The Others: On The Prowl Part 9

Besides, in her heart, Saskia knew that she didn't want to end the engagement. She wanted Nicolas for her mate; she just wanted him to talk to her a little, the way he had in the kitchen last night while she made dinner. Then, he'd spoken to her like a person, asking questions about her life and her hobbies and really listening to her answers. He hadn't ordered her around or accused her of doing something wrong; he'd just talked to her. When he did that, Saskia found herself even more attracted to him than she had been for the last two decades. Those were the moments when being his mate felt like the most natural thing in the world. Surely they must be able to work out some way to have that kind of relationship for more than thirty minutes at a stretch.

It must be possible.

First, Saskia reminded herself, she would have to pick her battles. Which were the ones she really wanted to win?

It didn't take long to decide that she didn't care what he thought or said about her leaving the apartment while he was out yesterday morning. She had left because she was worried about him and angry that she didn't know where he'd gone or when he'd be back. Leaving him in the same predicament had been a petty form of revenge she had enacted without even realizing her own subconscious intention. It had been wrong, not because she should be required to clear her every move with her mate before she made it but because common courtesy dictated that if she wasn't going to be where someone expected to find her, she should at least leave a note to explain where she was. She would have done it for a roommate; she could certainly do it for a fiance. So as far as past mistakes went, she decided the wisest course would be to set them aside and move on.

She also didn't think they should waste time arguing about her interruption of the meeting with Mac. She could explain that she had only barged into the office unannounced as a last resort after Nicolas refused to explain about the trouble with the Council that had dragged him out of her bed on their first night together. She still felt he should have opened up to her when she asked, so she didn't regret her actions. In fact, she would do the same thing again if presented with the same choices. But she would also explain that to her mate-calmly and rationally-and put the responsibility for that back on him. If he didn't want her to manipulate him into sharing things with her, he could either share of his own accord or give her a good-read: not "because I said so"-reason why he couldn't share.

That was where the real trouble lay, and that was the battle she would pick to fight. Saskia wanted to be a good mate to her fiance. She wanted to do all the things he needed her to do, from running his social calendar to bearing his children. She wanted to be his companion and support him in his decisions. She wanted to love him, d.a.m.n it, but he had to let her. He had to accept that she wasn't an accessory but a mate, that in order for her to share his life, he had to actually share his life with her. She didn't need to know what he was thinking every minute of every day, but when something happened to threaten him or her or their life together, then she expected to hear about it. From him. That was her one and only requirement, the one battle she could not afford to lose. She just hoped he would be able to respect her stance on that.

She sat alone in the den for a long time, lost in thought, until the sound of a key in the lock of the front door caught her attention. Her Tiguri hearing picked up the noise easily, and her sense of smell told her immediately that Nicolas was home. She detected none of the sharp, bitter smells of fury that had clung to him when he left, and she felt hope surge in her chest. His footfalls were naturally quiet, but if she strained, she could just barely pick them out. They sounded even but not precisely measured. He sounded as if he was walking, not marching, toward her. She found herself holding her breath.

Her eyes fixed on the doorway even before he appeared in it. She thought he looked tired, too tired for barely five in the afternoon on a Sunday, but otherwise his expression remained neutral. Not frighteningly blank and hard, the way it had looked the last time she had seen him, just even. And cautious.

They stared at each other for a minute; then Nicolas sighed and crossed to the sofa, lowering himself wearily to the cushion beside her. He didn't touch her and he left several inches of s.p.a.ce between them, but he chose the seat beside her instead of the chair to the side or the far cushion where Corinne had curled up earlier. Saskia's heart rose.

When she spoke, the words ran right over Nic's, uttered in the same moment.

"I think we sh-h-hou-"

"I've been hoping we m-m-migh-"

Each stuttered to a halt. Nic's mouth quirked. Saskia smiled shyly.

"You first."

Saskia took a deep breath. This was it. She had to take the risk. "I think we should start over." She had to force the words out, but once they were there, hanging in the air between them, it felt like a vise releasing her chest. "I never should have said what I did this afternoon. I didn't really mean it. I don't consider our engagement null and void. I was just upset, but I handled it badly. I apologize. I won't say you haven't done anything to make me angry, but I think I've done a pretty good job angering you, as well. So I think we should set that aside and let it go. I think we should start over, from here, and agree to treat each other with respect and consideration."

