by AJ Hampton
Even as a boy, he’d understood the unique connection between his parents. They were bonded, two souls woven together. He would never forget the way the beast had ripped from within his father’s human skin to get free and avenge his mate. Clothes tore. Bones popped. The result hadn’t left him leopard, but a feral combination of both animal and man. As if it had happened yesterday, the nightmares forced Peter to live through the wet noises of the hunter’s flesh ripping apart.
Thirty years later the dreams came just as frequently, just as clear. The resulting restlessness often left him wide-awake and jittery. After the marathon sex he’d just had with Eva, he’d figured unconsciousness would have kicked his ass. Instead, he sat naked in the dark, quiet room with his shoulders pressed against the headboard.
He’d been watching Eva sleep for a few hours now, contemplating how horribly wrong things had gone. He’d knotted inside her, something he’d never done before, had thought only a fairy tale to entice males into mating. Whatever gratification he’d had with other women didn’t even blip on his pleasure meter, not after Eva.
The swelling kept him inside her hot pussy, allowed him a rare shot at multiple orgasms, one after the other tearing through him. He drew a hand down his unshaven face and beat back the encroaching panic. The condom, no match for a mating leopard, had broken. When he came, it was inside her.
After he’d roused her awake and they’d had the awkward “oh shit” moment, she’d assured him she was on birth control pills and he’d alleviated her worries about diseases. Eva was the first woman he’d ridden bareback. And, after the second and third condom broke, they’d agreed not to use them.
What in the fuck had he been thinking?
He hadn’t. He looked at Eva anew. Face-first in the pillow, the only sign the woman beside him lived was the sporadic twitch of her foot. His gaze raked over the arch of her delicate toes and the line of her calf. Higher, he admired the back of the knees, her smooth thighs and the curve of her hips. He paused when he got to the swell of her gorgeous heart-shaped ass. She had a rear end he could sink his teeth into, and had, actually, several times throughout the night and morning.
Biting his lower lip, Peter rolled to his side and gathered his courage to lean close. He lifted the golden curls blanketing her face and peered at the one closed eye he could see to make sure she still slept. A hurricane probably wouldn’t wake her at this point.
Do it.
She’ll never know.
Hesitantly, heart hammering stupidly, he allowed his gaze to move past her ass. In one glance, he took in the golden, shimmering tattoo covering her back, something he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on before. From her shoulders to the base of her spine, delicately textured feathers colored her skin in iridescent shades of gold. It was as if the ink had flecks of real gold and glitter in it. From a distance, the pattern of dark to light on the outer layers of feathers formed a heart with two points where wings folded together at the small of her back.
The artistry was impeccable and intricate. Each feather shimmered as if kissed by fairy dust. If he touched the image would he feel skin, or the soft silk of a feather? His hand hovered over her back, hesitated, and then lowered to caress the delicate markings. Skin. Only smooth, warm skin. He’d been staring so long he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
Last night he’d seen the tattoo, but was too caught up in the pleasure of her body, of purging her from his system, to admire anything besides her tight, wet, gloriously hot pussy. Without a condom, the feel of her had been better than any fantasy. Now, in the quiet hours of the morning, in the dark of the room, Peter gazed at the wings and stroked them almost reverently. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, or maybe he’d actually fucked himself stupid, but at any moment he expected the wings to spread and rise from her skin.
She’d said she wasn’t human.
Angel.
No. No, fucking way was Eva an angel. Angels didn’t beg to be fucked. Angels wouldn’t suck the cum from your cock, swallow, and then lick their lips as if asking for more.
The artwork was merely an illusion. A mind trick like one of those three-dimensional “mind’s eye” puzzles with the dots merging to form a picture you could almost reach out and touch. Curving a finger down the line of her spine, he traced over the arch of one wing to the nape of her neck. His hand told him he stroked the smooth skin on her back, but his eyes told him she had downy feathers that spread into wings.
