Wild Thing

by J. Kenner

  The room spun a little, and she eased next to a marble pillar, grateful for its support. She knew she ought to mingle a bit more, but she'd already reached her capacity for small talk. Better to stand here looking interested. If anyone approached, she'd try her best to be witty and friendly. And if they all left her alone for the rest of the night, well, that was fine, too. After all, it wasn't as if there was anyone here she was dying to meet or—

  Him.

  She was certain she’d never seen him before, and yet she knew him. Not as an acquaintance, but somehow deep in her soul. He was dark—his skin deeply tanned, his hair as black as midnight.

  He wore his tuxedo with a casual elegance that suggested familiarity, and yet there was a wariness about him, too. As if he was not certain that he belonged, but would challenge anyone who suggested he leave.

  She swallowed, taking an involuntary step away from the safety of the marble pillar. The crowd parted to let him pass, but he looked neither left nor right as his long steps carried him across the ballroom toward her. Right toward her.

  Cate gasped, then gulped in air as she realized she'd forgotten to breathe. He was close now. And for the first time, she could see his eyes—copper with flecks of gold.

  She gasped, her chest tightening as her heart skipped a beat.

  She knew those eyes. She'd seen them in her-dreams. Staring down at her as warm hands stroked her body, bringing her to the brink over and over again.

  This was the man. This perfect male specimen had been filling her nights with erotic fantasies and decadent dreams. Dreams that often faded into the violent nightmares that had made her afraid to fall asleep at night.

  She shivered. Despite the nightmares, she was never afraid in his arms. Her blood never ran cold until the panther leapt through the sky. The lover in her dreams kept her safe. And until this moment, she'd had no idea who he was.

  But this man couldn't be her dream lover. The possibility was absurd. Even so, her soul knew exactly who he was, and her body was more than happy to respond accordingly. Her nipples peaked, hard nubs that rubbed against the soft silk bodice of her evening dress. Her stomach filled with a liquid heat that seemed to shoot down into her thighs. Her knees were weak, and she wished she was sitting down.

  Somehow, her dreams had become reality. Either that, or this man had been invading her dreams, moving into her secret fantasies, her decadent longings. Both ideas were impossible, of course, and yet here he was. This man. And she knew him. She really did.

  "Caitlyn," he said, his voice somehow familiar.

  He was right in front of her now, so close she could feel the heat from his body and smell the musk of his cologne. His hypnotic eyes drew her in, and she took a step toward him, barely conscious of her own movements.

  "I'm not ... this isn't..." She didn't know what she wanted to say, knew she wasn't making sense.

  "Isn't it?" His voice was low, husky, with the slightest hint of a Cajun accent. His words surrounded her, flowing over her like warm honey. Her thighs tingled, a moist heat building at their apex. She fought the urge to slip her hand, under her dress and stroke herself over her damp panties. She wanted release, needed it, and God help her, she wanted it right then, right there, with that man.

  "It's time, Caitlyn." He held out a hand.

  Inside her head, she screamed at herself to run away. Far away, and never look back. She didn't really know this man, this stranger who had peeked into her soul. How could she?

  But then she looked into those eyes again, and it was the truth that looked back at her. She did know him. She didn't know how or why, she only knew that she did. Somehow, some way, she knew everything about him even if, at the moment, she didn't even know his name.

  That didn't matter. All that mattered was the heat that filled her body, the longing for his touch and the need to merge with him, to be with him.

  To mate with him.

  Oh, dear Lord, where the hell had that come from? She didn't stop to analyze. Instead, she put her hand in his and his fingers closed around hers. Immediately, all rational thought left her head, replaced by the primal, basic need to touch him.

  He leaned down, his breath caressing her cheek. "Come with me."

  She nodded, her entire body tingling with anticipation, his mere touch sending electricity coursing through her veins.

  They moved hand-in-hand through the crush of people, the crowd parting as if in awe as they passed. She heard a few murmurs, saw a few deferential nods, and then, as they left the ballroom, one of the benefit's hosts stepped into their path, his hand outstretched.