Nicolas watched her in silence. His green eyes looked like slivers of jade, opaque and mysterious, but his expression remained relaxed and open while he listened to her words. When she finished, he nodded slowly.

"You did make me angry, but I responded by being cruel, and that's something I'm not proud of. I regret that I made you feel like less of a person, because that isn't what I want. I don't want a mindless slave, a Stepford wife, or a broodmare. Any one of those things would bore me to tears and have me pulling my hair out within a week. I want a mate, and I want you to be that mate. I think starting over is a wonderful idea. I just wish I'd suggested it first."

Saskia's eyes widened and her heart sped up. She felt like she'd just woken up and realized it was Christmas morning. "Really?"

Nicolas nodded. "Really."

"Wow," she breathed. "That was a whole lot easier than I thought it would be."

Nicolas gave her a strange look and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, it made the sofa shake. Saskia held on to the cushions and waited for it to run its course. It took several minutes.

"What?" she finally demanded, once her mate had settled down into the occasional guffaw.

"I just love that you thought this was easy." He chuckled, flopping his head back on the sofa and turning to look at her. A wide grin softened his harsh features, making him look years younger and shockingly handsome.

"Well, not all of it." She rolled her eyes and harrumphed. "You know what I mean. I was just talking about this." She waved a hand between them. "This last bit. I wasn't sure you'd agree with my suggestion. I thought I'd have to spend a lot more time convincing you."

Still grinning, Nicolas reached out a hand and took one of hers. He played with her fingers while he watched her face. "Well, I hate to spoil your plans," he teased, his gaze turning hot. "If you feel the need to convince me of something, I'd be more than happy to let you."

Saskia felt a low hum of arousal begin in her belly. She'd spent all day in her head, trying to come up with a solution to her problems with her mate, which was almost a relief, because it had kept her from frantically monitoring the state of her body. Tiguri, like their fully feline cousins the tigers, were induced ovulators, which meant that they only released fertile eggs after being stimulated by a male during intercourse. Unlike tigers, though, who entered heat on a regular cycle regardless of whether a male was present for mating, Tiguri females, like human females, were always receptive to mating. Consequently, while a tigress would go into heat, seek out a mate, and then ovulate, a Tiguri would mate first, then go into heat, and then ovulate. Which meant that Saskia hadn't been lying earlier when she'd said that within the next couple of days she was going to become about as h.o.r.n.y as a rabid mink.

Thankfully, she didn't think she'd entered heat quite yet, but it didn't seem to matter. Nicolas did a fine job raising her temperature without any help from her hormones.

He tugged her toward him, and she went willingly, shifting across the sofa cushions with shy enthusiasm. Nicolas guided her into his lap, encouraging her to straddle his thighs until he could nestle his groin against the apex of her legs. Saskia was so much shorter than her mate that even in this position, she didn't have to look down at him. Instead, it brought their eyes level, and Nicolas stared into hers while his hands drifted teasingly over her back, hips, and bottom.

"Go ahead, Sa.s.sy," he encouraged, lips curving, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her top to drift in feather-light strokes over the sensitive skin at the small of her back. "Start convincing me."

At that moment, Saskia couldn't have convinced herself to keep breathing. She just shook her head and leaned closer, shivering at the feel of his breath caressing her cheek.

"Hm, then maybe I should convince you," he rumbled, and when his mouth settled on hers Saskia melted.

She was convinced.

Nicolas wasn't Catholic, but he still wanted to light a candle and say a prayer of thanks that he held his mate once more in his arms. He had feared, really feared, that he had made irrevocable mistakes. All afternoon as he'd wandered the city on foot, he'd mentally kicked his own a.s.s. If he'd been able to reach, he would have kicked it literally, too. He'd thought long and hard about ways to make things right with Saskia, and the only thing he'd come up with was that he needed to apologize. He needed to admit he'd been wrong in the way he'd behaved and say he was sorry.

