Wild Thing Read online

  No words there, either. But he only laughed, short and self-deprecating. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Work,” she said desperately, her hands rebellious enough to wander along his arms, just barely obedient enough to stay away from his delectable ass. “The dog…”

  Still easily within sight, it had wandered down along the pond. Mark shrugged it off. “We’ll call animal control.”

  “Work—“

  “This is work,” he asserted—and stopped short.

  Too late for that.

  “Excuse me?” She went stiff in his arms.

  An unspoken expletive came through quite clearly in his expression. “Tayla—that didn’t come out right—“

  “You think?” And if he hadn’t meant to say it was work to kiss her, then he’d meant to say that kissing her was part of work, and the only way that could be was—

  “Tayla—“

  “No,” she told him, more brittle yet. “Don’t even try to make it better. What are you going to say, that this was somehow part of your assignment? That Carter told you to—“ And that’s when she knew. Her breath stuttered in her throat. “Oh my God. He did tell you. He told you I haven’t been initiated, didn’t he? And he wants it done, I’ll just bet. Did he tell you that? Does he think it’ll settle me out?”

  Mark winced; he closed his eyes, his expression one of pain and his hands tight on her waist. She shoved him away—not with the frantic cry swelling in her throat, but with angry disdainful defiance, drawn from the cheetah within. Long strides, shoulders straight, head up. Off the footbridge and heading down the path toward the park entrance.

  The day, so pleasant a moment ago, suddenly felt hot; she wanted nothing more than to reach their condo and walk straight into the shower. She knew this park; Mark didn’t. Let him learn it, then. He’d no doubt concentrate better without her—and if he needed to cool off, maybe someone would push him into this manicured little pond.

  One could hope.

  She stalked across the road.

  She stalked into the condo.

  She skipped the elevator and strode up the stairs, two at a time, third floor up and barely breathing hard. Kissing him took more breath.

  Kissing him.

  She lost a sob on that one, blindly digging for her key and inserting it in the lock. How had she even thought he’d suddenly found her interesting? To him she was what she’d been then—all the legs, all the awkward, face not grown into its features…emotions running wild and awareness of her shortcomings so crippling that she could only function by hiding all that insecurity away from everyone, including herself.

  And these days, if she thought she’d probably grown into herself, if she thought she was generally good at her job, that lack of confidence still lurked…quiet and completely camouflaged—at least until Mark Burton had shown up in her sector and brought it out, turning her right back into that teenage girl.

  So she made it into the condo and she quietly closed the door, and she slumped back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. First a sniffle, then a sob, and then that young teen was back, crying all the familiar feelings she’d thought she’d long outgrown.

  Because Nick Carter was right. She’d gone downhill these past months. Her work was crap. But if he’d thought this would help…

  He must be thinking with his man-brain.

  She’d ask for reassignment, that’s what. Phoenix wasn’t the only place for an American cheetah to thrive.

  The thought speared through her. If at first she’d cried in desperate hurt, now the grief came from loss—of home, of years of longing. But she could do this. If Carter insisted on this partnership, she’d take whatever disciplinary action he meted out, and she’d leave—because as much as she wouldn’t work with Mark Burton, she wouldn’t work with the adjutant who put them together.

  “Aah, Tayla.”

  She startled; she had no idea when he’d come in and that alone infuriated her. That he stood in the doorway, dismay in his dark honey-gold eyes—that infuriated her over again. Too close to pity, that dismay.

  “Get out,” she told him, her voice amazingly hard for all the crying she’d just done. She swiped away the remaining tears, through with them. “You’re done with this assignment.”

  “Am I?” he said, surprised.

  “Yes. I’m calling Carter right now.” She spared him a glance, digging into her pocket for her slim phone.

  Bemused, he said, “What if—“ and then stopped and shook his head. He crouched beside her. “Put the phone away, Tayla. Talk to me.”

