by Lora Leigh
Saban snorted at the simplicity of the statement.
“The tabloids are the ones who are insane.” He shifted his shoulders, uncharacteristically nervous in the face of this explanation. “It’s called mating heat,” he finally said softly, wishing he was holding her, that he had just taken her, that he had bound her to him more fully before he had to explain this. “There’s no explanation for it, and so far, it seems it happens only once. Only one woman was meant to be my mate, and that woman is you.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts, her lips pouting with instant denial, though she only said, simply, “Go on.”
Go on. Hell, he was no good at this.
“Simply put, you are my mate. The mating hormone ensures that you won’t deny me or my claim instantly. It’s rather like an aphrodisiac. Like an addictive aphrodisiac.”
Her lips flattened. “It’s not a sickness? A virus?”
“You will not become ill,” he snapped, more to distract her from this line of questioning than for any other reason. “Merely aroused. Very aroused.” Damn. He growled that last word, his anticipation thickening in his voice as he felt the need inside him burning hotter than before, flaming across his nerve endings.
She was his. She may as well resign herself to this now. He would give her as much explanation as he had been cleared to give, but no more.
“And if it’s not what I want?” Slow and precise, the words dripped from her lips like a death knell. He was very certain this was not what she wanted. And in ways, he couldn’t blame her, but unlike those who did not carry the Breed DNA, Saban had a very healthy respect for Nature and all her choices.
“Once the heat begins, it can’t be reversed.” It could be eased, but he didn’t have to tell her that yet. There were many things he couldn’t tell her yet.
“So anyone you kiss—”
“No! Only my mate. Only one woman, Natalie, only you.”
“I knew this was a bad idea!”
Saban almost jumped back at the sharp, furious words and the sparks that lit her molasses eyes.
“What was a bad idea?” he asked carefully.
His senses were already prime to claim her, his teeth ached to mark her, and she stood, her angry, defiant, slender hands propping on her hips as her expression became outraged.
“Letting you stay here. Listening to that insufferable, arrogant Jonas Wyatt, and allowing, for even one second, for your impossible, frustrating, completely insane ass to stay here.” Her voice rose, but it was the flush on her face, the scent of heat, both anger and arousal that whipped through the room that held him mesmerized.
She was like a flame burning with incandescent beauty; even her dark, nearly black hair became brighter, shinier.
Damn, there went his chest, clenching again, those emotions he hadn’t yet figured out rioting through his system.
“So it would appear you were right.” He inclined his head in agreement. “But I wouldn’t have left, and Jonas knew it. Now, we can deal with this.”
“Deal with this?” Her brows arched in angry mockery. “Oh Saban, we’re going to deal with this all right. Right now.”
She stomped to the phone, jerked it off its base, and her finger stabbed at the button programmed to ring in Callan Lyons’s main office.
Saban frowned. “Callan has nothing to do with this.”
The look she flashed him would have silenced a lesser man. Hell, it almost silenced him.
“Mr. Lyons.” Her voice was sugary sweet and lifted every hair on the back of Saban’s neck. He could only imagine Lyons’s expression and the frustration that would be twisting his savagely hewed features.
“Oh yes, we do have a problem,” she said politely, her smile tight. “You’re going to have a dead Breed in, oh, I’d give him twenty minutes, if someone from Sanctuary doesn’t pick him up. I do believe he’s rabid. Someone needs to save him, or I’m going to put him out of his misery.”
As she listened, the sides of her nose began to twitch, and Saban had to restrain his grimace.
“I don’t care if Coyotes are swarming Sanctuary with grenade launchers. Get some of those badass Breeds you prize so highly out here to collect him, or I’m going to kill him. And after I kill him, I’ll hang his mangy, worthless hide in my front yard to show everyone else exactly how it’s done. Twenty minutes.” She slammed the phone down.
“One of your handlers will be here to pick you up soon. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, and don’t find yourself anywhere near me after that.”
