“My mate,” he snarled, bending his head to her ear, nipping at the lobe with his teeth. “Fucking mine.”
Securing her wrists above her head with one hand, he moved the other to one thigh, dragging her knee to his hip as he began pounding inside her. Each fierce push inside the clamping heat of her * sent striking flames of response rushing through her. Her fingers curled against his hold, desperate for something to hold on to. Desperate to hold on to him as he moved inside her like a man possessed by arousal, by possessive lust. He was determined to somehow mark her more than he already had.
His hips slammed between her thighs repeatedly, driving himself to the hilt inside her, pushing to her cervix, rasping over flesh so sensitive that each penetration rode the boundary between pleasure and pain and drove her wild with the complete eroticism of his loss of control.
The feel of his lips moving down her neck sent a rush of dizzying pleasure surging through her, making her pliant, driving a rush of sensation through her already sensitized body.
Down her neck, nipping at her collarbone, his head bending, his lips covered the tight peak of her breast, sucking it into his mouth and drawing on it with hungry pulls of his mouth as his tongue lashed at it, pushing her higher.
Pleasure whipped through her with hurricane force. It drove through her senses, arching her body closer; each thrust inside her tightening channel was met with an answering arch of her hips. She took him deeper, harder. Strangled cries tore from her lips until the rush of complete rapture exploded through her. The violence of the pleasure stole her breath. Her hips arched, her thighs tight around his hips, she held on to him, held on to reality the only way she knew how. By holding on to him the only way she could.
? CHAPTER 19 ?
Graeme waited until they had completed breakfast before considering bringing up the night before with Cat. She would no doubt be expecting it, which would make it harder to breach her defenses.
Leaning back in the metal chair that matched the metal and glass breakfast table sitting in the little alcove just off the kitchen, he watched her curiously. She drank her coffee as she went over the news pages she read each day on her e-pad. Cat was curious as hell, not just about everything surrounding her, but about the world itself. And it wasn’t likely she’d forget so much as a word that she saw, let alone read.
The information she retained with that unique memory of hers had never failed to amaze him, even in the research center. She might not understand exactly what she took in sometimes, but she could quote it word for word.
Understanding science hadn’t been her strong suit. She’d been confused by it in the center even though she’d managed to retain everything he’d shown her. Cat’s strong suit was people, strangely enough, though Cat detested crowds and rarely made friends as he understood it.
“Why did you give me Bengal DNA?” The question had him blinking back at her in surprise as her eyes lifted from the e-pad in asking it.
So much for quizzing her first.
“You read Dr. Foster’s reports.” Lifting his coffee, he sipped at the decaffeinated brew thoughtfully as he watched her, seeing her mind work despite her closed expression.
“Your reasons for it weren’t in the report,” she pointed out, her tone a little too calm. “I want to know what you were thinking when you decided to use Bengal DNA in my therapy. Were you looking for a sister, or had you already decided I was your mate?”
What was he thinking? He had no other thought at that time beyond saving her life. The missing genes in her makeup would have killed her within weeks of the base injection used to keep her alive until Dr. Foster could come up with a therapy. Graeme hadn’t consciously made the decision to mark her with his genetics, but he had no doubt his animal instincts had.
“I’m Bengal,” he finally answered, deciding on the truth rather than sugarcoating it as he felt she so often needed. “Brandenmore gave you to me. I felt that made you mine. I was eleven, Cat, why would I have considered any other DNA to introduce into the therapy of a child given to me for safekeeping?”
It was as simple as that, yet also far more complicated and he felt she knew it.
“You were never eleven,” she snorted knowingly. “Even Dr. Foster said you were born far older than your years.”
His brows lifted at that information. “He never told me that. But if it was true, then it was no more than he programmed into me. I know while the surrogate carried me, he ordered her to listen to a variety of scientific theories that had been given over many generations in genetic manipulation. He knew what he wanted when he created me, and he ensured he got what he wanted.”
There was no resentment. Far from it. If he saw anyone as a “father” figure, then it was Benjamin Foster.