His cock stirred, the bastard too arrogant to admit when enough was enough. Throughout the night and into the morning, he and Eva had fucked too many times to count. Using every dominant position he knew, he took what she offered, and then demanded more. He came between her thighs, on her stomach, and between her breasts. He’d come in her mouth at the back of her throat. He’d flipped her over and come on the small of her back below her wings.
She had barely been able to walk when led to the shower. Lifting her into his arms, he’d looked down at her and reciprocated her sex-drunken smile with one of his own.
He’d been struck by how much he’d wanted to fuck her, still. A dozen times should be enough, was a record, yet the need to shove her onto her knees and plunge overrode everything else.
By the time they made it into the bathroom, the anger at how easily she’d gotten under his skin took hold. Fucking her without protection was stupid, yet he’d been almost compelled to fill her with his seed. Facing the counter, he pulled out her hips and stuck her ass into the air. Her long, lean legs were the perfect height for him to take something she’d admitted she didn’t really want to do.
The look on her face when she glanced over her shoulder, liquid brown eyes glassy with the lingering effects of orgasm overdose, destroyed the man and ensnared the beast. Forcing her head straight, he ordered her not to talk. He lifted her hips, bringing her onto the tips of her toes. He used a travel-sized bottle of baby oil, and ignored the tight, sudden tensing of her muscles when the cool oil leaked down the crack of her ass.
She protested, as she’d had earlier in the night when he’d shoved a finger inside her dark hole. This time he was going to make her want it. She’d whimpered, but he hadn’t much cared, not when he ringed his finger around the hole, massaging and preparing her.
Teasing the entrance, he played with her pussy until she writhed and begged, until she reared back, seeking penetration. He wasn’t going to let her come again until he had her the way he wanted her. Slowly, he’d pushed his finger past the tight ring of muscles at her anus.
From one to two, two to three, he’d gotten her nice and ready. She’d told him to stop. Three times. He’d replied with the simple truth, stop wasn’t their safe word. Peter wouldn’t have forced her, but he wasn’t above manipulating her. By the time he’d pressed his cock into her virgin hole, she had been begging for him to fill her.
Slow at first, he’d intended to take it easy. And he had. Until he’d lost control. He closed his eyes, gripped her hips and pounded into her. She pushed her ass against him, anticipating the thrusts, egging him on, God damn her. Ten minutes in her dark passage had him unloading in her ass and crying out like a bitch.
Pulling out of her ravished passage, watching the cum leak down her trembling thigh as she collapsed against the counter in front of her, had made him feel like an asshole. Despite his internal promise to stay detached and in charge, he’d gathered her in his arms. The apology he murmured against her sweat-slicked throat was sincere. She’d trusted him and he’d lost control. If she cared, she was too far gone to voice it. The shower was hot, the spray a thousand needles on his sensitive skin.
He soaped her skin to ease her soreness, hoped it would wash away his guilt. He kissed each mark he’d left on her body in silent apology. From that point forward, as if they hadn’t been bad already, things went to hell. Damn her. He blamed her silent tears, the breathless way she gasped his name when his hand unerringly found her swollen sex. Ridden hard and thoroughly abused she spread her legs, silently asking for mor
e.
She grazed her nails up his water-slicked back, coaxing a line of goose bumps in her wake. Lifting on the tips of her toes, her hard-tipped breasts pressed against his chest. Between them, his cock jerked. The tables turned. From his shoulder to his neck, she trailed a path of pure fire with her mouth. No one touched the Alpha’s neck. No one, except Eva. Her first kiss was tentative, as if she knew the rules and decided to break them anyway. The second was harder and sped his heart. She nipped his throat, the sweet bite more erotic then if she’d palmed his erection.
He should have pushed her away. He should have spun her around, pressed her face to the slick wall and shown her what it meant to be his submissive all over again. Instead, he threaded his hand through her sopping wet hair and clutched her closer. As if encouraged, her tongue traced his jugular before her teeth closed down.
His words, “I can’t get enough of you,” had been innocent enough, excusable, but he hadn’t stopped there.
