A hand in her hair, wrenching back her head. “What’s my name?”
She scratched trails down his back. He didn’t even wince. “My name, kitty. Say my name.”
“Mr. Mud Stick, Muddie for short,” she said, even as she rubbed herself against the hard thrust of his denim-covered erection, the roughness of the fabric an exquisite sensation. She would’ve liked naked skin even more, but he wasn’t budging.
“Say it, or no cock for you today.”
Her mouth fell open. “Fuck you.”
“You’ll be doing that shortly.” He kissed her again, a tangling of tongue and teeth and untamed male power. “Now”—he thrust against her, letting her feel the heavy, dark heat that she could have—“what’s my fucking name?”
It was tempting to continue to snarl at him, but her skin was slick with sweat and he was big and wild and delicious over her. And she wanted him in her. Now. “Men and their egos,” she muttered, just to piss him off a little. “Now do it, Riley. Or I’ll find someone else.”
He held her head where it was for another long second before lowering his face to hers, those amber eyes telling her exactly who was in charge inside him at that moment. “What did you say?” Quiet, quiet words.
She clawed his back again. This time, the wolf growled at her and the next few minutes passed in a fury of torn clothing and ravaging kisses, cries of pleasure intermingled with moans. And suddenly he was naked above her. Strong, hot, beautiful. She rose up against him, feeling her eyes go leopard as he put one hand on her thigh to hold her down and nudged at her with the aroused length of him.
She went to reach down, but he growled at her. Normally she’d have growled back, but he was making her feel so-damn-good. So she wrapped her other leg around him and thrust her hands into his hair, rocking her body upward. “I want you in me.”
He began to push in. She sucked in a breath. The man was hard as rock and thick enough to make her muscles stretch to the edge of pain. She shuddered. “More.”
He took her at her word, thrusting into her with a slow, intensely erotic focus that had her inner muscles starting to spasm in ecstasy even before he was fully inside. Then he was and she’d never felt so taken in her life. But he gave her only a few seconds to get used to him before his lips took hers once again, even as his body slammed in and out of her with a power her leopard gloried in. Wolf or not, this man was worth dancing with.
She moved with him, kissing him back, running her hands over his body and nipping at him just because. He kept her pinned to the earth as he took her, as if he knew just how damn much she needed a good, hard ride. When she orgasmed, it was with a sharp cry, a lush clenching around the thick heat of him, and a burst of starlight behind her eyes.
Lights that continued to flicker even after she came back down to earth. Riley was still hot and aroused in her, moving with unapologetically powerful thrusts that pushed her to another peak in moments. She bit his neck in the wolf way this time, and it finally pushed him over the edge with her.
CHAPTER 2
Early the next morning, a willowy Psy female walked into a breakfast and dinner—no lunch—restaurant just south of San Diego, and sat down, placing her briefcase beside her. She was dressed in a dark gray suit, with a jacket that cinched at the waist, and tailored pants in the same material. Her shirt collar was crisp and white, her nails manicured so they were short and clean.
The waitress smiled, but didn’t expect a response. All Psy—well, except the ones who had defected recently—were emotionless robots. She’d heard rumors that they weren’t born that way, that they trained the emotion out of themselves. Damn fool thing if you asked her. What was life without love, without laughter? Yeah, there were a few tears along the way, but hey, that was life. To be lived.
But she said none of what was on her mind—Psy were emotionless, but they tipped exactly on the correct percentage. Which was better than some cheapskates who ran her off her feet then left a quarter behind. She’d serve a Psy ahead of them any day. “What’ll it be?” she asked, holding up the old-fashioned order pad. That was how this place stayed in business—folks came for the “ambience,” as the boss called it.
She laughed at him—the old flirt was her husband, she had to keep him on his toes—but he was right. People liked the checkered tablecloths over wooden tables, the real-people service as opposed to order pads built into tables, even the crackling old jukebox they cranked up at night. That’s why they got a lot of human and changeling traffic.
The few Psy who came in were mostly strays on their way to a meeting in the city. This one looked the type. Pretty, too, with those bright green eyes against skin that was a nice, pale bronze. Psy really were striking a lot of the time—probably messed with their genes in the womb, the waitress thought. “Honey?” she prompted when the woman didn’t respond.