In the year 2096, Feyna Sy Tordinay knows the price of love. Once she would have given her very soul to Ketrick DeSardon, but after a few, short weeks of tender romance and phenomenal sex, the dashing Starfleet captain left her in a storm of heartache. Now she’s strictly business, a clinical psychologist on her way to the top. Is she troubled by the unexpected assignment aboard DeSardon’s warship? Not a bit.
Darkly seductive DeSardon is running from his feelings, hiding dangerous secrets. Unbeknown to Feyna, she and Ketrick are cosmic mates with untried, magical abilities. Unbeknown to both of them, there are some scary beings out there stalking the couple, aiming to harness their talent through crossbreeding. To save themselves from an uncertain death, Ketrick and Feyna must revitalize an ancient power source—right after they blend their special powers by way of high-voltage sex.
In the snap of a finger, he'd crossed to slam a palm on the sliding door-plate, sealing them in. When he turned to face her, Feyna was shocked at how dangerous he looked. Thinking she'd driven him to strike her, she scooted back several paces, a wave of adrenaline speeding through her bloodstream to trigger her body's fight-or-flight mode.
It didn't matter that she was a specialist in Nevarsis style hand-to-hand combat when DeSardon seized her, pushing her back against the wall. Caging her so she felt the hard ridge of his arousal, her body turned to mush. "W-what are doing?" she flustered. "There's no need for this. I've no intention of damaging your career."
"Forget the job," he rasped. "Don't you feel it?"
She stared back uncomprehendingly, struggling to shift mental gears. For one wild moment, she wondered if she was dreaming or perhaps she was hallucinating. There was a strange sense of unreality about the way they were responding to each other, the room seeming to revolve while strands of sexual energy curled hotly around them, the press of his cock against her mound sapping her will.
"Give in to your needs," he softly urged.
For a moment, the psychologist in Feyna kicked in to question if he was secretly enraged that she'd accepted the assignment--not taking heed of his kiss-off, so to speak--and this was all part of some intricate ploy to discredit her, encouraging her to make the first move. But then again, if security cameras were filming them, he'd be caught as well. And if it wasn't a strategy, then amazingly, he still wanted her.
"I want you," he confirmed, that fantastic mouth hovering a short breath from hers. "Take what you want, Feyna. Ignore everything else."
Later, when she could think again, she would tell herself that something within him triggered a weakness in her. Like a person with an addiction, she craved his particular brand of masculinity, the excruciating pleasure generated by his touch. Now, with a silent moan of despair, she reached up to grasp his thick tail of black hair, tugging his head down.
Ketrick's response was instantaneous. Meeting her open mouth halfway, he seized her bun, pulling her mass of silky hair free, taking handfuls to tilt her head while his mouth went to battle with hers. Sucking and plying, he caught her full lower lip for erotic nips, laving away the hurt, then stabbing forcefully with his tongue, sweeping inside her wetness to draw her smaller velvety tongue into his mouth.
The shock of the I-missed-you-like-crazy kind of kiss powered through Feyna like a lightning bolt, the exotic, male taste of him after her long deprivation unspeakably glorious. She met his assault with one of her own. Arching her body to press greedily closer, her hands clutched at his broad shoulders. Her heart pounding chaotically as she darted her tongue to tangle with his, reveling in his largeness and the tantalizing scrape of male bristle against her skin.
Feyna needed more. Seizing the initiative again, she slid up the wall, making them both cry out when she rocked the vulva that felt as if it had swollen to twice its size against the bow of his pulsing shaft. And feeling the taut muscles of his shoulders moving under her hands, she wanted to feel the heat of his bare skin and tried to slip a hand under the hem of his close-fitting tunic. "Where's the opening?"
Eyes brilliant from urgency, he reached up to tear back the fastening strip, moving closer again as she shoved the black tunic off his shoulders, which dropped to the ground.
As desperate as she was, Feyna had to take a moment to drink in the sight of his wide, bronzed torso and lean waist, her hands, for pure animal pleasure, stoking over the incredible definition in his arms. She understood that some women didn't care for male body hair. She loved it, her fingers drawn like a magnet to his chest's warm, black pelt.
Gently, she circled his flat, dark nipples and he shuddered. When she bent to lap at them, she could hear his chest working for more air. His skin was slick and tasted salty, his masculine musk saturating her senses. Yum, yum.
"God, Feyna, you're killing me."
She reached down to the waistband of his trousers and fumbled.
He caught her hand. "You first."