Stifling his curse, he turned on his heel, jerked open the door and raced to the Raider.
Damn her. He wouldn't allow it. He had no relief. There was no way to still the lust tearing at his guts and no way to ease the hunger eating at his soul. He would be damned if he would allow it.
She did it, she did it.
Rachel was still doing the little internal chant as she sat across from Jonas in the heli-jet hours later, the powerful motor flying them quickly to their destination.
All he'd had to do was leave the cabin, something he hadn't done in a week. At least, not while she had been awake.
But he had stomped out earlier, gotten in the Raider and driven off. Rachel had rushed to the bedroom, locked the door and pulled the toy free of her dress for one of the most intense orgasms of her life.
Damn, that shouldn't have been possible using fantasy alone.
She peeked over at Jonas through the cover of her lashes and wanted to let out a small laugh.
He was still furious. She didn't even care that he knew what she had done. The fact was, she had achieved it, and she felt great. Like a new woman.
How long had it been since she had found relief? Nine days? Yeah, she remembered the last time: the morning before Brandenmore had decided to invade her life, before going into work.
Jonas had been at the office every waking moment, it had seemed. Frowning. Growling. He'd even insisted on sitting beside her at her desk while she went over the figures for the new satellite system Vanderale Industries was donating to the Breeds.
That night, she had tossed and turned, and burned for him. That next morning, she had made certain she hadn't gone to work in the same state. Breeds could smell arousal.
"I can smell the scent of your release on you, and it offends me," he suddenly growled.
Uh-oh.
"Really?" She smiled back at him. "The smell is offensive?"
She rather doubted it.
"Don't play games, Rachel," he warned her, his voice tight. "They could come with consequences."
She was intimidated, but showing it would be a really bad thing.
Instead, she leaned forward against the security harness that held her in her seat and stared back at him defiantly. "Just because you're my boss doesn't make you my keeper," she informed him. "I've been taking care of certain things all by myself for a long time now. I don't have a problem continuing to do so."
"Then I'll assume Devon Marshal provided little pleasure the night Amber was conceived," he stated, his tone flat and to the point.
Rachel sat back. "Devon has nothing to do with this conversation. Please stop being mean, Jonas. It doesn't become you."
It didn't become him, but he was so good at it. She cast him a narrow-eyed glare as her lips thinned in disapproval.
"Being mean definitely becomes me," he assured her. "Haven't you heard? I enjoy being mean."
There was the faintest note of resentment in his tone. She couldn't blame him. He was called the bogeyman of the Breeds on national television on a regular basis.
"I like you better when you're being polite," she pointed out calmly as she forced her body into a more relaxed state.
"I'm certain you do," he growled. "It's much easier to get away with things you know you shouldn't do then, isn't it?"
She shrugged. "It's easier to ask forgiveness than to beg for permission," she reminded him. "Isn't that one your favorite sayings?"
She knew it was. He said it often--whenever he broke the rules himself.
"In this case, not asking for permission could be dangerous. I'm about a second from that kiss you've been avoiding all week like the plague, Rachel. You don't want to push this."
She widened her eyes in mock fear. "I'm so sorry, Jonas. I pro