She stalked across the kitchen, her pert little nose in the air, her face set in lines of rejection, denial, and fury.
His mate was denying him. Not that he had expected anything less, but with a spirit as strong as his Natalie’s was, there was only one way to combat it.
He caught her as she attempted to brush past him, swung her around, surrounded her with his arms, and before more than a gasp could pass her lips, he had them in a kiss.
His arms tightened around her, lifted her, bore her through the doorway until he was able to find the couch and fall into it, one hand cupping the back of her head and holding her lips to his.
She wasn’t fighting it.
She was furious, enraged, but she wasn’t fighting his kiss. Her greedy lips were suckling at his tongue, and it was heaven. Her hands were in his hair, twining in it, tangling in it, and pulling him closer as a ragged female sound of hunger tore through his senses.
She was like a flame burning in his arms, blistering with her kisses, with the ragged sound of her pleasure, tightening his cock, his balls, hell, every muscle in his body with the need to possess her, to claim her so deeply that she could never deny him again.
“I hate this!” Snarling and filled with outrage, her voice stroked over him in shades of arousal and need as his lips lifted from hers.
Saban framed her face, his hands relishing the feel of her flesh as he stared into her eyes, read her inability to deny the pulsing desperation of his touch.
“I thank God for this … and for you,” he whispered, allowing his thumb to brush over her swollen lips, his tongue to taste her on his lips. “Hate me as you please, Natalie. Curse me, revile me until hell freezes over, but it changes nothing. It can change nothing. You’re mine.”
Natalie struggled beneath the statement, fighting to refute it, to find some way to counter it. But how was she supposed to fight anything when desire clawed through her system with talons of fiery lust and pulsing heat?
She had wanted him before; God knew she had. Fighting that need night after night had made her insane, snappy, frustrated. But now—now it was like some demon of lust clawed at her womb, tore at her clit, and tightened bands of wicked, agonizing heat around each.
She arched, totally involuntarily, against his hips as they pressed between her thighs, the ridge of his erection digging into the tender flesh of her pussy as the subtle flexing of his powerful thighs stroked the denim-covered ridge against her.
She could feel her juices spilling from her sex, moistening her panties and preparing her for him. Preparing her for something she knew would tie her to him forever.
That was the warning her brain had been screaming for weeks. To get away, to escape while she could still run, and to put as much distance between her and the luscious Jaguar as possible.
“You can’t do this,” she gasped as one of his hands smoothed down her neck and gripped the slender strap of her camisole top.
“I was born to do this,” he growled.
The feel of the small strap sliding over her shoulder had her lungs pumping for oxygen, her lips parting to draw more in. How was she supposed to breathe? He surrounded her, sucked all the air out of the room, and he was touching her. Undressing her.
“I have dreamed of nothing but this since the moment I laid eyes on you.” He traced the rising flesh of her breasts as they spilled over the top of her lacy bra. Her nipples hardened violently, becoming so sensitive she wondered if she could orgasm fr
om the rasp of the lace against them.
“Saban.” She licked her lips, tasting him, needing more of him.
The hormone, as he called it, was worse than addicting. Already she could feel the need for it overtaking her senses, battling with her common sense, and topping it with little struggling.
“Ah, here, how pretty is this.” He smoothed the strap of her bra over her shoulder, then eased one cup away from a straining breast.
Her nipple was cherry red, swollen and needy. She was almost embarrassed at the state of it. A testament to how long it had been since she had been touched? Or a testament to the power of that freaky hormone he was talking about?
She needed his lips there, needed his mouth suckling her, stroking her past the point of sanity.
“Look how sweet, cher.” He touched his fingertip, strong, calloused, to the hard tip.
Natalie felt the breath rasp from her throat. Her back arched, driving her nipple into his touch as her head fell back and she let her eyes close. She just wanted this touch. Just this once. Right now.
“Please, Saban.” Was that her? Her voice? Her begging for something she knew would destroy the independence she had fought so hard for? Was she insane?
