Then he set a rhythm that had her arching into his touch over and over again, her body tensing until pleasure burst, consuming her. She cried out, loud and mindless and he kissed her, stroking her as she rode out the orgasm.

Finally, she collapsed onto the mattress, panting. When she could open her eyes, she found him staring down at her, satisfaction stamped on his handsome face.

“I think I was loud,” she said. “I should be embarrassed, but I’m really not.”

He smirked at that. “I think you were perfect.”

“Not yet,” she said. “You’re still . . .”

“Hard as a damn rock? Yes, I am. But that was for you, Mercy. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.” She pressed trembling hands to his shoulders and gave him a little shove. “On your back, Detective. We’re not done yet.”

He tumbled backward, pulling his hand free from her clothing and making her wish that she’d been just a little braver. But they had time.

She’d thought she was done, her arousal banked, until he lifted his fingers to his mouth and, holding her gaze, licked them clean. “Oh,” she whispered, fiery tingles racing all over her skin. “You’re bad.”

He waggled his brows. “Positively wicked. I deserve to be punished. Do your worst.”

She tugged at his T-shirt. “Take this off.”

He didn’t have to be asked twice, and the shirt was gone before she could even blink. She ran her hand over all that pretty, tanned skin, pausing at the puckered scar on his upper arm. That had been one of the bullets he’d taken for her that night in February. She kissed it now, tenderly, nuzzling her cheek against the soft blond hair on his chest when he sucked in a breath.

“Mercy,” he whispered.

“Mmm,” she hummed. She kissed across his chest, licking his nipples as he’d done to hers, then dipped her hand into the sweats he’d slept in, remembering how he’d made a point of the fact that he owned no sleep pants because he usually slept in the buff.

Suddenly she wished he hadn’t worn the sweats and tugged at them. “Take these off, too.”

His eyes blazed and he choked back a low moan. “You’re killing me here.”

Her heart was beating too hard to even try to think of a cute reply. “Do it, Sokolov.”

He grinned and lifted his hips, shucking the sweats down to his knees. “You can pull them the rest of the way.”

But she didn’t. She hovered, taking in the sight of him. All of him. “You are . . .” Beautiful. He was beautifully made. Like art. Which sounded dumb in her head. Knowing she was blushing, she gripped him, reveling in the groan that rattled in his chest.

“I’m what?” he managed. “Tell me.”

It occurred to her that he might need the words too, and she wondered why that seemed so surprising. He had to know that he was built like a Greek god, but she’d loved it when he’d praised her body. She’d never thought to return the favor with any of those she’d been with before.