For a Tiguri ther, this amounted to cutting off his own t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e with a rusty spoon. Nothing could have been more difficult.

Still, he had believed Saskia was worth it. He still believed it, now more than ever as he cradled her in his arms and savored the sweet, rich spice of her mouth. He would pay a higher price than his pride to keep this woman as his mate, but he couldn't deny that a part of him roared in relief that she hadn't demanded he pay a single sacrifice.

Her apology had floored him. Of all the things he had expected when he returned to their apartment, of all the scenarios he had braced himself to face, a calm, sweet-faced Saskia offering an apology of her own and a face-saving compromise for their future hadn't even featured on the list of possibilities. Nicolas had prepared himself for weeping, screaming, claws, fangs, stony silence, flying projectiles, and even the absence of Saskia and all her worldly possessions, but not for this miracle.

And, Lord, but it felt like a miracle.

She returned his kiss with sweet, eager pa.s.sion, welcoming him inside her mouth and exploring his own in turn. Every caress he pressed on her she returned twofold, until the feel of her soft hands threatened to snap his control and end the moment far sooner than he intended. Struggling for control, he drew his lips from hers and pressed them to her temple.

He meant for the moment to allow him to catch his breath, to regroup, refocus, and regain the patience he would need in order to love this woman the way he wanted to, but the skin at her hairline was so soft, so smooth, so richly scented with the sweet perfume of her hair, that he just had to reach out and taste. That led to him running a trail of kisses down to her ear, where he teased the delicate whorl with the tip of his tongue, then closed his teeth around the plump lobe and tugged. The slight pressure made her breath hitch in her throat, which made him want to explore a little farther.

She shivered when his teeth sc.r.a.ped down the long, slim column of her neck, his tongue following to lave away the tiniest sting. He discovered that the hollow of her throat tasted like salted caramel and he paused there for several minutes, licking and sucking the fair skin while her breathing became faster and more ragged. When need finally spurred him onward, he tugged aside the neckline of her top with an impatient hand and growled in satisfaction at the sight of the mark he'd left there the day before. Her rapid Tiguri metabolism would have healed any other slight injury she might have sustained during their mating, including the soreness of a torn hymen, but the mating bite was special. It would remain visible for days, and even after it faded, other males would continue to sense its presence and know that this woman belonged to him.

The thought filled him with savage satisfaction.

A moan escaped her lips when he placed his teeth over the mark and squeezed gently. He wouldn't pierce her skin again, but echoing the moment when he'd claimed her excited him desperately. He remembered how he had done it while he'd pressed inside her, and the memory of her tight s.e.x clenching around him would have brought him to his knees if he'd been standing. As it was, it made his head spin and his fingers clench, flexing in the warm flesh of her hips.

Saskia whimpered at his touch and shifted against him, rubbing her denim-covered core against his groin with hungry little rocking motions. He could feel the heat of her, smell the growing arousal rising off her skin, and suddenly he needed to taste it there as well.

Swiftly he stripped away her shirt, yanking it up over her head and dropping it to the floor. He dealt with his own, as well, then reached around her for the clasp of her bra and froze. Her rapid breathing made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rise and fall, making the pale mounds strain at the edges of their lacy prison. Nic had seen b.r.e.a.s.t.s before, plenty of them, and some had been decorated in truly artful sc.r.a.ps of fabric, but somehow he'd never seen anything quite like this. The bra his mate wore looked deceptively innocent, a concoction of pale pink satin overlaid with lace in a slightly darker shade of rose. The concealing cups offered him not so much as a flash of nipple or a shadow of areola; they simply cuddled the full globes like a pair of gentle hands, lifting them high against her chest as if offering them to him to savor and treasure. His mouth actually watered at the sight.

Shaking his head at his own fanciful thoughts, Nicolas unfastened the garment and tugged it down her arms, peeling the cups away like wrapping paper off a much-antic.i.p.ated gift. Immediately his hands took over the job of support, cupping each breast and lifting it in turn to his lips. He pressed a kiss on each peak, then settled one broad palm over the first while he opened his mouth over the second and drew the nipple deep into his mouth.