“Cher, sweet petite bébé,” he groaned. “Anything. Anything you need.”
She felt his lips first, brushing against the violently sensitive puckered flesh. Then his tongue, swiping over it, hot and wet and wringing a cry from her lips a second before she lost the ability to breathe.
His mouth surrounded the tip as the fingers of one hand caught its mate. He covered the heated flesh, burned it, licked it, sucked it into his mouth, and fed from the hunger that began to pour from inside her.
Natalie was unaware of time, place, or reality. Nothing mattered but the hunger. Nothing mattered but his touch. One hand on her other breast, the other pushing the elastic waist of her cotton pants down her hips, delving beneath them.
She knew what was coming. Natalie was no virgin to be seduced, so she knew where he was headed, and she knew the worst thing she could do was let him actually get his hand in her pants. She would be lost. Any more pleasure, and she would never tear free of him. He would try to own her, control her.
She whimpered at the thought and fought for the strength to pull free, to drag his lips from her breast, to pull free of the hand moving closer, closer to the saturated flesh beneath her panties.
It was hard to tear him away though when her hands were tangled in his hair and trying to pull him into her flesh. When her thighs were sprawled open, her hips arching, her desperate mewls urging him on.
She sounded like a cat in heat, which might be fitting, considering what he had told her, and when his fingers met the humid, blistering need spilling from her pussy, she knew she was lost.
Natalie’s hips arched, a cry tore from her throat, and rich, sweet, overwhelming lust spilled from his kiss as he took her lips once again.
“I thought she said she was going to kill him. Are you sure you didn’t get that message mixed up, Callan?”
• CHAPTER 3 •
It was a science fiction nightmare, and Natalie was caught in the middle of it. The director of the Bureau of Breed Affairs, Jonas Wyatt, and the pride leader of the Breed Ruling Cabinet hadn’t come to whisk their irritating Breed back to Sanctuary. To the contrary. They had brought the heli-jet and whisked Saban as well as her back to the estate and far belowground, where the Breed laboratories were now set up.
It was definitely a nightmare. Hours of tests, drawing blood, examinations that shouldn’t have been so uncomfortable, and questions so damned personal Natalie kept blushing.
The explanations were even worse than the examinations and the questions, though. The explanations were nearly more than her mind could comprehend.
Natalie liked to think she was a fairly intelligent person. She was always open to the paranormal; she questioned everything that confused her and tried to understand. She even believed in psychics and reincarnation for pity’s sake. But this?
A pheromonal, biological, chemically based reaction that resulted in the swelling of tiny, normally hidden glands beneath the Breed’s tongue. Those glands then filled with a hormonal aphrodisiac, addictive and potent, ensuring that those affected actually had sex.
When Natalie asked if there was a cure, Elyiana’s only answer was that they were working on it. Does it go away? They were working on it.
They were working on it. The day was over and edging into night when the doctor was finally finished with her, and she knew no more then than she did when she arrived, but she was fairly certain there was a truckload of information they weren’t giving her.
By the time the heli-jet landed in the wide side yard beside her house and she and Saban were reentering her house, she was angrier than she had been when she first called Callan Lyons.
Fat lot of help he had been. He and Wyatt both refused emphatically to change her bodyguard, and they refused to keep Saban away from her long enough for her to understand what the hell was going wrong with her own body.
And it was wrong. It had perspiration beading on her forehead, her womb clenching, and the aches at her clit and in the hidden depths of her vagina were nearly too much to bear. She felt off center, uncertain, and scared.
In her life there had been few times she had actually been frightened, but she admitted that she was definitely scared now. She was tied, bound to a man that she was certain she might not even like.
Well, she didn’t actually dislike him, she thought as she stood back voluntarily and let him open the house, let him smell the air then step inside to be certain it was safe while checking the security system wired into it.
“It’s safe, cher.” His voice was gentle, patient, as he returned to the door.
