The Black Tide (Outcast 3)

Worried I might have found another suitor, I suspected. Like the animal variety that had once roamed this world, a female cat shifter had the final say on who could and couldn’t court her, and it was the males who had to strive for her attention and favor. In the camps, at least during the war, it wasn't unusual for women to have many children with different fathers, although those who were not nomadic did tend to stick to the same mate. It was a trait that had, at times, made my missions that much more difficult.

“Please, come in.” I pressed the access button and, as the door opened, swung around and headed for the stairs.

“And I’m sorry to have worried you,” I said as he walked in, “but I’ve been visiting an ill friend.”

He paused to watch me come down the stairs and the annoyance in his expression gave way to desire. “I do so like it when you answer the door so divinely dressed.”

“You caught me just getting out of the shower.” I motioned to the small cabinet to one side of the autocook. “Would you like a drink?”

He hesitated and then nodded, his expression somewhat rueful. “I would like far more than just a drink, but it is hardly polite to ravish you senseless without at least paying lip service to the niceties expected of polite company.”

“Indeed.”

I followed him across the room, retrieved the whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses, and poured us both a drink. I took a sip and then leaned on the counter between us and said, “So am I now officially talking to a member of the House of Lords?”

“Yes.” His gaze was on my breasts rather than my face. “I took the oath two days ago.”

“Is that why you were trying to contact me?”

“Indeed.” His expression was somewhat distracted, his gaze following the slight rise and fall of my breasts as I breathed. “There’s an inauguration ball on tomorrow night. I wanted you to come with me.”

“Charles,” I murmured, somewhat archly. “I will come for you anytime.”

His gaze jumped to mine and then he laughed, a deep, warm sound that tugged a smile to my lips. “Good.” He drained his whiskey and set the glass down on the counter. “Have we done proper justice to the niceties yet? Because my desire for you is so strong, it’s taking all my control not to leap over this counter and ravish you here and now.”

I downed my drink and placed the glass beside his. “Jumping over the counter is possibly not something a centenarian such as yourself should try.”

“Ha! A challenge. Prepare to be molested very thoroughly, my good woman.” He easily vaulted over the counter then lightly grabbed my arm and tugged me into his. “The thought of losing myself in your luscious body once again is all that has gotten me through the tedium of the last few days.”

And with that, he kissed me. There was nothing tentative about this kiss, nothing measured or slow. It was heated and urgent, and spoke of the desire I could feel trembling through the body pressed hard against mine.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and returned his kiss. It might not have held the same sort of urgency or desire, but—unlike many of my targets in the past—I did in fact like Charles. And sex with him was at least pleasurable, which was more than could be said about many of those other targets.

After a while, he stepped back and stripped off, tossing his clothes onto the counter rather than neatly folding them as he usually did.

Then he picked me up, deposited me on the counter beside the untidy pile, and began to caress and tease me. For a man in a hurry, he did a damnably good job of making sure I was ready for him. But as his breathing got faster and the lust stinging the air so strong it was all I could smell and taste, he nudged my legs further apart and then thrust into me. From that moment on, there was little sound other than those of enjoyment. I didn’t bother opening the door to my seeking skills, as I could feel the urgency throbbing through him and knew it wouldn't be long before he came.

Afterward, he rested his forehead against mine and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen so quickly.”

I laughed softly. “We have a whole night ahead of us. There’s plenty of time for me.”

“That,” he said, slipping his hands under my rump and picking me up without withdrawing, “is very true. Shall we continue at a more leisurely pace in your bedroom?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer. He simply carried me upstairs—a rather amazing feat that belied his age. The rest of the night did indeed continue at a slower pace, the long bouts of sex interspersed with soft talking and even some sleep. And though I did use my seeking skills to search through his memories, none of the people he'd dealt with over the last few days even slightly snagged my instincts. Certainly none of them resembled the woman we were chasing—which didn't really mean much when we were dealing with someone who could change their form at will.

It wasn’t until we were eating breakfast the following morning that I broached the question of the ball. “What does it actually involve? I’ve never been invited to one before.” I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not even sure I have something appropriate to wear.”

He laughed. “Wear as little as possible, and you’ll fit in just fine.”

There was a teasing note in his voice that left me uncertain about believing him. “I’m being serious, Charles. I don’t want to make you look bad.”

He leaned forward and stole a quick kiss. “You won’t. And I am being serious. I’ve attended a couple of recent balls in my father’s place, and trust me, the brighter and gauzier the gown, the more fashionable the woman is considered.”

“Are we talking about the same people who wear neck-to-ankle white tunics?”

He grinned. “Yes. The elite present a very different front to the world than they do in private.”

“Huh.” I grabbed another pancake off the pile and smothered it in cream and honey—two things I hadn’t had in decades, and something I’d sorely miss once I got back to the bunker and my more basic autocooks. “What actually happens at these things?”