Soul of a Predator

by Angela Verdenius

  Hard fingers unsnapped the clip on her pants, and Shaque roughly shoved her pants down her hips and thighs, before grabbing her around the waist and lifting her to sit on the edge of the bench before him. The smooth surface was cool beneath her skin. Reaching up, she gripped the rail, curling her fingers tight around the cold metal.

  Stepping back Shaque looked at her. His winter eyes glittered like blue ice chips, so pale, yet burning with cold fire. Hooking his fingers into her pants, he dragged them down her legs and off, slipping her boots off at the same time. Carelessly he tossed them aside.

  Sitting on the bench, wrists tied above her head, breasts lifted from the position, she was vulnerable. Open. And she loved the feeling of power that snaked through her at the unbridled lust for her that was reflected in his eyes. Physically she was helpless, but sexually ... sexually, only she could slake his thirst and that empowered her.

  Lifting her chin, she shook her hair back over her shoulders and looked mockingly at him.

  "Do you want the mutant, Shaque?” The words were partially spoken, partially growled. “Or the woman?"

  "I want you.” His words grated. “Mutant, woman. It's all you, Elyse.” Stepping forward, he placed his hands on her thighs, slid them around to cup the sensitive backs of her knees, and pulled her legs apart. Dropping his gaze, he said, “All of you."

  The air was cool on her hot sex, and she took a deep breath as desire shuddered through her.

  Stepping back again, Shaque looked his fill of her, his gaze sliding over her leisurely, but she could swear she felt the lick of heat in his gaze.

  "You look so wanton, Elyse.” His voice thickened, lowered. “Tied up, at my mercy. Half dressed. Lips swollen. So open.” Reaching out, he touched one finger directly onto her exposed femininity, sliding through unhesitatingly until his finger hit the seam of her body, then he moved his fingertip up and down in slow, gentle sweeps. “So very open."

  The carnal movements of his touch made her strain, pulling on the rail as she clenched her teeth against the moan that threatened to spill forth.

  Removing his finger, Shaque caught her gaze, locked them together. In sure moves, he unsnapped the fastening on his pants and pushed them down past his lean hips.

  His staff sprang free, and now she saw it for the first time. Thick and long with desire, it curved up against his muscled belly, a man's weapon, a man's pleasure inducer, a man's life giver ... a man's testament to masculinity and all that was male. Hot and hard and wanting, growing thicker as Shaque looked at her, as he wrapped his hand around the thick length and stroked once, twice.

  Heat flushed through her, and she bit her lip, her gaze lifting from his heavy manhood to his face. Heated passion darkened his classical features. His face was stamped with carnal hunger.

  Elyse licked her lips in answering hunger. She throbbed deep inside, her womanhood damp, the muscles of her vagina clenching in anticipation.

  She didn't know what he saw in her eyes at the moment, but something changed in Shaque. He'd gone from fast and hard to slow and teasing, and now he snapped back again, moving fast.

  Two steps forward and he was between her thighs. His hands were hard on her waist, his short nails scraping up her sides as he leaned in to kiss her hungrily, his mouth again taking hers with a rapacity that made the inner flames scorch through her. Unashamedly, she moaned into his mouth.

  But still he wasn't close enough. Not enough...

  In a fast move, she wrapped her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles behind him and jerking him flush up against herself. Her heat was pressed to his groin, the intimate curls mingling as their skin met.

  Shaque's breath hissed out carnally into her mouth, and now it was her turn to laugh lowly, a touch threateningly.

  Lifting her head, she looked into his burning eyes and smiled. “You don't get it all your own way."

  Without giving him time to reply, she pressed her mouth to the pulse in his throat and sucked hard. Strong. Bit sharply, but didn't break the skin. She was so hungry for him, she wanted to taste him. Bite him. Mark him as hers.

  He jerked against her, his breathing harsh, rasping. Strong fingers bit into her bottom, angled her hips, and then he drove into her.

  The force of his entry, the sensation of that hard, thick length shoving through her femininity and deep into her body, wrenched a rapacious roar of pleasure from her.

