Slave to Sensation

She was tall but there was nothing willowy about her. The woman’s body had more dangerous curves than should be legal on one of her race. In spite of the black pantsuit and stiff white shirt she wore like corporate armor, he could tell her breasts would overflow his hands. When she bent to examine something on the ground, he almost gave in to the urgings of his beast. The curve of her hip was sensually female, her bottom a heart-shaped enticement.

Her head turned as if in response to his intent gaze, and, despite the distance separating them, he could almost taste the earthy sensuality she tried to bury. Frowning at his own thoughts, he began to walk toward her. The Psy weren’t sensual. They were about as close to mechanical as you could get and still remain human. But there was something different about this one, something he wanted to sink his teeth into.

“Why did you choose these sections?” she asked as he approached. Her night-sky eyes watched him without blinking.

“It’s rumored that the sparks of white light in a cardinal’s eyes can turn into a thousand colors under certain circumstances.” He searched her face for an answer to the puzzle of her. “Is that true?”

“No. Cardinal eyes can go pure black but that’s about it.” She looked away from him and he wanted to believe it was because she found him disturbing to her senses. It annoyed the panther that he was mesmerized by her while she remained unmoved. “Tell me about this lot.”

“It’s prime changeling real estate-just over an hour out of the city, in an area that’s forested enough to feed the soul.” He looked down at her sedate plait. The compulsion to reach over and tug at it was so strong, he didn’t bother to resist.

She jerked away. “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to feel what your hair was like.” Sensation was as necessary to him as breathing.

“Why?”

No other Psy he’d ever met had asked that question. “It feels good. I like touching soft, silky things.”

“I see.”

Was that a tremor he heard in her response? “Try it.”

“What?”

He bent a little in invitation. “Go on. Changelings don’t mind touch like the Psy.”

“It’s well known that you’re territorial,” she said. “You don’t let just anyone touch you.”

“No. Only Pack, mates, and lovers have skin privileges. But we don’t go crazy like the Psy if someone unknown touches us.” For some inexplicable reason, he wanted her to touch him. And it had nothing to do with learning about a killer. That should’ve given him pause but it was the panther who was in charge at this moment and he wanted to be stroked.

She lifted her hand and then paused. “There’s no reason to do this.”

He wondered which one of them she was trying to convince. “Think of it as research. Ever touched a changeling before?”

Shaking her head, she bridged the remaining distance and ran her fingers through his hair in a wave that made him want to purr. He’d expected her to back off after a single stroke but she surprised him by doing it again. And again.

“It’s an unusual sensation.” Her hand seemed to linger before dropping. “Your hair is cool and heavy and the texture is similar to a satin-silk I once touched.”

Trust a Psy to analyze something as simple as touch. “May I?”

“What?”

He touched her plait. This time she didn’t react. “Can I undo it?”

“No.”

The panther in him froze, sniffing a hint of panic in her tone. “Why?”

CHAPTER 3

“You don’t have those privileges.”

Chuckling, he let the plait ran through his hand. She stepped away the second it hit her back. Playtime was over. “I chose this land,” he said, answering her earlier question, “because of its closeness to nature. Though most changelings live a civilized life, we’re as animal as we are human-the need to roam the wild is in our blood.”

“What do you think of yourself as?” she asked. “Human or animal?”

“We’re both.”

“One must dominate.” A frown of concentration marred the perfection of her face.

A frown? On a Psy? It was gone a second later but he’d seen. “No. We’re one. I’m as panther as I am human.”

“I thought you were a leopard.”

“Black panthers exist in several feline families. It’s the color of our fur that makes us panthers, not our species.” He wasn’t surprised she didn’t know that. To the Psy the changelings were all animals, all the same. That was their mistake. A wolf was not the same as a leopard, an eagle nothing like a swan.

And a stalking panther was danger and fury combined.

Sascha watched Lucas return to the car to pick up his phone in order to call the SnowDancers. Protected by his turned back, she allowed herself to appreciate his sheer male beauty. He was quite simply… luscious. She’d never used that word before, had never found anyone or anything worth using it for. But Lucas Hunter definitely fit the definition.