They were trained in the labs to pleasure a woman, and they acquired that training for a variety of reasons, most of them to deceive, to infiltrate, to gain trust and to steal information.
"Where's the fear of earlier, lass?" The crooning whisper eased over her senses as his lips lowered to her ear, his tongue stroking against it with an insidious stroke of enticement.
Her lashes fluttered. It felt good. It felt too good. For a second, a flash of guilt rushed through her, only to be followed by the alluring sensation of his lips moving along her jaw, his tongue giving gentle, brief little licks as his lips caressed her.
She fought to pull up the memory of the Breed tearing at her brother's throat, but the image wouldn't come to mind. It couldn't slip past the warmth sizzling through her body.
"Don't do this to me," she whispered, praying he would pull back, that he would take his touch away.
"Donna do what, little love?" His lips brushed against hers. "Donna give ye pleasure? But, lass, there's no need greater at this moment than to hear your cries of pleasure."
And her need for pleasure intense enough to cry out, for it was beginning to burn inside her.
"Please," she whispered again. "Let me go."
A low, wicked chuckle vibrated against the side of her lips. "If ye want to be free, ye've only to move away."
But he was holding her. His hands, big and strong, were smoothing down her back, over the rise of her bu**ocks and back again.
Stroking. He was stroking her, pulling her close as those big hands returned to her bu**ocks and lifted.
Her back met the wall behind them as his thigh slid between hers, tucked against the core of her and rubbed against her with a smooth, seductive stroke.
Sensation raced from her clit to her ni**les. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was heated, soothing, exciting. A mix of sensations she'd never had time to experience until now.
"You're not movin', lass." His lips feathered over hers.
No, she wasn't moving, she couldn't move.
"Such a lovely wee mystery." The brogue intoxicated her, held her mesmerized with the pure, male seduction it contained as she felt his fingers at the buttons of her blouse.
God, she was letting him touch her. Her brother had been killed by a Coyote whose life he had saved more than once when the Coyote had returned from a mission gone bad. Her father had created him.
Wolves and Coyotes had been her father and brother's specialties. Their genetic genius had created Breeds other scientists had been in awe of. Breeds that had turned on their creators.
And one of those Breeds was touching her. Not one they had created, but one created just as they had created others.
She looked down, watching as the fingers of one hand loosened the buttons of her plain black blouse. The material parted slowly, the edges easing apart to reveal her unbound br**sts.
Storme stared down at the flushed, swollen mounds of her br**sts. Her ni**les, normally a soft pink, relaxed and uninteresting, were now hard, pointed and much darker.
"Lord love a Wolf." The soft breath of sound had her gaze jerking up to his expression.
He looked rapt, staring at her br**sts as his hands slowly cupped the hard mounds, feeling them, holding them in his palms as though they were in need of his support.
The feel of the calloused flesh rasping against the silken curves had her ni**les throbbing. They were tight and hard, painfully sensitive and aching for touch.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't rough. His fingers caressed, molded and experienced the feel of the hardened flesh as Storme felt her knees weaken from the sensations tightening. God, she just needed him to touch harder, firmer.
No, she needed more. She wanted, needed his lips on her. She wanted them covering the tight peaks, suckling on them, drawing them into his mouth and driving her insane with the pleasure.
"Styx," she whispered his name, just to feel it on her lips, to feel a part of him on her lips.
She wanted to taste him as desperately as she wanted to be tasted. She wanted to give and to take. She ached for an intimacy she had never dared to even consider before tonight.
How dangerous was this? So dangerous she knew she might never recover from this night if it continued in this way.
She was going to have to stop this, very soon.
But she didn't want to stop it. She could feel the conflict rising inside her, beginning to tear at her. Fear and need, memories and past hatreds, a decade of running, hiding, fighting for just a few moments to find peace, to find warmth. In ten years she hadn't found it, until a Wolf pulled her into his arms.
Until the enemy touched her.
"Sweet mystery," he whispered. "Tell me, if I suck these pretty ni**les, will you be a good lass and tell me your name?"
She didn't dare. God no. She couldn't handle the thought of having him realize who she was, of having the lover, the protector, turn into the jailor.
Storme shook her head.
"I'll be making a name for you then, love, because sucking those ni**les is something I cannot resist," he warned her as his lips brushed against hers and his thumbs stroked over her ni**les. "I'll not suck your pretty ni**les without a name to lay to one who possesses such a perfect bounty though."
She was going to melt right there in his arms. Was it really fair that a creature such as this should exist? That he could tempt and seduce where only hatred should exist?
"My little mystery. My sweet, tempting little Sugar."
He found his name for her at the same time he found her lips.