  Gripping onto the rail, she arched back, seeking to drive her hips against him.

  Now she could see his face. His eyes blazed the colour of a winter sky on a glaringly-bright day. Lust set them on fire. His jaw was clenched as he pounded into her, and his unbridled passion was stamped hedonistically onto his handsome features. He was a man taking a woman he desired. So totally turned on, so in tune with what she wanted, needed, and he strove to give it to her.

  Giving and taking the pleasure. Shaque watched her. Even as the heat of their passion burned hotter, higher, more dangerous, he watched her. He noted what touch, what angle, what thrust, the pace—everything that made her burn, cry, and growl, clench her teeth and writhe under his merciless, prurient onslaught. He noted and used it, pushing her higher, making the mutant in her roar helplessly, and the woman scream.

  And start begging.

  "Please, Shaque, please.” Is that really me? Am I really begging? Am I—Ahhhhhhh! “Oh God, Shaque, please. Please!"

  The red haze vanished, the mutant slid under. She felt it go to be replaced with the woman. With herself. Her gaze met his, locked, and in his eyes she saw a faint softening, swift and fleeting.

  He dipped his head towards her. “You're back,” was all he rasped hotly into her ear.

  His hands shifted, one sliding up to press in the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair, holding her still for his hot kiss. Plundering her mouth as he plundered her body—strongly, insatiably, claiming, stamping himself into her.

  And she couldn't get enough, her thighs tightening around him, drawing him closer, as close as she could. Pressing her into him, against him, seeking the heat and the strength of both his mental and physical body.

  Needing him.

  Wanting him.

  Craving him.

  All of him.

  She kissed him back almost desperately, licking deep in turn, and she heard his low growl of pleasure, felt his approval in the tightening of his fingers in her hair, the flex of his hand on her back. The extra-hard thrust deep inside her.

  Shaque's hips moved powerfully, each pump invading deep, his essence leaking from the tip of his staff in a scorching testimony to the desire building inside him. Every sure, strong stroke speared through her passage, and every stroke forced her higher, drove her closer to the pinnacle that beckoned.

  His moves became shorter, sharper, and she felt every nerve-ending inside her screaming for release from the agonizingly intensity of the passion he gave her. Buried in her as far as he could go, he rocked vigorously against her, his breaths now hot puffs next to her ear.

  And then he stopped, drawing his head back to look at her.

  Looking back at him, she licked her kiss-swollen lips, swallowing, tasting him inside her mouth, feeling him deep in her body.

  And still holding her gaze captive, he pulled out, stopping just short of slipping from her sheltering folds altogether.

  "Elyse,” he said huskily.

  And thrust in powerfully, burying himself up to the hilt in her, driving her breath from her as stars burst behind her eyes and she was flung out into the Eros of a shattering climax.

  Dimly she heard him roar his release, felt his seed spurting hot and fast inside her body. Felt him hold her tight to him as he emptied himself inside her, and her muscles milked him over and over.

  She didn't know how long she drifted out in the haze of pleasure, but she didn't want to come back. But as with all things, she gradually drifted down, coming to with Shaque's arms cradling her to him, her face resting in the crook of his neck. He was supporting her with h
is body.

  "Elyse.” His voice was low.

  "Mmm?” Still warm and relaxed with bliss, she nuzzled his neck.

  "I need you to sit up."

  "Why?” Lifting her head, she looked at him.

  He looked up. “Your hands."

  Now she became aware of a lot of little things. Her shoulders ached from the unaccustomed position she was in, she was deliciously aching between her thighs again, and she was naked.

  Once again she'd had voracious, hot sex with Shaque.

  Shooting stars of Cyron, what the hell is going on?

  Keeping her face expressionless, she sat upright, avoiding looking at Shaque as he reached up and started working on the confines of the bullwhip. Unfortunately, this brought two things to her attention. One, he was leaning against her, the feel of the material proving that he'd had enough sense to pull his pants up before bringing her back from happy-land, and two, she had given him a love-bite on his neck.