Saskia hissed in pleasure, the sound turning into a moan that trembled and broke when his tongue pressed the nub against the roof of his mouth and he began to suckle strongly. The hands that had gripped his torso during his explorations rose, her arms twining about his head and cradling her to him. She leaned into his worship, and her knees tightened around his hips.

"Oh, G.o.d," she whimpered, and dropped her cheek to his hair, as if she could no longer support the weight of her head.

Nicolas hummed in pleasure and turned his attention to the other breast. Within minutes, he had turned each nipple into a deep pink splash of color against her pale, creamy skin. The sight made him smile, but his work was far from done.

He slid one hand over her shoulder, fingers dancing over his mark, before skimming down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, detouring to draw a circle around each peak, and sliding over the quivering flesh of her abdomen. A quick twist of the wrist dealt with the fastening of her jeans, allowing him to spread them open and insinuate his hand into the hot delta of her thighs.

She cried out, the sound sharp and breathless, echoing in the quiet room. Her hands clutched his shoulders and her head fell back even as she lifted herself slightly away from him to offer him better access. He thanked her by stroking deeper, parting her soft folds to find the tight bundle of nerves at the top of her crease. He pressed his thumb against the little nubbin, flicking gently even as he sent two fingers delving into her sweet liquid core.

Her body clenched around him helplessly, her hips rocking to try to compel him deeper. He teased her with slow, shallow strokes that circled her opening, then barely slipped inside, keeping her constantly craving more. Her breath came in ragged pants now, and she whimpered like a hungry kitten. The sound drew his arousal even tighter until he could no longer bear the constriction of his clothing.

When he pulled his hand from between her thighs she gave a muted roar of protest, then purred her approval as he swiftly divested them of their remaining clothes. With no barrier between them, she crawled eagerly back into his lap, gasping at the sensation of bare skin against bare skin. He returned his hand to her s.e.x, reveling in the freedom of movement her nudity offered him, and he petted her for long moments, savoring the slick feel of her plump folds. Her hips pressed against him in demand, trying to capture his fingers inside her. When he gave in and filled her with two long digits, she chuffed happily and rode his hand with abandon.

A creature of sensation, she lived for nothing but pleasure in those moments, and Nicolas watched her with rapt desire. She moved as gracefully as water, burned as hot as fire, and became as necessary to him as air. He ached to be a part of her, needed to be inside her, and when she lowered a hand between them to wrap her fingers around his shaft his control deserted him.

With implacable movements, he brushed her hand away, gripped her b.u.t.tock in a punishing hold, and lifted her over him. He took a second to position himself, but when he slammed her hips down over his, his gaze was locked on her beautiful blue eyes. They went blind as his and Saskia's bodies merged, the beautiful mountain lake color losing focus as all her attention turned inward to the feel of his body invading hers, stretching, filling, claiming. Her breath escaped on a long, thready moan, the sound like broken music in his ears.

He took a moment to savor the connection, the feel of her clamped warm and tight around his aching arousal. Nothing on earth could ever feel as perfect as this, he acknowledged, surging helplessly inside her. No place could ever feel more like home than the sweet, warm depths of her body. She was his home, his haven. His mate.

The thought sliced through the ropes holding back his beast, unleashing the full force of his voracious hunger on his unsuspecting mate. In an instant, he went from holding still to better savor the moment of their joining to imprisoning her in a punishing grip while he pounded her depths with primitive fury. A part of him was appalled by his own actions and railed at him to be slow, be gentle, treat her like the treasure she was, but that softer voice was drowned out by the roar of his hunger. If she represented a treasure, then he would mark every inch of her to be sure no one else would ever mistake that she belonged to him.

To slow down was impossible, to be gentle a battle he could never win. All he could do was push and push and push her along with him, to pour on sensation until it overwhelmed her and swept her along in the frantic rush to fulfillment.

