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Another moan broke through his open, rosy mouth; then he bit down on his lower lip, his fangs punching into the puffy flesh.

His hand started moving fast and his breath came even harder and he seemed to be on the verge of something tremendous. It was beyond wrong to watch, but she couldn’t have left to save herself. . . .

His nose flared, the nostrils opening wide as if he were catching a scent. With a growl he convulsed, his stomach muscles tightening up in a rush, thighs striating. As pearly white jets came out of him, his brilliant yellow eyes flipped open and focused on her. The sight of her seemed to hurt him even more as he barked out a curse and his hips thrust upward. More of the satin cream came out of him, and it seemed he would never stop, his neck straining, his cheeks red and flushed.

Except he wasn’t in true pain, was he, she thought. His eyes held on to her as if she were the fuel of it all and he didn’t want what was happening to him to end.

This was the culmination of the sexual act.

Her body told her so. Because every time the Primale surged, every time he groaned, every time his palm licked over the tip of his sex and shot down to the base, her breasts lit up and what was between her legs wept even more.

And then he was still. Spent. Satiated.

In the silence she felt the wetness on the insides of her thighs and looked at what was all over his stomach and hand and arousal.

What a glorious mess sex was, she thought, imagining what it would be like to have what was on him in her.

As her mind churned, she realized the Primale was staring at her in fuzzy confusion, as if he weren’t sure whether he’d dreamed her up or she was really in his room.

She walked forward, because with what had just happened, and the way the room was saturated with his dark scent, his outstretched body was the only destination she was interested in.

His eyes changed as she got closer, as if it were dawning on him that she was actually with him. Shock replaced his dreamy satisfaction.

She put the glass of milk down next to his ashtray, looked at his stomach, and her hand went forward without conscious thought.

He hissed, then sucked in a breath as she made contact. What was on him was warm.

“This is not blood,” she murmured.

His head shook back and forth on the pillow, his expression one of amazement, as if he were surprised by her boldness.

She lifted her finger up, recognizing that what had come out of him was the source of the dark spices in the air—and she wanted whatever it was. Glossing her lower lip, she then ran her tongue over what she’d put on herself.

“Cormia . . .” he groaned.

The sound of her name wrapped the room in a private, heated insulation that was tangible, and in the suspended, protected moment, it was just him and her together. There was nothing but their bodies, a stunning simplicity in the complex structure of the way they’d met and come to be mated.

“Let’s leave our roles behind,” she said. “And our entanglements.”

His face tightened. “We can’t.”

“Yes, we can.”

“Cormia . . .”

She dropped her robe, and that pretty much ended the conversation.

But as she got up on the bed, he shook his head and stopped her. “I’ve been to see the Directrix.”

As her name leaving his lips had created a special place, his words now sliced through the warmth and heady promise in the room.

“You set me aside, didn’t you.”

He nodded slowly. “I wanted to tell you, but then everything went down at the clinic.”

Cormia looked at his gleaming sex and had the strangest response. Instead of failure she felt . . . relief. Because he desired her even though he didn’t have to. Because it made what she wanted to happen so much more honest. Later she would dwell on the emotional ramifications, but now she just wanted to be with him. Female to male. Sex to sex. No traditions weighing on the act or giving it any larger implications.

She put one knee up on the mattress, and Phury grabbed hold of her wrists, stopping her. “Don’t you know what this means?”

“Yes.” She put her other knee up. “Let me go.”

“You