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tongue throbbed. Every cell in her flamed in demand.
    Her fingers were shaking so bad she could barely fit the disk over the bulging, damp head.
    “I can’t.” It slipped, moved, slid. She couldn’t make her fingers work.
    “Put the damned thing on, Harmony.” His body jerked, shuddered.
    “Fuck it.” She threw the condom, lifted her hips until the swollen head pressed against the entrance to her cunt. “Fuck me. I told you, you don’t need the son of a bit—”
    The invasion—it could be called nothing else, an impalement, a penetration that tore through her, stretched her and destroyed her.
    Harmony heard herself screaming his name. Her legs wrapped around his plunging hips, her lips opened for his, her tongue battling his the moment they touched.
    She was filled to her limit, the tearing pleasure whipping through her, overloading her senses until nothing mattered, no one mattered, the world dissolved until nothing existed but Lance. His touch. His kiss, feeling the jackhammer strokes of his cock powering inside her pussy as her tongue filled his mouth, the taste of wild honey, of spice, an aphrodisiac that heightened each sensation and sent her careening into ecstasy.
    Her body jerked violently as the next orgasm ripped through her. She bucked, shuddered, fighting to scream, but only a whimper emerged as he tore his lips from hers. A strangled male cry filled the air then, followed quickly by the strangest, most terrifying sensation she had ever known.
    She cried out at the feel of his semen rushing through her, seeping into the very pores of the spasming flesh, easing the flaming lust, soaking into her womb.
    She felt it. Felt each heated pulse of semen fill her, change her, complete her just before her teeth sank into his shoulder and she tasted his blood. And in that moment sensed her own defeat.

CHAPTER 3
    Lance was enraged. The next morning he paced his office, scowling, his body burning as his cock throbbed in his jeans and the bite at his shoulder burned in need.
    Son of a bitch. A fucking Breed. He became aware of what she was the moment those sharp little teeth of hers pierced his flesh. He had seen the mark on his cousin Megan’s shoulder nearly a year before. Placed there by her mate, Braden Arness.
    “I can’t find anyone that meets your description in the database, Lance.” Braden growled in irritation.
    “Now look, dammit, I know she’s a Breed,” Lance snapped. “She has to be in there.”
    “Lance, I’ve been searching these damned files for an hour now. She’s not in here. What the hell is this about?”
    Lance drew in a hard breath.
    “The bitch bit me last night, Braden,” he finally snarled. “I picked her up at the bar and took her home.”
    “You had sex with her, and she bit you?” Braden’s voice was carefully bland. “What did you say her name was again?”
    “Harmony. She didn’t give me a last name. Russet hair, pale green eyes, about five-seven.”
    “Any tattoos or distinguishing marks?” Braden asked.
    Lance frowned. He barely remembered a small tattoo.
    “Her right shoulder, I can’t be sure, but I think it was a scythe.”
    Silence filled the line as the air around him whispered in warning.
    “Are you certain of that? A scythe.”
    “A red scythe, no more than an inch and a half high. I saw it just before she jerked her shirt on. By the time she turned around with the fucking gun in her hand, I forgot about it.”
    She had held a gun on him. A small, snub-nosed though powerful military-issue Beretta. And those babies packed a wallop, despite their size.
    “Damn. That’s bad.” Braden’s voice was suddenly deeper; the animalistic growl of his Breed heritage only showed itself in times of anger or stress.
    “The Breed part or the scythe part?” Lance asked. “You have to be a bit clearer here, Braden. My mind’s not exactly working at its normal speed.”
    And he knew why. He knew and it pissed him off. God help her if he got his hands on her