Saskia arched her back as she rode him or, rather, as he moved her over him with insistent clenching hands. Her head fell back between her shoulders, her throat a quivering arch as she choked on a never-ending litany of cries and incoherent pleas. She braced her hands on his chest, using him to anchor herself in the storm of pa.s.sion. The sane corner of her mind knew he must be hurting her and roared in self-directed fury, but the expression on her face appeared nearly beatific, as if she gloried in every hard, ruthless thrust, every place where his fingers bit into her flesh hard enough to mark the pale surface of her skin with deep purple bruises. She uttered not a word of complaint, just flexed and gripped and shuddered and moaned while he pushed her harder and higher toward release.

Nic could feel it coming. It built low in his spine and snaked around to his groin in an involuntary clenching of muscle and tingling of nerves. It drew his b.a.l.l.s up tight to his body, hardened the erection he already felt had been carved of stone, and tore the breath from his lungs in raw, painful exhalations. Determined to make her come, to give her at least that much in apology for her brutal treatment at his hands, he shifted her hips, changing the angle of their connection so that the base of his shaft dragged hard across her c.l.i.t with every forceful thrust.

Her moans turned into helpless, high-pitched whines, and he gritted his teeth against the need to explode before her. He would take her over the edge if it was the last thing he ever did. Since he thought this experience might just kill him, that represented more than an empty promise.

"Nicolas!"

Her voice broke on his name and he knew he had her. Pinning her hips in place, he held her with desperate intent and gave three short, hard thrusts, each one a slow, pointed a.s.sault on the knotted bundle of nerves at the top of her slit. On the third thrust, she shattered like spun gla.s.s.

He came giving thanks, emptying himself into his mate in endless, aching streams of pleasure, knowing he'd just done something irrevocable and hoping like h.e.l.l that whatever it was, it made this woman his forever.

Seven.

Their truce lasted not only through the remaining hours of the weekend but well into the next week. With their promises to each other kept constantly in mind, they began to establish a routine of time spent together and apart, of conversations that began stiltedly but quickly warmed into the easy, comfortable exchanges of a committed couple. Nicolas never went to his offices at the headquarters of Preda Industries, but he did spend time working in his office while Saskia staked a claim to a nook off the kitchen that Nic referred to as the sunroom. The light made the s.p.a.ce perfect for her work, and her customized work surface-a sort of cross between an easel and a drafting table-took up residence among the lush plants beneath the enormous skylight. Her current project kept her just busy enough to occupy herself in the few moments when Nic failed to express the desire to occupy her in an entirely different manner. It didn't hurt, of course, that by Tuesday Saskia's heat had struck with a vengeance and she could barely go three hours without waving her proverbial tail under his nose and begging him to touch her. Devoted mate that he was becoming, he never uttered a word of complaint.

She would have said that Tuesday and Wednesday were spent mostly in bed, but the truth was that that particular piece of furniture entered into the picture only on occasion. Most of the time, she couldn't wait for him to drag her to that room and instead teased, and taunted, and enticed until he took her right where they stood. Or sat, or knelt, or lay. They christened every room in the apartment, some more than once. He took her several times bent over the kitchen counters and on one memorable occasional standing pressed up against the front of the refrigerator. She remembered it because it had taken her ten minutes to polish her a.s.s prints off of the stainless-steel doors.

By Thursday morning, she knew if she wasn't already pregnant, she would be soon. Maybe as soon as Nicolas walked back in the door from his errand. He'd left the apartment almost an hour ago to deliver some important paper to his office. While he'd worked mostly from home the last few days-and even then, only when she left him alone long enough to catch his breath for a few minutes-the move to New York meant that the company couldn't let him go completely. While he delegated as much as he could, some things only the boss could handle.

He had told her he wouldn't be long, so she was expecting him, not a visitor, when the doorbell rang a little after 10:00 A.M. The sound surprised her and it took a moment to register what it meant before she hurried to the door and checked the peephole. Her father shifted impatiently on the other side of the door.

"Papa," she said, yanking the barrier aside and waving him in. "What on earth are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

Gregor Arcos stepped over the threshold and swept his daughter up in a forceful embrace. "What? A father can't come to check up on his little girl without her getting suspicious? I've missed you, poppet. I wanted to make sure this Preda character is treating you right."

"Of course he is. Don't be silly." She returned the hug, then stepped back and led Gregor into the living room. "Come in and sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee or tea?"