  "Mr. Agassou. Luc. We're all so glad you're back." Cate drew in a breath, stopping short, her fingers still trapped in his hand. The host's greeting echoed in her ears. Innocuous words, but with a particular meaning to her—she was leaving the party with a man whose name she had learned from a stranger. Even for Cate, who'd had her share of one night stands, that was a first.

  "I-" she began.

  "It's good to see you again, too, Armand." Luc smiled, but irritation reflected on his chiseled features, and that whiskey-smooth voice held an edge.

  "I apologize for stealing Detective Raine away. We have business to take care of."

  Armand stepped back, his entire manner deferential. Cate started to back away too. Second, third and even fourth thoughts were coming at her a mile a minute. What was she doing, and who was she doing it with? Had she gone insane? Were her dreams the product of some latent madness?

  Did she already know this man? Something about his name was familiar to her, though she was certain she would have remembered if they’d met.

  She turned to face him, feeling more uncertain by the second. "I shouldn't be—"

  "Come with me, Caitlin," he said. His fingers stroked her arm as he spoke, and all doubt left her head. All reason, too. It was as if she belonged to him, as if he'd tuned in to some primal frequency in her soul, and she was simply on automatic pilot.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had the moral strength to pull away. But the truth was, she didn't want this moment to pass. The allure of the dreams was too strong, and she wanted to feel that intensity of passion in real life, not just in her fantasies. She was bad, after all. Why not be bad all the way?

  "Where are we going?" she asked, as he led her onto the elevator. Her voice sounded timid, and she cringed. She was a detective, for crying out loud, not some shrinking flower of a woman. She drew in a deep breath and moved closer, pressing her body against his. "Not far, I hope."

  Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. He cupped the back of her neck with his hand, and she stifled a shiver. "I like your enthusiasm. I'd thought perhaps I would have to entice you. I'm pleased to have been mistaken."

  Once again second thoughts filled her head, and she took a step back from him, protests and apologies dancing on her tongue. “I should..."

  He pressed a finger to her lips even as he reached around her to push the emergency stop button on the elevator. "Don't disappoint me, Caitlyn," he whispered, then closed his lips over hers.

  All thoughts of objection evaporated. Her knees turned to rubber, and she clung to him, her arms linked around his neck to prevent her from collapsing to the ground in a heap.

  His mouth, hot and demanding, worked a magic on her lips like nothing she'd ever experienced. She gasped, and his tongue slipped inside, tasting and teasing. One hand stroked her back while his other hand slid between their bodies, his fingers expertly easing the silky material of her skirt up to expose her legs.

  The pad of his thumb stroked the back of her bare thigh, and she melted a little bit more. She was hot and cold at the same time, a mass of need, and she fisted her hands in the lapels of his tuxedo. She was probably ruining the jacket, but she didn't care. All she cared about, all she wanted, was this man. She wanted to possess, to be possessed, and the depth of her need both thrilled and terrified her.

  His thumb eased up, finding her now wet panties. He pushed
aside the elastic at her leg, and she trembled as his fingers stroked and teased her, making her knees go weak. She arched back in his arms, wanting more, then bit her lip to keep from crying out in wild, primal relief when he finally thrust his fingers inside her.

  She rocked shamelessly against his hand wanting to take all of him inside her. Wanting this moment to never end.

  His mouth brushed her neck. "Now." His voice was low. Urgent. “Please, Caitlyn. I must have you now."

  She nodded, unable to respond any other way.

  And when she heard his last murmur of, "Soon, it will be too late," her mind was too full of heat and lust to ask what he meant. Instead, she did the only thing she could do and lost herself in the pleasure of his touch.

  Luc stifled a groan, fighting back both a wave of lust and the persistent tingling in his bones that always signaled the change. His need for her was like a living thing, and the depth of his want disturbed him. He had known that he would feel a connection with Caitlyn and an urgent need to mate. Need, yes. He had expected that. But this wanting, this desperate longing for her, had taken him by surprise.

