"Lovely," he all but purred. "Simply lovely."
"The information, Starke," I said dryly.
"Of course." He filled his own glass then added, "He's not a regular here, but I have seen him on a few occasions."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why would you notice him when you didn't notice someone like Murphy?"
"Because this man didn't come here to feed or be fed on. He had several drinks at the bar and walked out again. That we notice."
"When was the last time he was here?" I took another sip of Bollinger and a nice little buzz began to fill my head. Champagne—and most other alcohol—didn't really affect wolves to the extent that it did humans, thanks to our higher metabolic rate, but it did provide a happy little high before said metabolism kicked in.
Starke said, "I believe it was last night. He stayed an hour, then left again."
I studied him, unable to tell whether he was speaking the truth or playing a dangerous game. Either one was a possibility, given the amusement in his eyes.
"Riley," Jack said into my ear, his voice fading in and out, as if there was some sort of interference. "We need you back at the office immediate—."
The rest of his sentence was cut off, but it didn't matter because I got the gist of it. Relief slithered through me. Never before had I been so happy about being called back to the Directorate.
I finished my drink in several unladylike gulps, then grabbed my bag and rose. "I'm afraid I've just been called back to the office, so the rest of my questions will have to wait."
"What, so no hot date either?" He pushed gracefully to his feet, moving altogether too close. "It seems a shame to waste such a hot outfit."
"I've learned to live with disappointment." I gave him an insolent grin. "You should, too."
"Oh, I try not to." He caught my hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. "And I don't believe you should, either."
And with that, he hit me.
Not physically, not mentally, but with the full force of his aura or mojo or whatever the hell it was.
My reaction was instinctual. I threw up my own aura, trying to use it as a shield as I had in the past. But I might as well have been using a tissue to block out the force of a gale.
And that gale was instant, burning need.
It was deep and violent and it ached. Literally ached.
He smiled and his grip on his hand tightened, forcing me backwards. Not to the chaise lounge but to the desk. I fought it, I really did, but the need was all-encompassing.
My body shook with futile anger and the ever-increasing tide of lust, but at least my thoughts—while a little scrambled—were my own. I mightn't be strong enough to fight him—and who would have thought a werewolf would ever be saying that?—but at least I wasn't a complete automaton.
Not that that made the situation any better.
My butt hit the table and his grip on my hand forced me to slide up on top of it. His free hand traced the line of my cheek, his fingers so heated against my skin it felt like a burn.
"So lovely," he murmured, his gaze following the journey of his fingers. Down my neck, past my shoulder blade, and onto the soft swell of breast. One fingertip gently grazed a nipple and I couldn't fight the arching my back—an age-old invitation for more. Part of me might be screaming in frustration and fury, but that part was a flea fighting against the might of a storm right now.
He chuckled softly and his touch moved down. One shirt button came undone, then another, until the front of the shirt was completely open.
His fingers continued their downward journey and my skin twitched and burned, pleasure and pain mingling into one. He ran his hands down my thighs, then grabbed the end of the skirt, ripping upwards, so that the split tore all the way to my crotch.
"Much better," he said, rubbing his thumbs down the inside of my thighs before gently pushing them apart. God, I was wet, so wet with the need for him that when he stepped in between my legs, I moaned. And hated the fact that I did.
"I have longed to do this in the flesh," he murmured, thereby confirming he had visited me in my dreams, and therefore was our wraith. His fingers slid back up my thighs. "Have longed wished to know what it is really like to be inside you, heated flesh in heated flesh."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything, caught between expectation and ecstasy. He touched brushed lightly over the lace of my panties, then lifted my butt with one hand and pulled them down my legs. He tossed them aside then reached up and did the same to the shirt, so that I was all but naked.
Then his caress thrust deep inside of me, making me shiver and moan.
"So wet," he said, almost in awe. "I ache with anticipation."
He wasn't the only one. The brain might not want this, but the body was a slave to his mental juju and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
He stepped back and began to strip. His body was as glorious as I'd imagined, all sculptured golden flesh topped by a thick, engorged cock that seemed to grow even larger before my eyes.
And I both ached for and was repelled by it. Or maybe I was just repelled by the sheer fact that this was all being forced on me.
Then he stepped back between my legs, his hands grabbing my butt and holding me steady as that gloriously engorged piece of flesh slid deep inside of me.
A deep sound of pleasure rumbled from his throat, then he began to move, slowly at first but gradually getting faster, harder, until our coupling was a wild mesh of fury, lust and unbridled pleasure. Heated flesh slapped against heated flesh, bringing me to fulfillment, again and again, even though he himself never reached that peak.
The more it went on and on, the more I was being drained.
I had no doubt he'd suck me dry so completely he'd kill me if I didn't find a way to stop him. Because even if he didn't think we suspected him, he knew we were close to one of his identities, thanks to my line of questioning earlier.
Then I remembered the knife at my back.
It was still there, still pressing into my spine. Either Starke had forgotten about it, or he didn't believe it was a real threat.
Bad mistake.
But his aura was still surrounding me and I wasn't entirely sure I could summon the strength to fight it long enough to even move my hand…
Then, like sunshine breaking through a storm, the strength was there. It wasn't mine, but I grabbed it nonetheless, thrusting a hand backwards, wrapping my fingers around the hilt, drawing it free.
Starke didn't notice the movement. He was too busy sucking me dry.
I shifted slightly. Then, as the realization that I was no longer under the influence of his aura hit him, I plunged the knife into his back.
Blue fire exploded from the blade and spread out like little bolts of lightning across his skin. Starke screamed and arched backwards, his skin bubbling and boiling and shifting—becoming something less golden and a whole lot less real.
Then the office door crashed back on its hinges and Kye stood there, a wild mix of lust and anger in his eyes, and a large silver gun in his hands.
He fired before I could move, and Starke's head exploded into a rain of flesh and bone and god knows what else.
As Starke's body fell to the floor, Kye's gaze met mine. His breathing was harsh—as harsh as mine still was—and he smelled of sex and lust and hunger.
He'd been the source of that rush of strength, I realized. The link between us had grown strong enough that I'd been able to call on his reserves to bolster my own.
It had also been strong enough that he'd known exactly what was being done to me, and who was doing it.
Strong enough for him to feel every sensation and desire right along with me.