Gregor started to wave away the offer, then stopped. "Actually, tea sounds lovely, poppet, if you'll brew it for me. It's impossible to get a good cup in this city, I swear."

"Make yourself comfortable, Papa, and I'll be right back."

Gregor nodded and hitched up the legs of his trousers before sinking to a seat on the elegant chenille sofa.

Saskia hurried into the kitchen to put on a kettle and a.s.semble the makings of tea. A quick glance at the clock confirmed her suspicion that Nicolas could return at any moment. She had gone from wishing he'd hurry up already to hoping his errand might take longer than he expected. She'd rather he didn't get back while her father was in the apartment. She had no desire to conceal the visit from her mate; she just feared that with the hormones of her heat still surging, she might not be able to keep her hands off him once he returned. There were just some things a father shouldn't see his daughter doing, and crawling all over a man was one of them.

Stacking a serving tray with cups and saucers, sugar, cream, lemon, strainers, and, of course, the teapot made for a heavy load once she added the boiling water to the leaves, she walked very carefully back into the living room. As she approached the sofa her father rose and relieved her of her burden, setting the tray down on the coffee table before resuming his seat.

"I hope English is all right," she said, setting out the cups while the leaves steeped. "I haven't had time to lay in a selection yet. This is all I could find."

"It's fine. Fine. I'm sure you've had other things on your mind just lately."

Saskia blushed and murmured, "It's been a busy few days."

"Of course, of course." Gregor reached for his cup, remembered it was empty, and drew his hand back, cupping his knee and rubbing in tight circles, a nervous habit Saskia remembered well.

She frowned. "Papa, what's wrong?" she asked. "Something's bothering you, which is clearly the reason you've come for this visit. Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

"Don't be silly." He laughed too heartily. "There's nothing bothering me. Nothing at all."

She paused with the teapot poised over his cup. "Papa," she scolded.

"All right, all right." He sighed. "I suppose by now you've heard about this business with the Council?"

"Yes." She nodded, her expression tightening as she added two lumps of sugar to her father's cup and a tiny splash of cream to her own. "The whole thing is ridiculous, if you ask me. As if any of us would have any reason to harm Rafael De Santos. Besides which, you and Mr. Preda were at home at the time of the attack and have Mother and your staffs to vouch for you. And Nicolas was here with me. None of you could have committed the attack, even if you'd wanted to."

Gregor appeared surprised that she knew quite so many of the details of the event in question, but he didn't ask about it. He probably a.s.sumed that Nicolas had shielded her from most of the worry, as he had likely done with her mother; but he hadn't counted on his daughter's determination to share her mate's worries, nor would he have understood if she had tried to explain.

"Yes, well. Clearly none of us was involved in the dreadful business, but that hasn't kept the rumor mill from working overtime. Our reputations are being ground down like soft summer wheat."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that this d.a.m.ned attack is all anyone can talk about lately," Gregor snapped, his fingers clamping around the handle of his cup until his knuckles turned white.

Saskia gave a little prayer of thanks for the deceptive strength of porcelain.

"Everywhere I go, every Other in a five-mile radius can't manage to discuss a single, solitary subject without the conversation circling back to the Tiguri, and the way the Council of Others is treating us like serial killers who just haven't yet been linked back to the crime scenes yet."

Saskia winced. "It's that bad?"

"It's worse!" Gregor slammed down his cup and surged to his feet to pace restlessly around the room. As he spoke, he gestured wildly, his hands slicing through the air in testimony to his agitation. "I received a call last night from Milan Voros."

"Voros?" Saskia couldn't keep the shock from her voice. Voros was ther of one of the powerful old Tiguri streaks still hanging on to territory near Rostov in the northern Caucasus. Of course, he and Gregor knew each other, but she would never have called the men friends. "What on earth did he want?"

"To express the concern of several of the old families that perhaps our families had not been the wisest choice to test the idea of our people moving into the new world."

Okay, Saskia wouldn't touch that "new world" stuff with a stick. It just showed how wrapped up in tradition the Voros ther still was. But that stuff about there being a deliberate choice to expand the presence of their kind to America ... that gave her pause.