He felt the tips of her breasts brush against his back. She was a miracle in the middle of the violent world he lived in. He had asked her if she would be bored when their lives settled down. He should have asked her how long she could stay when he lived with murder every day. Few women could do it for very long, not when he was so obsessed and driven. He had always focused on his work, and he knew that wouldn’t change.

“You’ll catch them,” she assured him again.

She was like the calm in the middle of a storm. Her hair fell over his shoulder and he wrapped his fist in it. Love had grown when he was least expecting it. Love was strong and alive, driving out the shadows in his mind. She seemed to be able to light up his world even in his darkest hour.

Bijou kissed the top of his head, shuffled to the side of the bed and rose gracefully. Remy’s breath caught in his throat. She was truly a beautiful woman. He found it astonishing that she was here, with him, discussing murder when she looked as if she belonged in a fairy-tale castle. Her hair was tousled, long, hanging to the sweet curve of her butt. He enjoyed his hands in her hair, and every time she had it up, or in braids, he found he couldn’t wait to let it fall so he could indulge himself. He’d made love to her—how many times last night—yet he wanted her again. Right then. For comfort maybe—hell—he didn’t know. Maybe to make him feel like there was something worth fighting for.

He caught her hand. “Blue.” He just said her name. That was all.

She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. He didn’t know if he expected rejection or a protest because of the subject matter they’d been discussing. He only knew his breath stayed caught in his lungs, and he waited silently. She had to be tired and sore. He’d ridden her hard and long over and over again, he reminded himself.

She ran one hand through his thick hair, stepping so close to him he could smell their combined scents on her. His marks were all over her body. More leopard than man at times when they made love, he could be rough. He leaned forward and kissed a dark smudge just on the inside of her thigh. She trembled. He stroked his tongue over the bruise. His hand moved higher and encountered heat.

That wild urgency settled inside of him. “You’re wet for me.”

“I’m always wet for you. I get wet just lookin’ at you,” she admitted. “It’s hell on my panties.”