by Ruby Dixon
I can't look at him while he soaps up my breasts, though. I don't want to see disgust on his face, or annoyance at having to tend to me. I want my arousal to continue to exist in this pure state, so I keep my gaze averted, focusing on his chest. The water slides down his skin in rivulets, and I follow them down…and notice something.
His pants are wet and cling to his body, outlining…everything. I see the outline of his cock, and it's just as big as I remember from the last time, when he was in a towel. Actually, no, it's bigger, because it's erect and straining against the material. I can also see the outlines of piercings that stud the crown, and how thick the head of him is. I can see the freaking ridges, and the spur.
Jesus, his pants are so flimsy when wet that I can see his spur.
As he lifts my arm and begins to wash it, I make a weird noise in my throat. He stills. "Does this hurt?"
"No. I just…" I feel flushed and confused. First, I'm getting turned on by him washing me, and now I can't seem to stop staring at his junk. "You're, uh…pierced."
He pauses and then goes back to scrubbing me. "I am."
I try to think who someone as lonely and surly as Jerrok would get pierced for. I can't imagine him getting pierced just for himself, not when most of the time a piercing is for the woman's pleasure. But…who was the woman? And where is she now? And…why does that bother me? "For a girlfriend?" I find myself asking. "A wife?"
Jerrok sets my arm down carefully and moves to the other. "Does it matter?"
A hot bolt of shame hits me. "No, it doesn't matter." Why do I care? He's just a friend that got stuck washing me because I hurt myself in his home. There's no one else to do the dirty work, so it falls to him. It's me that's getting clingy and ridiculous. "I'm sorry I asked."
He grunts, and that's his only response, and goes back to washing me.
I bite my lip and ignore the rest of the washing—or try to, anyhow. It doesn't feel the same when you know the person who's touching you is only tolerating your presence. Barely. The curl of desire I felt earlier withers and dies, and it doesn't even flare when he gently washes between my thighs.
I'm such a jerk for asking about his piercings. Jerrok was aroused, sure, but he's a guy. He probably gets hard at the drop of a hat, and it's clear he didn't like me asking about it. I worry I've made things weird between us. I don't want to ruin our friendship, because it makes me happy. As we step out of the shower and he towels me dry, I stare at the wall…and at a plas-film dispenser. Oh god, that's right. Mesakkah are sticklers for hygiene laws. Here he is, probably uncomfortable having to tend to me while violating all the hygiene laws in his universe and I'm asking about his dick while he had an uncomfortable boner. He's never shown an iota of interest in me or my body, and I'm just reading things sexually because my world has been warped and I think my only value is in my body.
Ugh. I really am the worst friend ever. He's just being nice and I'm being a creep. "I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" His tone is brusque, his toweling of me vigorous, and that just makes things worse. He's no longer being painfully gentle. It's like he knows that I get the wrong idea if he is.
"Because you're having to take care of me like I'm an invalid. I'll be healed up soon enough and you won't have to." I try to keep my tone cheerful, even though all I really want to do is hide and wait for my awkward embarrassment to ebb away. "I'll make it up to you somehow, too."
He just gives me an odd look and pulls out one of his oversized tunics, tugging it over my head. "You gonna be okay if I leave you alone for a few?" Jerrok paces away, picking up a crate of metal parts on a nearby table.
"Of course." My hair's still dripping down my head and onto the collar of the tunic, but I can't complain. I sit down on the edge of his bed and Sleipnir immediately starts to lick the water droplets from my skin, bringing a smile to my face. "I'll just cuddle with Sleipnir."
"Good," Jerrok says, and heads out.
I sigh and sling my arm carefully around the carinoux's shoulders as it licks my face. "I've definitely made things weird, boy."
35
JERROK
Carrying the crate of parts out of the room is just an excuse to get away from her. Her gaze is too knowing, and I'm too flustered to remain calm. My cock aches and aches, and I vaguely realize I'm still wearing my damp trou and getting water all over the keffing floors. Not that I care. I head into the nearest room and toss the crate down, then drag my hand over the throbbing bar of my cock.
You're, uh, pierced, she'd said. For a girlfriend?
I'd been washing her breasts, fascinated with the hard tips and how soft she is here, and she asked about another woman. She wanted to know if there was someone in my life…and like the keffing fool I am, I shut her down. I'm an idiot. I panicked and wasn't sure how to respond. How do you tell a human female who's been trafficked and abused by aliens that you're fascinated with her? That you're obsessed with her scent and her skin and her smile and her conversation? How do you say that as you wash her naked body while she's helpless…and not make it threatening?
Besides, I already know her answer. She'd never be interested in someone like me. Even for mesakkah, I'm not particularly handsome. I've got scars everywhere. My eyes don't match. My limbs are trash. I'm not rich. I'm certainly not charming. Sophie tolerates me because she doesn't have any other options, but it doesn't mean that she's interested in me sexually.
