But apparently that shortcoming made no difference to him. His hands came into her hair roughly, their strength snapping her ponytail holder. He gripped her head, holding her to the spot where she was marking him, making her stay until her less than adequate teeth broke his skin and touches of blood wetted her lips. She should have pulled back, all of her training telling her to be repulsed by exposure to blood, but there was no describing how very opposite she felt. There wasn’t much blood, but it was enough to taste rust and salt, and her tongue flicked against her lips and his skin. She stood up straight and tall then, pulling her blouse back off her shoulder, stretching her hand against her shoulder until the skin broke open at the place where he had marked her last night, tempting him with a fresh show of blood. It was an incredibly painful thing to do, but it was worth it for the fierce sound that overcame him, rumbling down through his chest and over the lips he suddenly pressed against the open wound. She felt him holding back, though, felt him leashing the savage part of himself that wanted to bury his fangs in her again. But she didn’t care. She didn’t need those gorgeous fangs in her again . . . all she needed was . . .
One lick. One long, hot sweep of his tongue through the welling blood. She heard him swallow, and a sensation of relief and excitement ran hot and cold in contrast through her.
God, forgive me . . . I need this . . .
Feeling suddenly free, she lifted his head from her shoulder and brought his lips to hers, kissing him so deeply she tasted her own blood on the back of her tongue. She felt him flip their positions against the glass wall, felt it shudder as she hit it hard, but knew it was stern stuff and would hold up. Maybe. Still, she wasn’t interested in his need to dominate. Not just then, anyway. She slipped out of his hold and the trap of his body by dropping her weight, slinking down between the press of his body, the cold of the glass, and the sharper cold of the metal wall frame. She heard his hand smack against the glass and the opposite one sank into her hair.
Kincaid was blind with need and he pushed his forehead into the cold brace of the glass wall, hoping it would somehow provide stability for him in a world gone mad. It was as though she had no fear of him at all! Didn’t she know how insane this was? Didn’t she know the danger she was in?
His only answer was the feel of her mouth around the head of his engorged prick. She couldn’t know how hard it was for him to simply let her do that. As amazing as it felt, as much as it made him burn with beautiful need, there was no part of the beast inside of him that was happy with the way he resisted all his urges to take command, to grab hold of her and show her his dominance, show her what her true place was in the grand scheme of things.
It made the feel of her mouth and hands working on him all that much more painful and beautiful. The battle of man and masochist inside of him brought tears to his eyes, and he ejected a savage sound of pleasure and pretense. He wanted to behave normally, as normal as she might expect him to behave, as normal as he had once behaved when he had been human. But normal escaped his reach. He reacted instead with eager claws pricking into her scalp and gouging scrapes into the glass of the wall.
“You’re taunting a beast you don’t understand,” he rasped as he felt her tongue swirling around him, shaping all the dips and contours of his engorged cock head.
“I understand him enough to give him pleasure,” she said, her voice buzzing down his length in a tempestuous vibration that nearly undid everything he was trying to achieve as far as control was concerned. But at that point even his beast’s attention had been fully engaged. He was tumbling into the lost sensation of giving over his pleasure to the artistic control of another. How long had it been since he had felt this sensation? Too long. The truth was, ever since his change, he had used this kind of sex as a form of subjugating his mate of the moment. It had been the only thing acceptable in those relationships.
But this was a very different relationship and a very different connection. The more he interacted with Jena, the more he understood that.
Need burned through him emotionally as well as physically. He gave himself over to both, bracing his feet hard apart as her mouth coasted eagerly all over him, as if he were her favorite candy. Her hands were both in play, wrapped tight around the rod she guided in and out of her mouth or palming the burning sac just beyond it. She was doing a thorough enough job, to be sure. The urge to come was crawling throughout his body, not just hot and low, but touching on every nerve along his back, his scalp, and even the backs of his hands.
Kincaid threw back his head and opened his mouth, but he kept the roar caught in his throat, some part of him wanting to protect her image in this, her workplace, where she needed to be respected. But that was a human foible, and the next instant the Morphate reminded him that the roar would claim her, make very certain everyone knew she was his mate. That would bring all the respect she needed.
But respect would also come with a bull’s-eye. Like him, she would be in a challengeable position. Christ, she already was.
The stress of the understanding was a harsh counterpoint to his orgasm, to the amazing feel of jetting hot and hard into her mouth. He looked down at her as he did so, watching as the overflow of his come wetted her lips like an erotic lip gloss, and he knew he would taste himself on her when he pulled her up to his kiss. Suddenly he could think of nothing else; so with two strong hands around her arms, he drew her up to the touch of his mouth. He didn’t lick her lips, rather just savored the soft eddy of the mixture of himself and everything swollen and passionate Jenesis had to offer of her own essence. He was breathing hard, his whole body torn and weak, his mind comprehending that this was possibly the only way they could find themselves sexually compatible.
And how very compatible they were.
