Psy & Changelings 02 - Visions of Heat

of her breath a few seconds later. “Are you really?”
    He looked over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

CHAPTER 7
    She walked closer. “Your eyes aren’t quite . . . human.”
    Most people never figured that out, believing they were simply an unusual color. “My beast is stronger than most.” And had been ever since that week when he’d survived by turning jaguar and staying that way. Because even a baby jaguar had a better chance of survival in the forest than a ten-year-old human boy. But being in cat form for that length of time at such a young age had permanently changed him.
    As if reassured by his calmer tone, she took another step forward. “What does that mean?”
    He poured some coffee into a cup. “Milk? Sugar?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Here, taste.” Lifting the black coffee to her lips, he watched her take a sip.
    She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent as she tasted . He’d never seen any woman do that with the intensity of Faith, never been so aware of the inherent sensuality in the act.
    “Good?”
    “Put sugar in it,” she ordered, eyes remaining closed.
    Vaughn didn’t follow orders well, but this was different. This, to him, was a kind of play, though Faith probably didn’t think of it that way. Too bad. She was playing with a very interested cat and when that cat got interested in things, it didn’t like to be denied. “Here.” He let her taste the sweetened coffee.
    Once again, she breathed deep and savored the taste. “Milk.”
    “All ready.”
    A minute later, she opened her eyes. “The flavors are . . . unusual.” She seemed to be searching for words.
    “Do you like it?”
    “Like? Psy don’t feel like or dislike.” She shook her head. “But perhaps that’s because I’ve never been given food of such different flavors that I have a basis for comparison. I . . . prefer the coffee with the sugar but not the milk.”
    He prepared it for her, amused at the way she tried to word things so as not to admit feeling anything even close to emotion. “Here.” Leaving her to take a sip, he walked to the fridge and pulled the door open. “You’re hungry and so am I. What do you say to bacon and eggs?” He started gathering the ingredients.
    “Okay.” She was standing right next to him.
    Of course he’d heard her move, but he let her be. She was still scared and Vaughn could stroke rather than bite when he wanted to. He put the bread and other things on the counter and closed the fridge. “Come on, Red. Time for a cooking lesson.”
    She put her coffee cup beside his. “I’m ready.”
    He ran a knuckle down her cheek and when she jumped, he smiled. “Are you sure?” This close, he saw that while her skin was creamy, it wasn’t the pale white of so many redheads, having a rich undertone of gold that only made it more tempting. “What’s your history, Faith NightStar? Where do you get that red hair and this skin?”
    “The NightStar PsyClan has many redheads—there is a genetic preponderancy of the trait. My skin is courtesy of a number of genes from both my mother and father.” She reached for the eggs and held them up. “I’m in need of nutrition.”
    He showed her what to do with the first egg and then let her try. “So you’re all-American?”
    “No. My mother was born in the former state of Uzbekistan and moved to America as a child. It is my father who is a NightStar. He is primarily of Anglo-Italian heritage, though his great-grandfather was of Asiatic origin.”
    “You know the way you Psy mix it up—watch the heat, sugar.” He pulled her hand away when it went too close to the heating unit.
    She tugged it out of his grasp. “Thank you. I think the eggs are done.”
    “Uh-huh.” He put them on a plate. “If you put the bacon in that container over there, it’ll cook without splatter.”
    “Why do you know about cooking? In the books I read prior to approaching DarkRiver, predatory male changelings were always portrayed as being very dominant and unwilling to learn domestic tasks.”
    “I never said I liked cooking. But I can do it if the situation demands.”
    “What were you saying about the Psy?”
    “That the way you mix it up would be more impressive if it was actually human-to-human contact. Instead, it’s all done on a genetic level. Unless your parents fell wildly in lust and created you in pleasure?” He watched the concentration with which she did such a simple task as cooking and found it strangely arousing.