by J. Kenner
She slammed the drink back, the cold heat of the alcohol immediately setting her blood to burn. She closed her eyes, felt the warm tingle course through her, and knew she was a coward.
She poured another shot, just to prove to herself that she didn't care. She should work. Should review the case file and skim the reports and crime-scene photos. But, dammit, she couldn't do that. Not tonight. Not now.
No, she wanted to sleep tonight. No dreams. No nightmares. Just sleep. And if it took an entire bottle of vodka, then dammit, that's what she was going to do.
Another shot. Then another. Until her entire body felt warm and malleable and her eyelids drooped. She poured one last glass, this time mixing it with water, and went in to settle on her bed. On the way, she plucked the perfume bottle off her dresser, then sat on top of her comforter, squinting at the delicate, curious glasswork.
So beautiful. Swirling patterns of color, the intricate design, the delicate filigree...
She blinked, startled by something she hadn't noticed before. She turned the bottle upside down and blinked a few more times, trying to get her hazy mind to focus. Sure enough, there was some sort of inscription etched into the glass.
Drowsiness had been creeping up on her, but now it was shoved aside, replaced by curiosity about the bottle. She couldn't make out any words, though, and finally she crawled out of bed and stumbled to her desk. She rummaged around until she found a magnifying glass, then examined the bottle again under her desk lamp.
The words seemed to float in front of her. Definitely not English, but not any language she recognized, either. She frowned at the bottle, but not in annoyance. The mystery had pushed past the blur of alcohol and was keeping her awake, yes, but it had also filled her head, edging out thoughts of Luc and the way his hands had felt on her. The way she wanted to pick up the phone and find him, go to him.
Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on the desk.
It was already past midnight. She knew she should just go to bed, not get involved in some project. But knowing and doing were two different things, and instead of going to sleep she turned on her computer.
Less than a minute later, she'd copied one of the words into a search engine. She started scrolling through the results, her brow furrowing when she found a site that suggested the 1anguage was Romani.
Her frown deepened. Wasn’t that a gypsy language? Hadn’t Alma once suggested that she had gypsy blood?
Tomorrow, she’d ask. With any luck, Alma already knew what the bottle said. Not that it really mattered; it was just a marking on a perfume bottle, after all. She really should just forget about it. Between her case load and her dreams and her sudden dive into wantonness, she hardly needed to add an errand to the mix.
But as she snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes, she knew that she would call. The dreams had started with the bottle—and the nightmares. Somehow, the bottle had opened a door in her soul, and she simply had to know
“Cate.”
A whisper of breath. A gentle brush against her cheek. "Cate, my darling. My one. Cate."
She moaned, lost in the haze of sleep. Another dream, but not a nightmare. Instead, soft and appealing. A touch. A caress. And the burning heat of desire in her belly, between her thighs, in her rock-hard nipples.
She moaned, arching up, trying to cheat sleep as she pulled him closer.
"Yes, Cate. That's right. You're mine. Come to me."
His hands stroked her breasts through the thin T-shirt she’d worn to bed, drifting down to cup her bare waist. His hand eased around her back as he pulled her up into an embrace. Her lips parted, and he feasted on her, his tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting and teasing. Sensual. Erotic.
And so very, very enticing.
She wanted him. Wanted this to be real. Wanted him there, holding her.
Holding her?
Her eyes flew open.
This was no dream!
Her heart pounded as her breath came in erratic gasps. She scrambled backwards, out of his arms, the sheet clutched to her chest as she rolled toward the bedside table and snatched up her gun. She held it out, aimed at his heart. He didn't seem to care.
“You.” Her voice was stiff, almost unrecognizable.
A slow, sensual smile eased across that perfect face. "Me." He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, and now he inched toward her.
She waved the gun, just slightly. "I don't think so."
He held up a hand, a silent surrender. "Whatever you say, detective. But I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Insightful little bastard. She kept the gun level.
"How'd you get in?"
That damn cocky smile broadened. “The door."
"It was locked."
"Do you really think a lock could keep me away from you?"
"I—" She closed her mouth. Her head wanted to argue with him, to scream, to yell at him to get out of her house and to leave her alone. Her body, though...
Her body was terrified that he would leave. She tried again. "I—"
He reached out, and she remained perfectly still, her own gaze locked on his haunted eyes. His hand closed over hers, caressed her skin, then gently tugged the gun away. She trembled, just a little, and she felt a single tear roll down her cheek as, finally, she succumbed to this man.
Foolish, perhaps. Dangerous, definitely. But right now this was what she needed. He was what she needed.
With the pad of his thumb, he brushed the tear away. "Darling Caitlyn, don't cry. We've found each other now. My life. My mate."
His fingertips stroked her lips, and she leaned forward, opening her mouth to him, her entire body filled with need. She was charged up, vibrating with passion. Lust and want filled her veins and pounded through her soul.
She no longer questioned why. She was beyond caring. She'd been reduced to a primal being, driven only by instinct and need.