“You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”
“I need you.”
“Please.”
Peter Marx had resorted to begging.
One last time, up against the slick wall with the steam billowing around them, he entered her. The entire scene had been romantic and tender. Two things he didn’t want or need. He didn’t know how long they stayed joined, but he hadn’t wanted it to end. After he pumped what was surely the very last drop of semen in his body into her, he carried her to the bed. She rolled onto her stomach, murmured something that wasn’t human language before dropping off into no man’s land.
Hard to believe only two hours had passed since the last time he had her. Peter stroked a hand down the shimmering feathers on her back, palmed her ass. He beat back the guilt of abusing her body, tried to think of something other than sex.
Sated, the leopard slumbered.
The man still hungered.
There was only one thing for him to do: leave. He had to get away from her, from the intoxicating scent of their mixed pheromones. His fingers moved to the outside of her thigh, traced the marks where his claws drew blood. The wounds were neat scars, already healed thanks to whatever inhuman genes allowed him to take the leash off his restraint. The bite mark on her neck was almost gone too, as were the other bruises his harsh brand of fucking left behind.
Peter pressed a soft kiss between the blades of her shoulders, rose out of bed and rooted around in the two-drawer stand. He found paper, a cheap pen. He scribbled something on the pad, folded the paper and then threw it on the pillow next to her head. If he was going to get out of there, he needed to do it now before he woke her up and screwed her again.
He dressed quickly, walked out of the room without looking at Eva one last time. The door shut softly behind him.
The leopard woke instantaneously, knew Peter planned to leave. She is mine, it hissed.
The feline paced, slashed razor claws and tried to free itself. Peter stumbled backward, hit the door and fought not to double over. Pain flashed through his limbs. No. He turned into the door, pressed his forehead against the icy wood and breathed deep.
“We. Are. Leaving,” Peter seethed.
Pushing away, ready to walk to his truck, he almost missed the note taped next to his head, but a flash of white caught his eye. The sound of rustling paper was the only noise in the silent breeze. He ripped the paper from the wall, unfolded and read silently.
“Does the kitty whore scream ‘meow’ when she comes? When you die, she’ll be mine.”
A growl rippled from his chest. Head jerking from left to right, he studied his surroundings. His gaze swept down the line of cabins, and then across the street to the little wooden grocery store. Church. Lost Isle. Police Station. Then, finally he appraised the Cracker Jack post office. Main Street was silent and deserted. His nose twitched. Lifting the note to his nose, he inhaled, and smelled nothing except the fibers in the paper. He lifted his head to better taste the scents on the air. The wind blew away from him, and the only thing he could focus on was Eva lingering on his skin.
Peter curled his lip, crumpled the paper and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He stalked through the snow to his truck, ripped open the door to the cab. With one last sweeping glance, he stepped into the vehicle and hissed, “The kitty whore says ‘Peter’ when she comes, asshole.”
He settled into the leather seat and didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel anything besides a blind rage. Jaw tight, eyes on the door of his hotel room, and hands clenched on the steering wheel, he waited. Until he could find the threat and eliminate it, his little angel would go nowhere without him as her shadow.
Eva was his. For the first time in a long time, he and the leopard agreed on something.
Chapter Five
Who knew Eva would feel so horrible after a night of amazing, mind-numbing sex. Had she mentioned amazing? She groaned into her pillow and wished for the darkness to steal her away. Her head throbbed. Her skin felt tight. Muscles she hadn’t known existed screamed.
Dizzy and disoriented, she struggled to untangle herself from the sheets woven through her legs. Every shift rubbed her thighs together. Stabs of pleasure moved through the center of her body, delicious and arousing, if not a little tender. She was swollen, and surprisingly eager for more.
She should have known her sexy stranger would be addicting. Rolling onto her back, she pressed a hand to the center of her aching forehead. Was there such a thing as a sex hangover? If so, would chasing the hair of the dog, or whatever they called it, ease her symptoms?