  Oh sweet mercy.

  Pulling the bullwhip free, Shaque lowered it, bringing her hands down with the movement. He didn't pull back from her, but stayed against her, between her spread thighs, his fingers deftly unwinding the lash from her wrists.

  Elyse had never felt so vulnerable in her life, or so embarrassed. Here she was, naked, sitting up against Shaque, her breasts not far from his hands. When one of his knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, she caught her breath and tried to pull away a little.

  "Hold still.” Shaque's voice was toneless.

  Mutely she obeyed, knowing she had no choice while her hands were tied. Finally the lash slid from her wrists, and she started to pull them away when Shaque's fingers caught her own, and he lifted her wrists up to view them.

  There were red marks from her pulling against the lash while in the throes of passion, but no bruising or skin-breakage. The man really knew his bullwhip.

  He also really knew how to have hot, mad sex.

  She expected him to step away, enabling her to get down from the bench and retrieve her clothes, followed by a dignified getaway, but he didn't move.

  "Step back,” she said stiffly.

  Instead, Shaque used one finger beneath her chin to bring her gaze to his. His lips were a little swollen, a testament to the heated, devouring kisses they'd shared. His eyes were steady.

  "Are you all right?” he asked directly.

  "What?"

  "Did I hurt you?"

  God no. I could do it all over again. “No."

  In response to his scrutiny of her body, her nipples hardened.

  Using one hand to cover them, she shoved at his chest with the other. “You're dressed, I'm not. Move."

  Wordlessly, he reached behind her, drew the bands of her support garment over her breasts and snapped the clip shut.

  She still had her shirt on, too. How the hell could she have forgotten that? Pulling the shirt around, she buttoned it up with trembling fingers.

  As soon as the last button was fastened, Shaque stepped back and surprised her by lifting her off the bench to stand, his hands warm on her waist.

  She surprised herself by nearly dropping to the floor when her wobbly knees gave out.

  Catching her quickly, Shaque propped her against himself. “You're not used to that kind of position or activity."

  "You don't say?” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “I'll be fine. Let go."

  He did so tentatively.

  Expecting the stiffness of her legs, Elyse carefully bent and scooped up her pants and boots. Straightening, she debated whether to get dressed or make a dignified exit from the cargo hold, though how one did that with one's arse bare for all—him—to see, she didn't know. So that left one option. Get dressed now as though this was something she did every day, and what they'd just shared hadn't blown the top of her head off, but was simply a little interlude.

  Yeah, right.

  And Shaque, the insensitive oaf, just stood and watched her. The sight of him coiling that bullwhip in his hands made her heart skip a beat.

  Crap.

  Holding the waistband of her pants, she glared up at him. “Do you mind?"

  A faint smile curved his lips, even though his eyes remained cold. “No."

  "Get the hell out, Shaque, before I kick your arse!"

  A gleam entered his eyes. “I'm up for it, if you are."

  He was such a smart arse.

  Gritting her teeth, she shoved her legs into her pants and yanked them up. Stamping on her boots, she fastened the clip on the waistband and looked at him.

  He was watching her with a curious expression on his face. Awareness, a touch of heat, but also a little lost.

  Shaque felt lost? Shit. That made two of them.

  Shaking her head, she left the cargo hold.

  Eleven

  Phemar let out an annoyed hiss. The mutant had been touched, cajoled to the surface. He'd almost managed to break through the control, but something had blocked him, something had made the mutant slip under.

  He needed her. Needed her here, where he could study her, find out what other control was influencing the mutant.

  Impatiently, he looked out of the window to the sky beyond.

  * * * *

  Sitting in the control cabin, Shaque stared at the scanner to no avail. He wasn't seeing the space beyond, but Elyse's face.

  Elyse with the mutant lurking beneath her calm exterior. Elyse in a rage, her eyes glowing red. Elyse in the throes of passion. Elyse's scent in his nostrils, on his skin, the memory of her soft skin and tight heat burned into his brain.