  She spat rudeness at him. “Your bag’s right there. Go for it.”

  “Not until you hear me out,” he said, though his expression had gone a little flat, a little grim. A little hopeless. “Not until you listen.”

  Some part of her grasped at that new expression like the hunting creature she was—grasped and pounced. “I’ve heard enough,” she said. “You can call Carter and tell him you screwed up. You fooled me for a few moments, but that’s all you get.” She pushed away from the wall and stood, bouncing on her toes once or twice as she looked down at him—golden boy, lion child who couldn’t take the lion and who had somehow lost his way while looking. “You’re not my problem,” she said, and didn’t care about the puzzlement that crossed his features. It felt good, that—not his reaction, but her own ability to do the right thing for herself, breaking free of the weight of years.

  Later, she’d cry again. Because the feelings were real, and the attraction, the could-have-beens…those were all too real, as well. But the choice had been his all along, and she wasn’t going to ruin herself for it.

  “Bag,” she said, pointing. “Door,” she added, pointing to that, too. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Mark bounded to his feet, startling her into a few tripping steps backward—but still graceful somehow, ever graceful. “Listen, wild thing,” he growled, and her eyes widened, “this has nothing to do with Carter.” Another step, and she was up against the arm of the couch, one hand lightly touching the wall. He’d cornered her, never smart—

  But Mark was done with smart.

  “Yes,” he told her. “That’s what he wants. But only because he sees…he thinks…Tayla, it’s about us. He said I’ve been blind, and he’s right. All this time, I never let myself…I mean, God, you were glorious. Didn’t you ever know? I was just a guy who couldn’t find his lion, and you…you were everything….”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. The knuckles of her hand were white against the wall. “Right,” she said. “And didn’t you hide it well.”

  “I wasn’t the only one!” he said with a sudden explosive intensity.

  She laughed, and it had that bitter sound—if it weren’t for those white knuckles, he’d never have guessed from her voice, her expression, even her posture, that she’d been pressed back against the side of the couch. Her tall and leggy form, her speed and lithe strength…no match for the lion behind him. She knew it; she had to know it. She never blinked. “Nice,” she told him. “I’d hate to see what you bring for flowers. Thorns and poison ivy, maybe?”

  God, she was quick. And Mark couldn’t get his act together, couldn’t think. Couldn’t get past the memory of her lips and her body and her responsiveness, not to do anything but take her arms and give her a wordless, frustrated little shake.

  “Right,” she said again. “The man-brain at work. You and Carter. Nice try, but it wasn’t real. Now, leave me alone.” She shook him off—and her eyes widened when he didn’t let go.

  “Not real?” he repeated, and it came out as a growl. “Not real?” He jerked her in close, pressing himself against her. No question about that, knees bumping, arms tangling, her breasts pressed against his chest; his erection trapped so firmly between them that he hitched a breath, struggled to retain himself. He watched her eyes go wide and stay there, pupils huge, lower lip suddenly trapped between her teeth. “Tell me,” he said, and barely managed that—stop
ping to clench his jaw, regain control. “Is that real?”

  Her fingers dug into his back; she closed her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t make me sorry if I believe.”

  “Believe,” Mark said, panting tightly. “It’s about…us….”

  The end of words, then. The beginning of the fumbling—shirt over her head, bra gone in an instant, beautiful breasts in his hands. His shirt gone, too, flung across the room even as she ran fingers down his back, kneading muscle—pulling him in close enough to kiss and bite while they both quite suddenly worked at his belt. Her pants came down with a simple snap and tug; her underwear proved flimsier than he’d expected, but neither of them cared, and her hair tumbled down to brush his skin. She raked her fingers along his back, ribs and muscle and all the way down—he cried out with the sudden jolt of it and then again when she drew up one of those very long legs and wrapped it around the back of his thigh, jerking them close. “Tayla,” he said, a mere rasp of demand.

