She was ready to roll her eyes at herself at this point.
Jerking the laptop open and pulling up the Navajo Remote Database, Liza reminded herself that she was the one that couldn’t handle her own life at the moment. Stygian hadn’t asked her to allow the confusion and fear building inside her to come between them.
She had done that herself.
Opening the Community Center file, she tried to concentrate on the plans to renovate and add the nursery wing to the new center that had been built on the western edge of town a few years before. She’d been in charge of raising the money, and they’d completed raising the funds several months before for the expansion as well as additional computers for the after-school tutoring program.
She was halfway through the file when the odd flick of the screen she’d been experiencing for the past several weeks happened again. Frowning, she scrolled lower, wondering why her father hadn’t been able to fix it while he’d had the laptop the week before. As it flickered again, she made the ultimate mistake of lifting her gaze and allowing the sparring session in the gym to catch her attention again.
For the past two days she’d fought with herself, forced herself to piece together fragments of memories, to find a resolution inside herself. To accept what she knew, who she knew she was. The need for him had been beneath the surface, the hunger for him had always been there, at the edge of her thoughts and her need. But the need to know who she was, and why she believed she was Liza Johnson, had taken so much of her that she’d had no choice but to step back and piece together the bits she knew, the fragments of dreams, the memories that hadn’t really seemed like memories.
She wasn’t who she thought she was, but there was no way to prove it to herself. There wasn’t a single memory, a single dream or instance that she could use to pinpoint that she was Honor Roberts or Fawn Corrigan. There were no memories of either that she could pull free.
As she watched the Breeds sparring, she suddenly stiffened as Flint’s fist went for her mate’s face.
Stygian jumped back from the jab to his face but not before it connected.
His lip was split, the reddened hint of blood marring the perfect male curve.
Ah hell, Flint had split Stygian’s lip?
Wouldn’t that make kissing her later painful?
She could kiss the little boo-boo.
Licking her lips at the thought, her br**sts swelled further at the surge of hunger racing through her body while her clit pulsed in renewed need.
Renewed? No, not renewed, it hadn’t stopped pulsing since she’d first watched them sparring.
She wanted to spar with him. She wanted to have him take her down, strip her pants from her body, lift her to her knees and f**k her into a screaming orgasm.
Was that seriously too much to ask?
It wasn’t like she wouldn’t be willing to give as well.
Her tongue ran over her lips again, almost involuntarily this time. She could remember the taste of him, the strength and power of the broad head of his shaft.
So broad.
She’d heard Wolf and Coyote Breeds were thicker than normal, their cocks broad enough to stretch a woman until she was certain it was impossible to take him.
Their experience, she had heard, ensured their lovers took them, perhaps not with ease, but definitely with pleasure.
Exquisite, heated, torturous pleasure.
Moisture rushed from her vagina, slickening, preparing—
Clenching her thighs, she forced back a moan and fought to return her attention to the file she was working on. And the occasional flicker of the screen that was more irritating than an actual problem.
Or, it would have been if her mind was actually on the file she was supposed to be working on.
Returning her gaze to the gym and the combatants still going at one another, the urge to be on the mat with her mate was only growing stronger.
She wanted to be the one sparring with him.
She was his mate for a reason.
She wasn’t the hothouse flower he so obviously believed she was.