She reached out, letting the sheet drop away, revealing the simple, threadbare T-shirt that she'd worn to bed. Her hand snaked around his neck, urging him closer. At the same time, she opened her mouth, and his finger slipped in. She pressed her lips around the digit, then moved back and forth, slowly and methodically, building a sensual rhythm, a promise of things to come.
She kept her eyes closed, but his mouth on her breast came as no surprise, and she arched her back, still sucking on him as his teeth grazed her nipple, teasing it through the thin material of her T-shirt.
He slipped his hand from her mouth, and she groaned, wanting the taste of him. His lips moved to her neck, and she felt her pulse beat against his lips as his hands cupped her breasts, kneading and stroking, the pads of his thumbs flicking over her nipples in a way that sent threads of heat lashing through her, culminating in the growing fire burning between her thighs.
"Caitlyn," he growled, “I need you." Without waiting for her to speak, he clutched the T-shirt and pulled it over her head, tossing it casually aside.
She leaned forward, wanting his lips against her own, but he parried, tugging her down until she was lying on the bed, naked except for a tiny pair of bikini panties. His actions were both rough and gentle, and everything about him—about this wild coupling—turned her on. Her panties were soaked, and all she could think was that she wanted more, would beg if she had to.
But she didn't think she'd have to.
This was a dangerous encounter. The kind she was born for. The kind her mother had always warned her about. "Do you think you’re a girl for romance and flowers? You’ve got the demon after you, girl. And it will find you."
If Luc was the demon her mother had feared, then Cate welcomed it. He was rough and demanding. Hot and wild. Tender and gentle.
He knew her—she didn’t know how, but he did.
And he would take her where she’d never been before. And she would go with him, deeper and farther. Wilder and hotter.
Go with him?
Hell, she’d drag him down with her. And with a boldness born of pure need,
she took his hand and slipped it inside her panties.
"Mine," he growled.
"Yours," she whispered, then pulled her own hand free.
He released her only long enough to pull her panties down, and then his magical fingers were touching her again, driving her so close to the edge that she clawed at him in time with the rising tide of need, her fingernails raking over his back where her hands had roamed under his shirt.
"Off," she demanded, able to force out the word only because her need to feel his skin against hers was so intense it felt as though it might consume her.
He complied immediately, tossing the shirt into a corner. But it wasn’t enough, and when she tugged at the waistband of his jeans he sat up and quickly stripped off his shoes and pants without the necessity for of words.
They were apart for only a few seconds, but during that short interlude, the fog seemed to clear from her mind, and the reality of what she was doing hit her full force.
She knew nothing about this man. Nothing other than his name.
And yet, when he reached for her—when he pulled her naked body against his—she knew that there was no place else for her. Just as there was no one else in the world for her, either.
He rolled her over, settling her astride his stomach, her thighs on either side of his waist.
"You're so damn beautiful," he said.
The praise felt as warm as summer, as sweet as candy. She leaned forward, wanting to taste his lips, but he forestalled her, slipping one hand between their bodies to stroke her clit, as the other reached up to caress her breast.
She froze, wonderfully caught by the onslaught of sensations coursing through her blood. Her body was calling to him, building for him. The sparks inside her gathered, readying for an explosion that she craved more than anything she’d ever desired. She wanted this. More than that, she needed it.
But even the orgasm built inside her, a tiny voice in her head told her to pull away. To roll off him.
To run.
You shouldn’t, Cate. You’re better than this, Cate. Love. You deserve love.
Shouldn't? The word seemed foolish and Pollyanna, especially with his fingers inside her, stroking and tugging and demanding. He'd fired every cell in her body, and still she wanted more.
She'd spread herself wide open for this man. Even more, she'd be devastated if he walked away now.
No, she thought. Shouldn't was for fools and women without the balls to live the life they were born to. Tonight of all nights, she was grateful she knew who she was. Because with Luc, she wanted to be bad. Very, very bad.
With what she hoped was casual aplomb, she slid off him, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs wide. "Take me," she demanded. "Take me now."
Fire flickered in those golden eyes, and with an almost desperate freneticism, he straddled her. He groped her, his hands claiming her, blazing a heated path for his mouth. He reached the apex of her thighs and spread her legs even wider, so wide her muscles ached, and she bent her knees up, giving herself to him.
He lowered his mouth to her sex, then laved her, the rough shadow of his beard scraping against her inner thighs. His tongue danced and dipped, tasting and tempting, pulling her closer and closer to the precipice.
She reached down, her fingers twining through his silky dark hair. She bucked against his mouth, wanting him fully, needing him completely.
But he backed away, and she cried out in frustration as he trailed kisses down her inner thigh, then pushed himself up until his face was over hers, the hard tip of his cock pressing at the apex of her thighs, so close to everything she wanted and yet a million miles away.
His eyes burned into her, and she slid her hands down until she cupped his rear. She pressed, silently urging him inside her.
"Luc. Please."
"Please what?"
"I already told you. Inside me. Now. Please." She arched up, lifting her head to brush her lips against his.