  No question about that answer, her tongue and teeth on his neck, his ear, his lips, her hands tugging him ever closer, her hips lifting, and there she was, just the right place, and he drove into her, hard enough to shove her back onto the side arm of the couch. She took him in with a cry and fierce delight, arching back—and trusting him, letting him hold her while she brought both legs around him, changing the angles between them so when they jerked together again it was Mark who shouted out, who lost the feeling in his feet as sensation rushed down his spine and targeted the frantic place where they came together again and again, driven by Tayla’s cries and Mark’s disbelieving, clawing demand for release, all hot skin and exquisite sensation until Tayla’s hands grew suddenly more urgent against him, reaching and groping and finally raking into his buttocks to thrust hard, a wail of release building in her throat and a reverberating in Mark’s chest and mind and body as they tripped each other into wild splinters of hard pleasure.

  For a long moment, she clung to him, clothed only where Mark’s body covered hers, the couch fabric soft against her bottom, the scant hair on Mark’s chest pleasantly harsh against her breasts and belly as they panted against each other.

  And slowly, new sensations trickled in. More than his body against hers, inside hers, and the scent of him all over her. His trace…that, too, permeated her being, in a way she’d never felt before. And something else, too.

  A completeness.

  Not just the completeness of an afterglow with the man she’d loved since she was old enough to love, but something deeper. Something that swept through her inner self like a sun inexorably chasing away shadow, revealing pieces she hadn’t even known were there—shoring up the weak spots, filling the empty places. Her skin electrified; her heart pounded with wild strength, absorbing it all. She trembled in it, ducking her head into the hollow of Mark’s neck—torn between fear and exultation and the absurd impulse to cling to her comfortable way of things, to shout I take it back!

  “No,” she whispered out loud, and trembled again. “I take it all back. I don’t want to be initiated. Really.”

  “Shh,” he told her, and quite suddenly he was standing and he’d brought her right along with him, his arms wrapped around her back, tucking her up tight. Only for a few steps, enough to get around the end of the couch and lower her there, climbing in alongside her. “It gets easier. But it’s rough when it comes late.” Initiation. Of course. “Blame it on me. If I’d approached you all those years ago…”

  She’d blame him, all right. He’d done this to her. He’d known it would be hard, that it would wash over her in a tsunami of foreign sensations after all this time. Finding lovers outside the Sentinels had been one thing, easily done. But inside the Sentinels? There had only ever been one, and he’d always been out of reach.

  And now he’d done this to her.

  She bit him. Not quite restrained enough to be called a love bite, right there where his neck flowed into his shoulder. Almost instantly, another wave of change hit her, sweeping electricity across her skin and a jumble of sensations and feelings within, his trace beating loud in a part of her mind that had never noticed anyone’s trace before—a hard, thumping pulse of tingling scent. She arched into it, finding it both pain and pleasure—and, still within her, he stirred, relaxed satiation growing hard again. He sucked in a breath; her sense of him surged, became too much. She made a noise of dismay.

  “Shh,” he told her again. “It settles.” He ran a hand down her side, a long caress. Soothing. He found her breast and stroked that, too, then her hair, her back, sweeping across her bottom and down the back of her thigh to her knee, pausing there to hitch her leg up slightly and secure himself there. He stroked up inside her thigh; the sensations began to focus and he found that spot, too. Dismay became demand again. His mouth smiled against her skin. “Better?”

  “It will be,” she told him, and breathed in the amazing new taste of him. “Show me again what’s real.”

  And he did.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any need to tell Carter,” Tayla said wryly, cat-stalking across the condo living room with the air-conditioned breeze running over fully exposed skin, enjoying the feel of it. Mark wasn’t quite as casual; he’d found his pants. He took the ice water she brought and lifted the glass to his mouth, gulping it down like a man in a sports drink commercial, right down to the drop of liquid lingering at his lower lip.

  Tayla bent down and licked it off.