But still, how much had he held in check? How much danger was there for her if he unleashed himself on her? He knew the answer to that. He knew he should back away. Create distance. He had planned on doing that when he had started his day today, but his logical mind had been thoroughly ignored.
“I want to take you on a date,” he said gruffly against her lips. “Screw this lab and this building. I want to take you out on a proper date, Jen.”
So much for creating distance. Well, fuck it.
She smiled, a snorty little laugh exiting her nose.
“A date? Like, going to the movies? Necking in the back of your car?”
“No, like taking you to the best damn restaurant in town, treating you like a . . .” Alpha mate. “. . . queen. Like the special woman you are.”
He watched her left brow rise up high.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you didn’t strike me as the type to like fine dining and opera. And while I do like fine dining, I’d much rather hit the movies after. Wow. I haven’t been to a movie since . . .” She broke off, her brow furrowing as she tried to think about it.
“Clearly too long,” he said with a grin. “And, yeah, opera sucks. So good food and an action flick. Or are you a chick-flick girl?”
“I love action movies. And chick flicks. I love them all.”
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Six,” she said, the affirmation muffled by the insistent press of his mouth.
“All right, then, let’s go kill us a lab tech.”
He redressed himself and fairly flew out of the door, leaving her just a little dazed and trying to figure out when and why their relationship had taken a turn from what bordered on abusing each other into legitimate courting. All she could do was ask herself over and over again, When did he stop hating me?
And why would he stop hating me?
8
Jen checked her figure in the mirror for the fiftieth time. Lord, she hadn’t been on a date in a dog’s age. The truth was, she didn’t have date clothes. The closest thing was this red dress she had worn to her cousin’s wedding. The skirt was just long enough to cover the top of her thigh-highs, but if she crossed her legs too quickly or sat down without putting t
hought into it, they and her garters would possibly show to all and sundry. She had found that out at the wedding and had spent the whole day and night gluing the dress to her backside and thighs with her hands. But tonight . . . perhaps she wouldn’t be doing so much of that. The memory of how strongly Kin had reacted to her lingerie stuck in her mind. It was a memory thrilling enough to give her chills of anticipation as she leaned in to match lipstick with her dress. Perhaps it was dangerous to anticipate tempting a Morphate, but perhaps that danger was what made her feel so alive. And honestly, these past two days had been like waking up out of a coma. A coma she hadn’t known she was in.
Or maybe she had, but hadn’t thought she deserved any better.
It was strange walking out of the building she had been limited to for so long. She honestly would have been too intimidated if Kincaid had not been right beside her, his hand at the back of her waist.
As they walked the vast streets of Philadelphia with its old historic buildings contrasting so sharply with the high-rises that had finally been allowed to surpass the top of William Penn’s head on the City Hall building. But the historic places had fared far better than the newer ones when the City had fallen Dark and into the hands of the disrespectful and disreputable. It was clear, though, that on both fronts a lot of work had taken place in the effort to restore the City to its former glory.
“It is much more difficult to restore the old infrastructure of such a vast City than it is, perhaps, to start all new. It takes a lot of money, time, and man-hours. But the history in this City was left to die . . . and living in it now I find that such a shame.”
“If I can ask, where did you find the money for this? And for the lab?”
“A lot of it was federally granted. At least the government was that kind. The rest was cultivated through some wise investments and investment groups who wanted a foot in the new City when it finally develops. The CEOs that are not prejudiced against us are very smart. They can see the strength of the Morphates’ future. They can see we are going to become a powerful point of interest in this world.” He frowned. “Provided we don’t get in our own way.”
She knew what he meant by that, so she didn’t ask him to elaborate.
“Even humans can be very instinct driven,” she said carefully. “Yet we’ve found a way to flourish. I have faith that Morphates can do the same.”
“You have far more optimism than I do,” he said grimly.
“Perhaps. But let’s try something new,” she said with sudden brightness. “Let’s not talk about work or Morphates for the length of dinner. I accept there’s no getting around the topic completely since it’s so much of our lives, but let’s try to talk about the other things that make us who and what we are. Or even who we were, before all of this began. We’re both still there. We just haven’t taken us out for air much these past seven years.”
The suggestion ought to have rubbed him the wrong way. After all, what was the use of dredging up what he no longer had the luxury of being? But perhaps she was right. Perhaps part of the problem was that he had done nothing but live, breathe, and eat being changed into a Morphate. And like any complex job, it could swallow you up if you let it.
“I accept.”
His graveness made her chuckle softly.
“It’s not heart surgery, Kincaid. It’s relaxation. Relaxaaaa-tion.” She drew out the “a” as if he needed to be taught how to say the word. “I think part of the problem here is that you’ve forgotten how to relate to the human in you.”
Kin bit back a mean retort. It made him frown darkly. He wasn’t that kind of man, was he? The kind who whined about his hard knocks and blamed everyone else for the shit in his life? So perhaps he’d had some cause, but lately . . . lately he’d begun to realize he might have been wasting precious time doing so.
