Skin Tight (12 page)

He found her clit with his tongue, and she came undone. Mia writhed, rubbing her body against his mouth. Her legs wrapped around his head, muffling the sounds she made as she came. He kissed and licked her through two orgasms while his cock ached. Somehow he found the strength not to hump against the mattress while he pleased her.

After her third orgasm, she went limp. That was his cue.

He got a condom from the bedside table and rolled it on with shaking hands. She didn’t protest when he pushed her thighs wide and settled between them, but she didn’t help much, either. With one hard thrust, he claimed her.

Just tonight. Only tonight.

She felt so good. Tight. Hot.

“Wake up, Mia. Open your eyes, princess.”

Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and then she gazed up at him with her gorgeous dark eyes. “I wanted this an hour ago, dammit. I have nothing left.”

“That’s not true.” Holding her eyes with his, he thrust and took pleasure in the way her eyes widened. “You’ll give me everything. I’m going to make you scream again. You were begging for my cock in your pussy, remember?”

A languorous smile curved her mouth. “I begged you for all kinds of things, most of them illegal in the more straitlaced states.” Her breath caught as he tilted her hips and quickened his strokes. “Oh.
Oh
.”

“There?” He pushed, eyes on her face. It was vital to his sanity that she didn’t lose sight of him; he felt as if he’d die if she wasn’t with him all the way when he came. Just once, just for tonight, he needed the woman who knew him.

“Yes.” It was both an agreement and encouragement.

Her thighs framed his hips, ankles locking at his back. Mia dug her heels into his ass, urging him on. She worked her hips in tiny circles, beginning to recover some of her spent energies. Her body felt like fire and honey in his arms.

He had to get her closer to climax. His control wouldn’t hold much longer; it had never been what it should be where Mia was concerned. With another woman, he could prolong this for hours yet, but he found the sight of her bound on his bed beyond exciting. He slid a hand between them and stroked her clit. From the hours of foreplay, he knew just the pressure and rhythm she liked.

She rewarded him with another scream.

The sound drove him wild. Thought disintegrated. He moved faster. Harder. Deeper. She took his thrusts, moaning. Madness devoured him, and he lost himself in her. The orgasm roared through him, pleasure blinding him. Her body bucked, her climax intensifying his own. At the peak, he bent his head and kissed her—the ultimate insanity. She sobbed into his open mouth, and he sought her tongue. Bit her lower lip. Long waves rolled through him, leaving him sweaty and shaken.

She closed her eyes in dreamy bliss.

Remorse pierced him like a spear.

Instead of glorying in the endorphins sizzling in his blood, he felt slightly sick. He shouldn’t have, no matter the temptation.
The kiss ruined everything. And I was doing so well, dammit.
His cursed ability was always at its strongest in times of emotional intensity—and that had damn well blown his head off. No matter how clever she was, she couldn’t be expected to know him now.

Despite that, he couldn’t make himself move away. Sick with despair, he lowered his head onto her chest. She’d be lost in some lovely dream by now.

“Could you untie me? My arms are a bit sore. And I’d like to hold you, unless that’s against the rules.” She sounded quiet, tentative.

He lifted his head, afraid to hope. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

After unknotting the cords, he rubbed her arms to help with the muscle tension. He’d been careful not to bind her in an uncomfortable position, but she had been writhing against her bonds. Mia sighed in pleasurable appreciation, gazing up at him as he knelt.

He had to know. Had to ask. “Who am I?”

Her black eyes were grave. “I don’t know. You
were
Foster, and now you’re Strong. Brown hair, blue-gray eyes.”

It couldn’t be. Couldn’t.

But it was. She saw him, even now. He could have wept with the puzzling, inexplicable joy of it. He closed his eyes against the impulse. No time for a breakdown. No time. They only had tonight, and he wouldn’t waste it.

“Better?” At her nod, he lay down beside her.