“Someone could have shot me from the road while you were checking the place out,” she informed him, her voice so brittle she nearly winced as he closed the door behind her and locked it.
“The chances were slimmer. My senses are degraded a bit tonight; I wanted to be certain you weren’t walking into an ambush before you came in. The sensors on the heli-jet would have detected weapons in the area or hidden assassins.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about the heli-jet.
“I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.” She turned away from him and headed for the stairs.
“Cold water won’t help the heat. You won’t be able to sleep through it; you won’t be able to make sense of it or to apply logic to it. But we could discuss it.”
She turned back to him, her jaw clenching as she fought the emotions rising inside her.
Damn him, as frustrating as he was, she did like him despite her reluctance to admit it. She had liked him playful, she had liked him teasing, but this part of him, the part she had sensed he was hiding, this she doubted she would like.
He stared back at her, calm, self-possessed, determined. That determination was like a silhouette over his entire body, a shadow he could never escape.
Fortunately, he wasn’t ordering her to discuss it. It was the only thing saving his life at the moment.
Natalie met Saban’s eyes. Just for a second, she had been scared to do that, afraid of the satisfaction, the triumph she would have glimpsed there. There was none. Those dark eyes were somber, brooding. And she thought, for a second, she might have glimpsed regret.
“And what would we discuss that I haven’t already learned?” She kept her voice low, though she knew the fear inside her was throbbing through it.
Breeds were amazingly perceptive. Hiding emotions from them just didn’t work.
He breathed out deeply before raking his fingers through his hair and stepping one step closer toward her.
“I endured the tests today as well,” he said.
Natalie flinched, those tests had been more than uncomfortable; they had bordered on too painful.
“The heat has advanced further inside me, the hormone building in it.” He came c
loser. One step. “Weeks, from the moment I first saw you, I knew what you would be to me. Each day that the heat builds inside, the harder it is to endure another’s touch, no matter male or female, until the effects of the heat begin to ease. My flesh is sensitive, my distaste at another woman’s touch nearly violent.”
Natalie jerked her gaze from his and stared over his shoulder, fighting the tightening of her throat, the tears that wanted to rise.
“Natalie,” he drew the sound of her name out, as though he were relishing each syllable. “I can cook. The steaks are in the freezer. Let me care for you this evening and answer your questions.”
One step closer, his hand reached out, touched her cheek. “Let me care for my mate, if only briefly, if only in this small way.”
“I hate what you’re doing to me. What this is doing to me,” she muttered, feeling the defenses she had been building through the day crumble. He wasn’t demanding anything, he was asking, and it wasn’t a ruse. He wasn’t pretending.
Saban grimaced, his nostrils flaring. “In this moment, I don’t blame you for hating me, boo. Perhaps, at this moment, I hate myself as well. Let me take care of you.” He held his hand out to her. “Just a little bit.”
Natalie stared at his hand, fighting herself now as much as she was fighting him. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen. There was no teasing, no flirting, no deliberate male innocence, which hadn’t gone over well with her at all.
She wondered for a moment who this man was, this Breed whose eyes were so somber, whose expression wasn’t dominating but rather filled with quiet pride and confidence.
She lifted her hand and placed it against his, feeling the roughness of his palm, the strength of his fingers as he clasped it and led her to the kitchen.
“A young Breed teenager, the daughter of a mated pair, she knew you were coming into my life,” he said as he led her to the kitchen table and held her chair out for her.
Natalie sat, uncertain now what to say.
“She’s psychic or something.” He shrugged. “Cassie Sinclair has gifts none of us have really been able to determine, but sometimes she knows things. She told me more than a year ago that you were coming into my life.” He turned from the freezer and cast her an amused, baffled smile. “I didn’t believe her. But she pushed dozens of books off on me: How to Charm Today’s Woman, Sex and the New Generation.” He shrugged before pulling the steaks from the freezer and moving to the counter. “Asinine.”