BRANDED BY FIRE

And her breasts. He swallowed a groan as he caught teasing glimpses of them as she jumped lightly on top of the rock—very much like the cat she was—and lay down on her front, giving a moan of pure, sensual bliss at the heat. “Stop checking me out and come give me a massage.”


He walked over, his body heavy with need. But he wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t going to assume she’d accept him into her body again. Making such assumptions with predatory changeling females got men nothing but bruised egos and possibly, missing body parts. He climbed onto the rock with steady steps that were more natural to him than her quicksilver grace. “Damn it, Mercy,” he said the instant he saw her back. “You’re fucking black-and-blue again. You should’ve told me I was—”

“It wasn’t playtime with you that caused this, Kincaid.”

Fury rolled through him. “Who?” He’d rip them to shreds.

“Training, so cut it out.” Turning her head, she shoved her hair out of the way and glared. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just my skin—and it’s not black-and-blue. I saw it in the mirror today; the marks have almost entirely faded.”

He scowled, wanting to do damage to whoever had dared harm her.

“My muscles, on the other hand, do ache. So massage me while I tell you what I picked up about the bears.”

“You sure you don’t hurt?”

“Riley, I’m a natural redhead.” A snicker. “In case you didn’t notice.”

Of course his gaze dipped downward. “Turn over so I can check.”

She laughed. “Massage me already.”

Still not happy with the marks, he straddled her. She moaned at the first firm touch of his hands on shoulders.

He didn’t say anything, choosing to stroke over her back again. “Bears?” he finally asked, though it was the last thing on his mind.

“They’re ooo-kay.” The last word was a moan as he hit a tight muscle. “I like your hands.”

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Touching her was scrambling his brain cells. And that would surprise almost everyone who knew him. Riley Kincaid didn’t get scrambled. He was the one you could count on to be snapping out cool, collected orders while the world turned to custard. Right now, it could’ve been raining icicles and he wouldn’t have cared … except to protect Mercy’s body.

“The bears are fine,” she said, her voice pure indolent cat. “I scented a couple dead, but no signs of sickness—might be there was a fight. What did you get?”

“Same.” His voice sounded like sandpaper to him, but Mercy murmured in agreement and stayed quiescent under his hands.

This, he realized, was another kind of trust. Normally, she’d allow only a packmate to do this. Under his hands, her muscles grew loose, limber. Finishing with her shoulders, he slid down to work on her back. Despite the bruises that continued to anger the wolf, her skin felt soft as satin, warm and tempting. His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts as he did her sides.

“Hey, no copping a feel.”

Leaning over, he nipped her ear. “Quiet.”

He saw the edge of her smile. “Do the rest.”

Her languid laziness was so feline he couldn’t do anything else but stroke her. After he finished her back, he swept the heavy weight of her hair to cover her. Pretty, his wolf said as he ran the strands through his fingers.

Mercy didn’t hurry him up, and he realized she liked having her hair played with. It was a surprising discovery, it was such a feminine thing. But it fit her. Releasing the strands after long, long minutes, he ran his fingers down to trace the delicate lines of the tattoo at the base of her spine. It was a fine blade anchoring and twined by beautiful curling lines.

Feminine and martial.

He liked it. Just as he liked the fact that she had another tattoo on her right arm—slashing lines that echoed the markings on her alpha’s face. Loyal. This cat was loyal. And that both drew him and frustrated him. But he wouldn’t think about that today.

These minutes, these hours, were for Riley and Mercy. Not a lieutenant and a sentinel. Here, they were two ordinary people who happened to set one another aflame … and, perhaps, touch each other far deeper than either of them was willing to admit.

Drifting lower, he ran his knuckles over her buttocks. No protest. So he kneaded her muscles with careful hands, learning her far slower than he had either of the other times they’d been together.

By the time he reached the tops of her thighs, the scent of her arousal had wrapped around him like a thousand soft whispers. But he didn’t push. He was enjoying having her under his hands—Mercy rarely stopped being in motion. To have her like this was a rare treat, one to be savored.