He should probably make some excuse at this point and drive her back to her car, but instead, he would keep her as long as she’d stay. Unwise, certainly, but he was surely due this one shining moment to offset the weight of everything else. If he’d believed in karmic justice, he would have said Mia Sauter was his reward.

“How did you get these, really?” She reached out a tentative hand, and he tensed. He wasn’t used to being touched, but her fingers felt good, even on damaged skin.

“There
was
an accident.” He hesitated, and then decided to give her more, more than anyone had gotten from him in years. “I drove my car into a wall.”

She froze. “On purpose?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Living had become intolerable. But when I failed, I realized I couldn’t die because there was something I had to do first.”

He felt the tension in her body. “Something that drove you to orchestrate Gerard Serrano’s death and then led you to take the names of dead men for your own.”

She was too clever for her own good. He read the calculations in her eyes. If he told her more, she would start to put the pieces together, and he didn’t want her involved. At least no more than she already was. Should the Foundation realize he was right under their noses, they would stop at nothing to eliminate the threat he presented. None of that could be allowed to touch her.

“Yes, and yes. Ask no more, Mia. Think no more on it.”

“I don’t need your secrets. You gave me what I wanted.”

“And that was?”

She smiled. “A night with you.”

Compulsively, he gathered her close. Her hair felt soft as silk where it spilled over his arms. Mia snuggled in, eyes falling closed. He didn’t know how he’d face her at work without wanting this again and again. Somehow he’d find the restraint. Memory would sustain him.

He knew the precise moment she drifted off to sleep. Despite vague foreboding that he’d permitted himself a significant weakness by taking her, he had only one regret—she hadn’t called out his name.

“Søren,” he whispered into her hair, aching with futures lost. “It’s Søren.”

Test results didn’t
lie.

Dr. Rowan ran the printouts through the shredder, bagged them, and called Silas to take them to the incinerator. In the usual course of things, he wasn’t so careful. After all, he was in charge down here, and nobody questioned him. But he did report to a board of directors, and he never knew when one of the custodial or maintenance staff might’ve taken a bribe to report on him.

He couldn’t afford to let them know what he was up to, at least not until he succeeded. Years back, he’d gone beyond his original parameters. Oh, Dr. Chapman had been a visionary, seeing boundless human potential within their small minds, but Rowan saw further still. Why settle for
one
mutation?

His work would put Dr. Chapman’s in the shade. Five hundred years from now, people would talk of his accomplishments with wonder and awe. By the time he was finished,
Homo superus
would be acknowledged as the greatest scientific discovery since they split the atom. He would need to fudge the research a little, hide the evidence of his failures, but the day would come. He just needed to be patient, methodical, and determined. Though he’d gotten his hands on a number of weak specimens, he couldn’t let their failure deter him from the goal.

He would prefer to conduct his experiments on children, but they were difficult to procure these days. Even third-world orphanages were paying closer attention to their adoptions, and they wanted more than a check. It was damned inconvenient, but he was coping. There was no shortage of drifters and street people; nobody missed them. Nobody wondered what had become of the guy who used to sleep in the alley. Rowan would take the world’s detritus and create lasting greatness.

He took a deep breath, imagining it. His race would be stronger, faster, smarter. They’d possess all kinds of special gifts. Just imagine the good they could do in the world.

For a moment, he indulged himself in the fantasy, and then he got back to work. This crop of subjects showed no signs of responding to the combination of drugs and radiation. He’d thought for sure that was the key to taking their abilities to the next level.

Instead, they were developing lesions, and their psychoses were intensifying, just like the one he’d terminated a few days ago. As he passed her cell, a woman pressed her face up against the glass, whimpering like an animal. He’d have to do something about her.

The board didn’t know about this control group. They thought these cells stood empty while he worked on honing the abilities of the successes they’d collected. And certainly, he devoted some of his time to training when their mental state permitted it, but he needed more to occupy his attention and considerable intellect. If that had been his sole pursuit, he would’ve long ago lost interest in this place.