  He grinned in predatory satisfaction. “You have changed.”

  “I hope you like it,” she told him. “You did it.”

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her, long and hard, before releasing her to stand back up. “You’re right,” he said. “Carter knows. Any Sentinel in the east side of Phoenix knows someone was initiated this afternoon.” And, more seriously, he added, “Is it settling?”

  “It’s not comfortable,” she admitted. “But at the same time…”

  “It’s right.” Mark nodded, and his gaze went a little darker, a little introspective. “I know. Though once, I hoped—“

  “The lion,” Tayla said, understanding immediately. “You thought it might give you the lion.”

  He looked up at her, startled, and shook off the darkness. “I’ve got a cheetah now,” he said. “What else matters?”

  “You could have had the cheetah for a decade,” she reminded him. “But maybe it means more now. To both of—Mark?”

  He’d stiffened, hand closing tightly around the empty glass in his hand. His eyes widened, slight but definite; a muscle in his jaw twitched. Tayla reached for the glass—and whatever had grabbed him so suddenly now released him just as fast; he jumped slightly and lost the glass entirely, leaving Tayla to pluck it out of the air. “The park,” he said, looking dazed. “We need to go…”

  Tayla glanced out the window at the darkened city. Nighttime was no problem for her, either human or cheetah—not with the enhanced night vision most field Sentinels shared. She wasn’t sure if the same held true for Mark.

  He might as well have read her mind; he waved away the concern—but the gesture wasn’t quite coordinated.

  “You okay?” she asked him. “What…?”

  “The prescience,” he said. “I can’t really…the impressions don’t translate well. And they don’t ever come this strong—either your initiation spilled over or we’ve got a real situation…or both.”

  “We won’t take chances,” she told him, pulling her bag up to the recliner and unzipping it to pluck out leggings, a long-sleeved T-shirt with a hood and black running shoes. She pulled on her underwear, found her bra, and within moments was more dressed than he was, still sitting there with his daze in place, watching her every move. “So let’s go. We’ll check out the park.” She pulled down the shirt. “I need a chance to test-drive these mad new skills of mine, anyway.”

  But he didn’t jump up from the couch to join her. “Tayla,” he said, still half elsewhere, “be careful.” And h
e looked at her with his eyes gone dark again, his chest still damp from their lovemaking and something new and wary in his eyes.

  The look of a man suddenly realizing he had something to lose.

  Chapter 4

  The park night closed around them. Tayla’s initiation still vibrated around Mark, making his skin tingle, bringing him to a clarity of awareness he’d forgotten he possessed at all. Night vision acute and bright, washed with a tinge of blue; every sound brushing his ears with meaning.

  But Mark had always worked best on following a given trace, not plucking it out of thin air. And the park carried a plethora of hints and variations and teases—people of power who’d been through, people with so little power they didn’t know they had it and people of Sentinel-level skills, cultivated and private. Mark felt it as a swamp, immersing him, patting up against him…but only Tayla’s trace stood out as an individual sensation, mingling with his own. She moved several yards away in the darkness, well off the trail and behind a cluster of pond-side trees, crouching over something; he found himself seized with sharp frustration—that he couldn’t change, that he couldn’t track the individual trace scents to their sources….

  That he couldn’t take the lead. Protect her.

  “Dead cat,” she murmured. Silent communication would have been better, but not everyone took naturally to it. Mark didn’t; he knew from reading her file that Tayla didn’t, either.

  He hoped they’d have the chance to grow into it.

  But since they didn’t have it, he eased closer, his back to her and the better part of his attention probing the park around them. “Long dead?”

  “Fresh dead.” She stood, twitching her shoulders in a disdainful feline gesture. “And it stinks.”

  “Core?”

  “Core.” She shifted uneasily. “Looks drained dry. About that vision of yours—“

  “No cats,” he said. “But…fingers.” Reaching, grabbing, sinking into gold-furred flesh…