His teeth gripped the mark at her shoulder. The cum boiling in his balls exploded from him, the rush ripping through his senses as the barb extended from beneath the head of his cock, locked inside her and heightened every lightning stroke of sensation with dizzying force.
For long seconds he wondered if he’d survived the force of it. The power of his release was like nothing he’d ever experienced before and he knew he’d never have it with another woman.
If she was taken from him, it would be more than just his soul that he’d lose. He’d die of grief and he’d do so quickly.
Fighting to catch his breath as the barb slowly retreated, Cullen rolled to his side with his last remaining strength, then pulled her into his arms before dragging the comforter over them both.
Tremors still shook Chelsea. Occasional whimpers escaped her throat. Perspiration soaked both their bodies. He’d get up in a minute, he told himself, and at least clean the drying sweat from them.
Just as soon as he caught his breath.
No wonder her sister, Isabelle, rarely left her Breed husband’s side, Chelsea thought the next morning. Besides the fact that Isabelle was completely in love with Malachi, there was the most incredible, most explosive sex in existence.
Breeds joked about the tabloid stories. They’d grin or outright laugh when asked about it and claim it was Genetics Council propaganda.
That wasn’t propaganda that locked Cullen’s cock inside her, and it damned sure wasn’t propaganda that had hurled her into a series of orgasms that had melted her mind.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror after her shower, Chelsea stared at the faint mark on her neck. It wasn’t as dark as the one on her sister’s neck, it was lighter, but no doubt the same mark the tabloids swore all Breed mates carried.
How had the Heat supposedly started? The stories differed. A kiss, sex, the bite, riding next to a Breed on the bus or breathing the same air. They ranged from far-fetched to ridiculous. There wasn’t a doubt now that they were true, though.
Turning away from the mirror, she hurriedly dressed in jeans, a tank top and hiking boots before striding back to the bedroom, grabbing her pack and heading to the kitchen for coffee.
And there sat her very reluctant mate—oh God, had she really thought that?—sprawled in a kitchen chair, one hand resting, fingers fisted, on the table as he scanned the e-tablet propped in front of him. He was dressed in khaki desert gear and beige hiking boots; his dark blond hair fell over his brow in disarray as though his fingers had pushed through it often. He looked far too tempting and, if the look in his eyes when he glanced at her was any indication, far too aroused.
Popping a coffee pod in the machine, she slid a cup under the brewing spout. Seconds later she lifted it free, brought it to her lips and sipped—
No.
It wasn’t possible.
Turning back to the coffeemaker, she opened the brewing head and pulled the used pod free and checked the underside for the little green dot that indicated it wasn’t worth drinking.
And there it was.
Narrowing her eyes, she turned and met Cullen’s gaze. He stared at her with a steady watchfulness that assured her he was behind the switch. Turning back to the cabinet, Chelsea opened the cabinet above her and drew the box of extra pods free, checking each one.
That little green dot indicating a decaf product marred each pod in the box.
Son of a bitch.
She dumped the pods in the trash, emptied the still-full, still-hot cup of coffee in the sink, then grabbed her pack and headed for the front door.
“Where the hell are you going?” The deep, rough growl in his voice reminded her that despite that nifty little injection Graeme had given her the night before, she still ached for him.
As she reached the front door his fingers wrapped around her elbow, pulling her to her a stop as she swung around to face him. She lowered her eyes to where his fingers gripped her firmly, then lifted them to meet his once again.
“You’re going to lose those fingers if you keep that up, Cullen,” she warned him, fighting against the need to just touch him.
His jaw clenched so tight she wondered if his molars were cracking yet.
“Stop pushing me, Chelsea.” He released her, though, slowly, very slowly. The fact that he was restraining himself was readily apparent. “We need to talk.”
She laughed at that; she simply couldn’t help it as she stared back at him incredulously. “Talk? To you? Without caffeine? What dream world are you living in? And you threw away my coffee.”
She still couldn’t believe it. He’d replaced her coffee, her caffeine, with some pathetic facsimile of a substandard decaf.
Decaf.