He was f**king into her as though the hunger had the same hold on him that it had on her. As though he shared the pleasure-pain sensations and they were imprisoning him, locking inside him as they were inside her.
Each stroke pushed her higher, dug deeper inside her until she was crying out his name, her hips writhing beneath him as the need for release began to torment her, to claw at her womb and shudder through her pu**y.
Each thrust raked his pelvis against her clit, stroking that little bud closer to release as she cried out his name and fought to find an anchor while ecstasy began to overwhelm her.
It was a hopeless battle. There was no anchor, no way to hold herself to the earth as her orgasm began to overtake her. Each hard thrust stroked her higher, driving deep as he f**ked her faster, harder, a growl tearing from his throat and igniting that last flame that struck the fuel of rapture.
Storme felt herself explode. She felt that first strike of agonizing sensation before it overtook her and threw her so high, so hard, into a maelstrom of pure heat that she lost all concept of right and wrong, reality and fantasy.
She felt him above her, thrusting, heard him groaning, and a second later the heat of his release as it burned through her pu**y and pushed her higher.
The sensations felt never ending, spearing through her, exploding in her clit, her pu**y, across her nerves, and finally hitting her brain with a surge of the pure fiery waves of pleasure.
A hard, desperate throb in his shaft echoed through her flesh, as though his c**k were pulsing, threatening to swell harder, wider insider her. The pleasure of that additional pulse against the sensitive walls of her pu**y became almost overwhelming.
It was a good thing breathing was natural, because anything that took thought was impossible. Anything but riding the waves of rapture wasn't happening.
And when it was over, she collapsed beneath him, snuggled against his heat, and let another need have her.
Exhaustion.
Satiation.
Warmth.
She just wanted to sleep in his arms now.
"Ahh, lass," he whispered as his lips touched her shoulder, his voice filled with regret. "My sweet Storme. If only the world were different ..."
CHAPTER 3
She was caught.
Storme sat in the sitting room glaring at Styx as Breeds filled the room. The contents of her duffel bag were spread out on the table, every item in it thoroughly examined by the Breeds that had arrived after she dressed.
Styx stood to the side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her with an inquisitive expression. As though he were trying to figure out a particular problem.
Lips thinned, anger burning inside her, she stared back at him.
He had played her. Him, Navarro, Rule, Lawe, and Jonas Wyatt.
She turned her gaze to Wyatt.
She'd never seen him dressed as he was now, all in black, weapons strapped to his thigh, his eerie silver eyes so hard, so cold they were deadly. Of all the Breeds Storme had fought to avoid over the years, the director of the Bureau of Breed Affairs was almost at the top of her list. He was damned scary.
Perhaps Styx was scarier though. He'd managed to get beneath her defenses, to play the perfect game without once arousing her suspicions. And she could be a damned suspicious person.
Hands clasped tight in her lap, she tried to think, to force her brain past the exhaustion and fear to find a way to escape. There had to be a way to escape; she had always found one before.
Admittedly, she hadn't allowed herself to be in this position before though. In the ten years she had been running, since she was a young, tender, fourteen, never had she allowed herself to be surrounded by Breeds.
Now here she was, no weapons, no way out, and she was surrounded.
"I want the data chip."
She flinched at the sound of Wyatt's voice. It was razor sharp, cutting, and merciless.
"People in hell want ice water too," she sneered back at him. "You're going to get about as lucky as they are in your wants."