As he walked, he considered. So the radiation wasn’t working. Neither were the drugs. By the time he reached his lab, inspiration had struck.

Dr. Rowan tapped the intercom. “Silas, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring T-89 to me in the testing room, but be careful with him. He’s still healing from the last round.”

“Yeah.” Silas never said much, and he seemed thick as a post, but he was obedient. Rowan had seen to that himself.

Rowan liked that in his support staff. In fact, he preferred it. An inquisitive orderly would have proven very inconvenient. While he waited, he adjusted the equipment, making ready for this test. He documented his hypothesis first, outlining what he intended to do and what he expected to result from the procedure.

As Silas brought T-89 into the lab, Rowan saw that the subject looked remarkably good, considering everything he’d been through. His color was fine, eyes focused, and the lesions had already begun to heal.
This one might make it,
Rowan mused. A thrill ran through him.

You might be the first of your kind.
Homo superus.

“Sit him down here.”

The subject was too weak to resist, though the glint in his eyes said he wanted to. Rowan rarely spoke directly to them. Doubtless a psychologist would have had a field day with that, claiming he objectified his test subjects to make it easier to rationalize what he did to them in the name of science. And perhaps that was correct. It wouldn’t stop him, however.

Silas complied, lifting the man bodily and depositing him into what looked like a modified dentist’s chair. Rowan adjusted the lights overhead so as not to cause the subject unnecessary discomfort. He waved the orderly out without thanking him; it was the man’s job to do as he was told, after all.

Dr. Rowan strapped T-89 in himself. There was some risk to what he was planning. He accepted the potential loss of T-89 as a result. It would be worth it to test out his hypothesis. He tilted the subject’s head forward and shaved the back of his skull. Next, he cleaned the site. There was no such thing as too much care in such matters.

He activated the biofeedback equipment, a little black box attached to his PC. The computer—which wasn’t networked to any other in the facility—would record T-89’s cerebral responses to the procedure, giving Rowan an indication when he reached the subject’s maximum tolerance. Some people had a high capacity for electrical shock, and it took more voltage to induce seizure. Others could withstand very little without being irreparably damaged. The degree depended on their bioelectrical fields.

His implements lay arrayed before him: a three-pronged metal probe connected to a length of copper wire, which was affixed to an electrical source. He administered a muscle relaxant and a general anesthetic first, pure kindness on his part. Insertion wouldn’t hurt much, but he wanted to spare T-89, whenever possible. Though the male wasn’t his favorite—not like Gillie—Rowan wasn’t a sadist. He was a scientist.

T-89 pulled against his restraints, but this subject didn’t scream. In fact, Rowan couldn’t say whether he’d ever heard the man speak a word. “Stop that,” he snapped. “You’re going to tear a ligament. Do you want me to sedate you? Give the medicine time to take effect.”

He’d set his voice-activated recorder on the table beside him, so it switched on with his verbal warning. The subject stilled. Rowan didn’t know if that had occurred because of his chastisement or the muscle relaxant; either way, it didn’t much matter. More importantly, he had the result he wanted.

Rowan decided he might as well make use of the device while he waited for the drugs to finish their work. “T-89 is alert and strong. He received the serum as an adult, unlike Dr. Chapman’s first control group, in a special free flu shot program. Thus far, no special talent has emerged, but he has survived the change. At this time, I plan to introduce a current through the right side of his brain in an attempt to stimulate development of suprahuman traits. The combination of radiation and chemical treatments has produced no result to date.”

With his left hand, he pressed T-89’s head forward. In one smooth motion, he pressed the metal spikes into the right side of the brain. Rowan felt pleased when the subject didn’t even flinch. He checked the depth of the connection and judged it sufficient for his purposes.

He adjusted the controls on the small generator. “Beginning the procedure with a low-intensity sixty-cycle pulsating current.”

Anticipation blossomed as T-89 jerked. Today could be the day Rowan made history.