But then again, all he had was time. Maybe he could afford a few years of wallowing.
That idea really grated. He wasn’t a wallower. He’d never been the “poor me” type. He’d kicked ass and taken names, goddammit. And he’d been doing the same thing since walking into Dark Philly. But personally . . . he’d been wallowing. Seething in this idea of vengeance.
“I . . . I used to fish.”
Jena couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d smacked her on the ass. The last thing she could picture the kinetic, aggressive man beside her doing was standing around for hours fishing.
“What kind of fish?”
“Marlin,” he said with a grin.
“Of course,” she said, laughing brightly.
“My brother and I would do a charter once a year, down off Costa Rica or Cancun . . . sometimes Mexico. We’d combine traveling with fishing, two weeks of every year just to cut away from it all.”
“Hot sun, beer, and the boys.”
“Yeah, and the biggest damn fish to be found.”
“And you haven’t been in seven years?”
Not that Nick hadn’t asked him to. Every year he pressed him to go.
“I didn’t want to go. I liked remembering what it was. Not sure it’d be a challenge anymore, strong as we are.”
“So go shark fishing, Kin,” she said with a little exasperation. “Get heavy-gauge equipment, find some great white sharks or something and make it a challenge.”
Kin took her arm in hand, turning her suddenly into the aggressive leanness of his body.
“Why is everything such an easy answer for you?” he demanded on a rough growl as he pressed his forehead against hers.
“It’s not easy. None of this is. I never want to give you the impression I think that! But I think not trying is easy. I think it’s weak. Sitting around grumbling and growling and hating burns up a lot of energy, but it gets nothing done. In the end, it’s a copout. Do you think I came to Dark Philly because it was the easy way? I could have run some cushy lab in New Mexico testing new ways of killing fleas on pets. That would have been much easier.”
Kin hadn’t realized she’d had another offer. It hadn’t occurred to him. The understanding that he could have missed out on her left him dreadfully and suddenly cold. He reached to touch her face, the crest of her cheekbone sliding under his thumb as he shaped the high contour.
For all his gruff and seemingly mean ways, it was these moments when he made her feel so suddenly treasured that left her breathless. Maybe because it was so stark a contrast, or maybe because it was happening more and more often. One thing Jenesis knew—she was beginning to understand him very clearly. It was far from feeling guilty or sorry for him. The only thing wrong with Kincaid Gregory’s life right now was Kincaid Gregory. And she suspected he was coming to realize that.
Then there was a sudden snap, and Kincaid lurched around in an awkward sideways movement. Something wasn’t right, and Jen barely heard the report of the shot as it finally caught up to them.
Kincaid dropped like a bag of stones, all that rough vitality leaving him sharply and suddenly as half his neck exploded from the impact of the hardcore sniper round. His grip around her arm pulled her down with him, jerked her across his falling body. It wasn’t in her to be a screamer. Her brain was just too analytical. All it wanted to do was think. Think of where the trajectory of the shot had originated. Think of how to put her hands on him to stop the bleeding. Think of all the reasons why erupting into tears and hysteria would be the very worst thing she could do. Kin was trying to speak, but nothing came of his attempts except for the gurgle of blood in his throat.
But his eyes, those keen blue orbs, spoke volumes.
Watch out!
The second shot was of compressed air. She felt the dart tip pin deeply into her shoulder, its red-flagged end making her feel suddenly like a wild animal that had just been caught because she had wasted time hovering over her fallen mate. She sat down hard beside him, looking around futilely for someone else on the street.
She turned back to Kin, looked him dead in his stricken blue eyes, and said, “Don’t forget the program.”
&nbs
p; Jen opened her eyes groggily, her head twitching along the back of her scalp and aching heavily. She couldn’t draw her thoughts together at first as she tried to focus on the sharply white room around her.
It was so white. Blaringly, achingly white. Ceiling, floors, walls. All of it as seamless as the cleanest of clean rooms. The only thing that broke up the white was her. There wasn’t so much as a stick of furniture for perspective. It made the red dress she wore seem suddenly obscene. Or perhaps just very dramatic. She heard a soft buzzing sound and it drew her attention. She looked up into the familiarity of a security camera watching her, the zipping autofocus of the lens the sound she heard. It was amazing she could hear anything at all over the ringing in her head. Whatever she had been drugged with, it had been powerful and it was clinging to her like a determined parasite, leaving her weak and numbed along her edges. She licked her lips, the feeling like tonguing a sock. She felt very alone in that vast, stark room. And she was incredibly cold. She curled inward, trying to cover herself with the sparse length of her dress. Her black thigh-high on the left was torn at the knee, the skinning and bruising of her leg as well as on the seat of her left palm telling her she’d hit hard on that side. Her palm was no longer bleeding, but the bruising on her knee was only just coming into the full glory of its color, telling her she’d been unconscious for hours, not days.