Heart of Obsidian (Psy-Changeling 12)

His eyes caressed every inch of her as she walked away from him with the grace of the dancer she’d always been . . . and he knew she was healing in the deepest of ways. Ripping off the rest of his clothing, he stepped into the shower behind her, his hands at her hips. The hot water pounded over them, but the beat of his heart was louder, deeper, stronger.

Bending his head to her neck, he kissed her throat, his hands rising to cup her br**sts. She arched into him with a shudder, her hands slippery on his thighs, his Sahara who had never turned away from him. Picking up her arms, he brought them around his neck, then poured some of the liquid soap into his hands. She moved with a sinuous sensuality against him as he slicked the soap over her skin, the foam trickling down her legs.

“Put your hands on the wall.”

She obeyed his quiet order with a smile that was at once sultry and possessive. “Have you gone obsidian?” Hands flat on the tile, she moaned as he stroked the soap over her back and onto the curves of her bu**ocks.

“Yes.” He took his time with the task, before going down on his haunches to run the soap over her legs.

His kiss to her inner thigh made her gasp and turn around. Tugging him to his feet, she let the spray hit her back and held out her hand for the soap. “You’re dirty, too.”

Somehow, those simple words took on a far different nuance in this context. Curving his hand around her neck, he took a kiss from those soft, wet lips, her tongue hot in his mouth and her body pressed against his erection. When she broke the kiss, it was to clasp her hands around that pulsing hardness, her firm grip as possessive as her eyes had been.

“I,” she whispered, moving her hands in tight strokes that had him gritting his teeth, “have been doing some research of my own.”

His mind threatened to blank as she went down in front of him, her br**sts wet, her hands spread on his thighs . . . and her mouth red-hot as she took him inside her. Pleasure engulfed him in a tidal wave, dark and vicious, and he knew this time, his Tk wouldn’t only be tearing up the fields outside.

* * *

TWENTY minutes and a storm of wracking pleasure later, Sahara pushed her damp hair off her face where she lay on her stomach in their bed and ran her hand over the chest of the man who lay beside her, his breathing rough. “I just checked the PsyNet,” she said, her own breathing not exactly even.

“This region just experienced a medium-sized earthquake.”

Kaleb turned his head on the pillow. “It was located deep underground, I made sure of that. No real damage.”

It should’ve been surreal, lying in bed with a man who had just caused an earthquake, but this was Kaleb and he was hers. “The poor scientists,” she said, “are going to be scratching their heads over the sudden seismic activity in this region over the next few decades.”

Kaleb’s lips didn’t curve, but she saw the wicked smile in his eyes as he said, “You took me by surprise.”

“Good.” Lax and sated, her mind on the rage of his power, she went to ask him how he’d controlled it as a child, then realized what she’d be bringing into this bed, the blood and the horror and the one event they’d both shied from facing. Body and mind, she was ready to handle it, but not today, when Kaleb appeared as young as she’d ever seen him.

Instead, she drew a design on his arm with her finger and said, “Food, then rest.” The afternoon sun might be bright beyond the terrace sliders, but neither one of them had had enough sleep over the past two days. More, they needed to maintain their strength.

She didn’t have to be an F to know the war wasn’t yet over.

* * *

KALEB woke in the middle of the night to a telepathic hail from Aden. An individual we believe to be Vasquez has been tracked to California by an Arrow team and independently by the Forgotten tracker and her changeling partner. Past experience makes it highly probable that San Francisco is his destination and his target.

Yes. The city had become a focal point for Psy who were fractured, making it anathema to Pure Psy. Even more provocative was the fact that the changelings, humans, and Psy in the region had worked together to repel the last attack by the fanatical group. Send me all the data.

Scanning it as it came in, he looked down at the woman who slept with her head on his chest, her hair tumbling over the arm he had around her waist. “Sahara.”

“Mmm.” Hand flexing against him, she ran her foot over his shin before snuggling back down to sleep.

He felt something inside him that was so gentle it was painful, something that awoke only for Sahara. Maybe it was the emotion called tenderness. Running his hand up the line of her spine, he curved it over her nape. “It’s time to get up.”

“No.” In spite of the bad-tempered mumble, her lashes flickered against him. “Why?”

He saw the last of the sleep fade from her face as he told her. “But,” she said, sitting up, “from everything I’ve read, Pure Psy suffered a decisive defeat in the region at a time when they had an army. Why would they risk a return with such a ragtag team?”

“There are two options,” Kaleb answered, his eyes on the beautiful woman who sat nude beside him in a silent indication of bone-deep trust, the sheets pooled at her waist.

“The first”—he curved his hand around her hip—“is that Pure Psy does have an army waiting in the wings, and this is the major strike they’ve been planning.” It would make sense, the previous defeat a cause of shame for the group. “However, I’ve been keeping an eye on the region, and there are no signs of any offensive force in or around the area.”