  And he did want her. Wanted to touch her, wanted to taste her, and most of all, wanted to bury himself deep inside her. Not to forestall the change, but simply because he desired her.

  His lack of control fired an anger in him, and he pulled his hand away from her sweet folds, instead gripping her at the wrists as he slammed her up against the side of the elevator. She gave a little gasp of surprise and pleasure, and his body stiffened even further, responding to her desire. The reaction fueled his anger. Was he entirely unable to control his own body? First the change, and now this woman? Everywhere he turned he was forced to succumb to some primal urge. And, damn him, unlike the change, he would willingly succumb to this urge.

  He was pressed against her, her breasts soft against his chest. The insistent pressure sent a heat shooting through his body, settling in his cock. He was hard and hot, and the time was now.

  "Caitlyn," he said.

  "Now," she whispered. She tugged her wrists free, then explored him with her hands. Her fingers snaked inside his shirt, her skin warm against his bare flesh.

  He groaned, then reached out to slip the thin strap of her gown off her shoulder. He bent, pressing his lips to the exposed swell of her breast. He could feel her heart pounding, and he knew he needed to just do it, to slam himself inside her, to hold the change at bay.

  Even now, he was dancing with danger. The change was coming upon him, pushing at the back of his head, emerging from his muscles and his skin. Soon, he'd lose his tenuous grip on control.

  He had to take her, without pretense, with none of the courtship that human females so desired. Later, there would be harsh looks and recriminations—and he would make all the appropriate explanations. He would soothe the way to making love to her fully and completely. Now, though, there was no time.

  "You're mine, Caitlyn," he said. “Now, and forever."

  She gasped, but said nothing, and he covered her mouth with his, forestalling any protests. As he did, he tugged her skirt up to her waist, sliding his hands between her legs. Once again, he slid his finger into her wet heat. His cock hardened when her slick muscles gripped him as he withdrew. And then, with a guttural growl more feline than human, he ripped off her panties before tugging his zipper down.

  He eased between her legs, the tip of his cock stroking her heat. She moaned, little mewling sounds that only made him harder. His fingers tightened on her ass, and he lifted her just slightly, planning to impale her on him, to let her take as much of him as she could.

  The elevator jerked and shuddered, and he lost his footing. They tumbled to the floor, their clothes and bodies tangled.

  He got to his knees, then reached down to help her. As he did, the lights flickered, and the elevator started to move, controlled by someone who'd overridden the emergency stop. Her eyes went wide, her mouth forming into a little O as she adjusted her clothes.

  She stood up, her expression wary as she backed away from him, shaking her head.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have—I wasn't thinking. Please, I'm so sorry, but I have to go."

  Her words were like a slap. She couldn't leave him. She was his mate. She was necessary. And, damn him, he wanted her.

  She turned toward the elevator door, but there was nowhere for her to go.

  He tugged at her hand. "Caitlyn. You can't go."

  But it was too late. For a few delicious moments, she’d been his. He didn’t understand the nature of the magic, the connection, the whatever-it-was that had drawn them together, but he knew that somehow, the veil had lifted.

  It was over. He knew it even before those gentle blue eyes turned to ice. Even before she repeated, "Can’t go?" and then smiled slowly and said, "Watch me."

  “Caitlyn.” His voice was a plea, but she ignored him. Without looking at him again, she punched a button on the elevator. The car jolted, then stopped. The doors slid open, revealing a deserted lobby.

  She’d exited the car before finally turning back to look at him, her stiff demeanor laced with confusion. "I'm sorry." Her voice trembled. "I don't understand what happened tonight, but I am sorry for letting it go so far."

  And with those words still hanging in the air, she turned and ran across the lobby and out into the stifling heat of the New Orleans night.

