew him into her.
They moved together, slow, drawing out each moment, living in the shimmering pleasure love offered.
My love, my heart, my all, he told her with his words, with his body. He felt her long, slow release, heard it in her throaty sigh. As she melted under him, he took his own.
When she woke in the morning, she saw him on the sofa with the cat. He wore a black sweater and pants and worked on a portable. On the wall screen it looked like maps, various routes highlighted, and bunches of numbers.
“Did I sleep through to Saturday again?”
“You didn’t, no. I’ve cleared my schedule for the day.”
“Countries may crumble. You don’t have to do that.”
“They won’t, and I do. You’ll want coffee to wake up that busy brain.”
“You’ve got something.”
“Very nearly. Wake yourself up, Lieutenant. I’m more than ready for breakfast.”
She got coffee, a quick shower to unmuddle her brain. When she came out, he had plates under domes, had the cat busy with his own breakfast as he stood at the window.
“It’s back on auto. Just a few more layers.”