A grin surfaced. She smoothed her hand across cold sheets and found nothing but empty bed and a folded piece of paper. Her smile fell flat. Dread cinched her stomach into a knot. How could a white slip of paper freeze her blood and simultaneously make her sweat? Oh, she knew. The freak who’d killed Greg had left her a present. A vindictive love note. On a simple white slip of folded paper, the culprit wrote,
The kitty said meow, right before I blew a hole through his head. I’m coming for you next, Angel. You’re mine.
Greg was dead because of her. The heartache hit hard. Behind closed lids, tears stung her eyes and she fought to push the memories away. This wasn’t the time or the place. Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around the knees she brought to her chest. She looked around the small, unfamiliar cabin she’d spent the night in. What in the hell was she doing here anyway? She pushed aside the doubt. She’d made her bed and gotten exactly what she’d needed. Yet now, more than ever, she felt raw to the bone and naked because of it.
She was alone. So damned alone.
Grief swelled inside her gut and, for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She pressed a hand to her stomach and sucked in a gulp of air. A sob fought its way through her stubborn determination not to cry. For the rest of her life she was going to be alone. Greg was gone and he wasn’t coming back. There would be no more late-night talks in his study, no more watching him roll his whiskey back and forth. No more shared dinners on the couch. No more hope.
For a few precious hours, she’d managed to forget she was alone. She’d managed to shove aside the reality that the only man she’d ever loved was dead. Somehow, the brief reprieve made the loss stronger, almost unbearable. Over the last week, never-ending misery had numbed her. Thanks to Peter, the fire in her belly burned hot, made her remember the life taken, snuffed out, with the pull of a trigger. Images from the previous night fought with the gruesome pictures of Greg’s death, his bluish skin and glazed eyes staring sightlessly at her.
Death won.
Her hands curled into fists and the paper she clutched crumpled. Sniffling back the tears and the memories, she unfolded the note. Eva hoped she wasn’t making a mistake reading it. In the split second it took for her eyes to adjust in the darkness, doubt wormed inside. Had her instincts been wrong about Peter? Could he have killed…
No.
The sprawling chicken scratch was thankfully unfamiliar. She read the words aloud, “You’re a helluva fuck.
See ya around – P.M.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes. Helluva fuck. What an asshole, even if what he’d written was true.
Balling up the paper, she threw it across the room and missed the trashcan by a mile. Her gaze fell on the wrinkled tie in the middle of the floor, the silk binding that had left her completely in Peter’s hands. She tried to conjure the appropriate guilt for having had sex with a total stranger, for enjoying his rough touch and letting him thoroughly defile her. She found only a craving for more. Did that make her sick? Probably.
Eva forced herself out of bed and into her day-old clothes. She wanted away from the mattress that smelled of sex and man. She wanted even farther away from the bathroom where things had spiraled out of control. His hot, whispered “Please” against her neck was bound to haunt her for the rest of her life.
The sweet scent of perfume and death lingered on the dress she zipped up. The smell brought to mind the stricken faces of the Pard. In a few hours, she would have to face them and fulfill Greg’s last wishes. He had wanted her to read his will in front of the people he’d spent his entire life protecting and caring for.
Fighting a new bout of tears, she stepped into her black, fur-lined leather boots and pulled on her coat. Eyes straight ahead, she refused to glance back to the floor where her ruined panties and bra lay. Every time she moved, her tender nipples rubbed against the dress and hardened. They craved another, rougher touch.
No way.
She’d had enough sex in the last fourteen hours to last her a decade. The walk of shame was cold and dark. In the church’s empty parking lot she unlocked Greg’s black 4x4 truck and had a moment of panic when she reached for the door. Would another body roll out at her feet?
The wind howled around her, sending soft flakes of snow swirling in front of her face. The temperature dipped, reminded her that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. A gust blew up her skirt, contrasted with the memory of Peter blowing hot air across her clit. Damn. Where was his hot breath when she needed it? She’d get frostbite if she stood outside much longer.