He took his time, first teasing her ear with the tip of his tongue. The spot was sensitive, and she gasped, relaxing back down onto the bed and losing herself to his ministrations. Go with it, Cate. Let him take you there.
As his tongue worked one kind of magic, his hand worked another, slipping down her belly, the pressure not so much a caress as a demand.
A single finger slipped inside her, and her body tightened around him, pulling him in, demanding. Insistent.
Desperate.
"Now, Cate," he said, his voice raspy with need.
Roughly, he spread her thighs, positioned himself over her, and she was so ready she thought she might die if he didn’t take her right then.
"The time is now," he said, as the tip of his cock pressed insistently against her wet folds. "I must have you now before all is lost."
And then he entered her, hard and demanding. He filled her completely, his deep thrusts everything she'd wanted since the first time she'd seen him in the ballroom.
It was right. It was perfect.
So why, then, when her body was filled by this man, did she feel so damned empty?
Mindless, he thrust harder and harder, fighting to come. Fighting to stave off the change that, inexplicably, threatened once again.
He could feel it. Crawling under his skin. Threatening to burst through. Threatening to consume him. To consume Cate.
No. She was the one. She could ward off the change. He was certain of it. He'd simply waited too long and now he was on the cusp as he rammed himself into her, need and fear driving his thrusts.
A haze engulfed him, and the fear grew to terror.
The change. Oh, Lord, no. He couldn't be wrong. If he changed with her in his bed...
No, no, he couldn't harm her. Not Cate. Not this woman—
And then the world exploded, and Luc with it.
When his senses returned, he was curled up naked next to her. He sat bolt upright, pulling the sheet back to expose her. Her breasts, belly, thighs.
Unmauled.
Her eyes widened, still heavy with sleep, but a small smile played at her mouth. "Round two already?"
He collapsed back against the pillows, relief crashing over him like a tidal wave.
He hadn't changed. The sensations had been so similar, yet so different. He'd only come. He'd exploded in passion inside this woman and together they'd held the change at bay.
He'd been right. She really was his. His Caitlyn.
His mate.
Five
She woke in his arms, then snuggled closer. His arm tightened around her and he kissed her forehead.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Ravenous."
He slid out of bed, his hand out to her. She took it, smiling, then followed him into her kitchen. He pointed toward the tiny breakfast table, and she quirked a brow, amused at the thought that the man who'd been in her bed was now in her kitchen. She didn't protest, however. Just sat down and wondered what he thought he'd be able to find that would even remotely resemble food.
Amazingly enough, he managed just fine, somehow turning five eggs, a frozen link of sausage, and a few other odds and ends into a brilliant omelet.
"I'm impressed," she said as he slid the plate in front of her.
"Good." He used his own fork to stab a bite. "That was my intention."
They ate together in comfortable silence until Cate started to get fidgety. He was watching her, his eyes intense, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "What?"
"You deserve a better meal."
"In that case, I need to go grocery shopping more often."
He ignored the flippant comment. "Tonight," he said.
"Tonight?"
A hint of a smile graced his lips. "May I have the honor of taking you to dinner?"
"I..." She'd wanted to review the case files tonight. Technically, though, this was one of her days off. And, she did want to be with this man...
She drew in a breath, gathering courage. "Yes," she said. Then, more firmly, "Yes."
; She'd succumbed to her heart, and it felt good.
Even so, when he left, promising to come back for her at eight, she was grateful. She needed some time alone. Some time to think.
There’d been something familiar about his name when she’d heard it at the party. Other than that, though, she knew nothing about him. Nothing other than a burning intensity shining deep in his eyes, and a desperate, almost violent need to possess her. To fill her. To consume her.
To mate.
She shivered, her body tingling from the memory of his hands on her, his mouth tasting her, his body filling her.
Oh, dear Lord, she was wet again. Wet and needy and frantically wishing that he hadn’t left after all.
Frustrated, she headed for the bathroom, then turned the cold water in the shower to full-strength. Still naked, she stepped under the spray, fighting a scream as the icy blast of frigid water pummeled her.
When she’d finally adjusted to the temperature, she pressed her palms against the tiled shower stall. Her head hung, letting the spray pound the back of her neck.
A thousand recriminations danced through her head, but she shoved them all away, a single question rising to the surface—who was he?
Luc Agassou, yes. She knew that. Prominent, apparently, if Armand’s deferential manner was any clue. Which probably explained why his name was familiar, even though she couldn’t quite place it.
If she’d been smart, she would have researched him on the Internet, not Alma’s bottle.
But she hadn’t, and now Luc remained a mystery. And all she knew for certain was that she craved the man.
Cate glanced at the clock above her sofa. Just past two. She’d spent most of the day researching Luc Agassou. She’d called in a favor to one of the gals at Division and got her to expedite a search, stretching the truth when she said that he’d recently popped up and might be relevant to something Cate was keeping her eye on. But even that obfuscation had been for naught. Because all she learned was that he was clean. No criminal record. Not even so much as a traffic ticket.