  Propping one boot against the console, he drummed the fingers of one hand against the arm rest. It had been four hours since he'd seen her. She'd gone to her cabin, he'd heard the shower not long after, and he'd heard her moving around in the kitchenette.

  Thinking it wisest to keep to his own company, Shaque hadn't sought her out, and obviously she felt the same way, for she hadn't come looking for him. It had given him time to think.

  Taking a deep breath, he leaned his head against the backrest of the chair.

  Elyse walked in, sat on the chair beside him and started reading the data on the viscomm screen. “Any sign of the slave ship?"

  Slanting a look sideways, Shaque shook his head. Her expression was calm, her movements precise. What was she thinking? Following the movement of her hands on the keyboard, he remembered her gripping the rail helplessly, unable to do anything but submit to him ... only she hadn't been completely submissive. A flash of heat went through him at the thought of her legs wrapping around his hips and jerking him forward demandingly—

  "Shaque!"

  "What?” He lifted his gaze to her face. And hello, her cheeks were pink. She obviously had some idea of where his wayward thoughts had been drifting.

  Blowing out a breath, she leaned back against the headrest of the chair, much as he himself was doing.

  Returning his gaze to the space shield, Shaque waited. The silence lengthened, but he just knew she was going to say something.

  "What's happening between us?” Her words were low.

  "I'm attracted to you, and you're attracted to me."

  "How sick is that?"

  "You're telling me."

  The silence grew a little more comfortable.

  "You're attracted to the mutant in me, the danger,” Elyse stated.

  Resting his elbows on the armrest, Shaque steepled his fingers. “I'm attracted to you, full stop."

  "You don't jump my bones when I'm in control."

  "There's no need then."

  "So the need is there when I go mutant?"

  "It seems we're both out of control a little then."

  "So every time I go mutant, you're going to jump my bones and we're going to have mad sex?"

  "Doesn't sound so bad.” Amused, he allowed a small smile to curve his lips. It didn't sound bad at all.

  She grunted. “I'll have to lock myself in my cabin next time. Or tranqu myself out."

 
"What would be the fun in that?” He couldn't believe he was enjoying the conversation.

  "You're not the one slammed against a wall or tied up."

  "We could take turns.” Just the thought made heat flush through his groin. Sick, sick, sick. You are so sick, Shaque.

  "You might not like what I'd do to you if you were tied up."

  "Maybe we should try it next time and see.” Where the hell were these words coming from? “Want to turn mutant and find out?"

  Arching one brow coolly, she folded her hands serenely and rested them on her stomach. “How did you know I was going mutant, anyway? Were my eyes red before I went down?"

  He gestured to the viscomm. “While I was doing a quick scanning system of the different areas in the ship, I caught sight of you in the cargo hold. My intention was to go down and divert you from your rage."

  "You diverted me, all right."

  "Surely did."

  Another silence. Elyse shifted slightly in her chair. Shaque glanced sideways at her. She was dabbing a drop of blood from her nose, and his chest tightened. A second drop trickled out, then a third. No more dripped, so she put the rag back in her pocket.

  I'm dying. The words echoed unpleasantly in his mind.

  She saw him looking and raised one brow challengingly at him.

  He raised one back in return. She wouldn't appreciate pity, and he wasn't into pity.

  "So, I guess I'm safe when I'm not mutant.” She gave a disdainful sniff.

  "We can test that theory.” Now where had those words come from? Then again, just the thought of Elyse jumping into his lap sent that same heat flushing through him again. Uh-oh.

  "I don't think that'd be wise. We'd be more inclined to kill each other."

  "In history, it has been referred to as the Little Death."

  "Huh?"

  "Orgasm."

  "You're full of shit, Shaque."

  He didn't know who was more surprised when he gave a short bark of laughter. But damn it felt good. It had been a long time since he'd laughed even a little.

  Elyse jabbed a finger in his direction. “You like living on the edge."

  "And you live on the edge. So that means I must like y...” He stumbled to a halt, stunned at what he'd nearly said.