  Four

  She raced from the building, her heels clattering on the uneven stone walkway. He didn't follow, but still his shadow haunted her, his essence seeming to cling to her very soul.

  The night hung around her, heavy with the scent of magnolias. Heated and sensual. A night filled with longing and need, and she'd lost herself in it. Lost herself to him.

  Cate raced toward Jackson Square, finally stopping and leaning against the iron fence that surrounded the area. Her breath came ragged, and not from exertion. No, her body was hot. Needy. And now it was rebelling because she'd run away from what it had wanted most. Him. Luc Agassou.

  She closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Tourists and locals passed, eyeing her curiously, but she dropped her gaze, focusing on the battered pavement. How many times had she come here before? A detective, hiding behind her badge and her gun? Now she stood in her evening gown and heels feeling stripped naked for all the world to see. She'd exposed herself to that man, made herself vulnerable.

  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, her grip tight around the fence post, as the night settled around her.

  What the hell was she doing?

  Even on her wildest days, she'd never gone at it with a stranger in an elevator. And this wasn't even about the sex. A one-night stand was one thing, but this was...

  She shook her head, not sure what it was, only knowing that it was more. More heated. More sensual. More enticing. More desperate.

  More everything.

  And so help her, she wanted everything she could get.

  Her body tingled, and she looked around, staring out into the night, past the corners and shadows, past the clumps of tourists, past the inviting lights of Cafe Du Monde. She was looking for him, not sure what she would do if she found him, only knowing that she had to look, even as her head told her to get the hell out of there as fast as her legs could carry her.

  A sharp crack sounded behind her, and instinctively, her hand went to her hip where she usually wore her gun. It wasn't there, and she turned and saw a couple. The man bent to pick up the cell phone he'd dropped and then they continued walking toward her, hand-in-hand.

  She exhaled as longing welled inside her.

  She was on edge. Antsy. And she needed to get home. Put on some coffee. Turn on the television. Revel in the trappings of normalcy.

  With purpose, she started walking again, cutting diagonally across the intersection so that she could head back to Canal Street and catch the streetcar at Carondelet. The side street was dark, the businesses closed up, the street vendors gone for the night. She walked toward th
e lights on Decatur, toward the horse-drawn carriages and a vibrant civilization she'd never really been part of.

  As she walked away, she caught a shadow in her peripheral vision and she shivered. A great cat. Watching. And waiting.

  She blinked, then looked again, sure she'd been mistaken, and this time it was gone.

  A trick of the light, surely.

  And yet, somehow, Cate knew that wasn't true.

  The cat was there. It was waiting for her.

  She should be scared, but she wasn't.

  And that's what scared her most of all.

  Blood.

  On his hands, his face. Everywhere. The metallic stench of it consumed him, tormented him.

  Naked, Luc collapsed on his back lawn, the twelve-foot stone fence ensuring his privacy. He pressed his face to the grass, his hands outstretched in front of him, a penitent praying to a god he no longer knew.

  Forsaken.

  Tears clogged his throat, and he pressed his eyes closed, helpless against the onslaught. He remembered nothing more than touching her, and in those moments, he’d felt calm. The raging waters inside him going still.

  But then she'd abandoned him, leaving him to the horror that was his life. To the horror he'd been inflicting on the city.

  Her taste still hung on him. When their lips had met, nothing else in the universe had mattered. His curse had disappeared. He was only a man wanting a woman.

  But he wasn't that man, and he knew that he could never really have her in love, only in need. For, truly, what was there to love about him?

  He sat back on his haunches, his face toward the sky, his bloodied hands lifted in front of him. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was his.

  He had to have her. He would have her. Tonight.

  Before anyone else got hurt.

  Her earlier champagne buzz had burned off, extinguished by the heat generated between her and Luc Agassou. And though she knew she should simply crawl into bed and lose herself to sweet sleep, Cate couldn't do that. For her, sleep was no longer sweet. And so she opened her freezer, took out a bottle of Smirnoff, and poured herself a shot.