That's why it's all the more important that I don't come onto her and abuse her trust. She can't know that washing her is one of the greatest pleasures in my life. She can't know that I dream about her, or that I touch myself to the thought of her. I look around the room, noticing it's one of the ones we've been working on clearing out recently. Sophie's obsessed with me having “comfortable” living spaces, as if that's important. She's got such a kind heart, and what do I do to repay that kindness? Jerk my cock every chance I get, dreaming about her mouth and her soft skin. Even now, I reach into my trou and squeeze my length, thinking about her soapy breasts.
You're, uh, pierced?
I imagine her gazing down at my cock, and in my dreams her expression is one of sheer pleasure. That she takes plas-film and covers my cock with it even as she kisses the head with her fascinating, pink-brown mouth…
Yeah, it doesn't take me long to come. Two quick tugs, and with Sophie's image in my mind, I'm done. When I'm finished, though, I'm left feeling vaguely ashamed. The real Sophie would never touch me like that. The real Sophie just wants to be left alone. I clean up using an old towel and then toss it into the incendiary chute. Adjusting myself, I head back into my main quarters.
Sophie's in my bed, of course, but she's not sleeping. She's curled on her side and stares off at nothing, her expression vaguely miserable. The carinoux's head is propped up on her hip, always nearby, but Sophie seems…distant. Sad.
She's probably worried I'm going to try and touch her. To ruin our fragile friendship. Swallowing hard, I open my mouth to say something clever, something witty…but nothing comes out. I can't think of a thing. All I can do is growl low in my throat, frustrated with myself.
She glances over at me, and her miserable expression doesn't let up. "Is everything all right?"
Fine, I want to snap. But…I imagine her expression growing sadder, and that tears at me. "Not really," I manage. I take a few steps forward, resting my hands on my worktable. Then…I see them. The books. And I know how to make her smile return. "Close your eyes."
Sophie sits up in bed, folding her legs. She gives me a curious look but does as I ask, her bandaged hands resting in her lap. The carinoux yawns and gives me a sleepy look, then goes back to sleep, shifting onto his belly and burrowing under the covers.
I wipe at my wet hands—I'm still damp everywhere and only half dressed—and take the books, then move toward the bed. I watch her as I do, noticing that she keeps her face turned toward me, listening to the sounds I make. She didn't protest at all when I asked her to close her eyes. She just�
�trusted me. It's a humbling realization. I hope I always have her trust.
I kneel down on the floor in front of where she's seated, my joints creaking loudly. Her brows furrow at that, but she keeps her eyes closed. "Sit with me," she murmurs, tilting her head and indicating the bed.
"Can't. Still wearing wet pants." Her cheeks flush, and I clear my throat. Stupid of me to remind her of that moment. I hold the books up. "Got something for you."
She opens her eyes and blinks at me, and I'm once again entranced at how lovely she is. Her gaze focuses on the objects in my hand, and she sucks in a breath. "Books?"
I nod.
"Are…are they in English?" There's so much hope in her eyes.
I feel like an idiot. English is a human language. I don't know what these are written in. I open one book to a random page and hold it up to her. "Can you read it?"
A sound like a squeal erupts from her. "I can!"
"Good." I close the book and hold the other one out. She nods, excitement shining in her eyes. I stack them both and hold them out to her, and then I realize she can't take them. Of course not. I'm a keffing idiot. "I'm glad," I manage. "I saw them and thought of you."
Sophie's face is so full of joy that it makes my heart stutter in my chest. "Oh, Jerrok. Thank you so much." She puts her bandaged hands on my face and reaches out and kisses my cheek. "Since I can't hug you."
I go completely still.
She does too, and it's clear she didn't realize what she was doing. Sophie's look of joy dies, and a second later, she bursts into tears. "I'm just making everything so much worse, aren't I?"
36
SOPHIE
"Why are you crying?" Jerrok demands, and his stilted, frustrated tone just makes me even more upset.
Why am I crying? He really has to ask that? I thought it was obvious—here I am, after I made our shower together uncomfortable, and then I forget everything in the face of a few books and kiss his cheek. I keep forgetting he's not human, that he won't grasp the concept of an affectionate kiss on the cheek. That I'm stomping all over his hygiene laws all over again. "I feel like I'm ruining things."
"Ruining things?" he echoes, baffled. "Ruining what?"
"I like you," I manage. "I don't want to ruin our friendship. A kiss on the cheek is just a bit of affection. It doesn't mean anything." I give him a pleading look. "And I keep running over your boundaries like they're not there. I'm sorry."
His expression is impossible to read. After a moment, Jerrok lets out a long sigh. "I'm not mad, Sophie. Just don't cry, all right? I gave you those books because I don't like seeing you sad."
I flail my gloved hands in the air. "I'm sad because this is ruining everything."
"It's not ruining anything. It's just inconvenient."
"I'm sorry you had to bathe me."
"You'd do the same for me."
I nod, miserable. "I would." And I'd probably creep on his piercings, but I don't bring that up. What he doesn't know won't ruin things further.
"So don't think anything of it," Jerrok says. He gets to his feet in a mighty creak of prosthetics, and a grimace flashes over his face. "We're friends."
"You're sure?" I ask tearfully. I want to wipe my eyes—and my nose—but there's no way. And I can't ask him to do it, either, because that just seems wrong. So I stare at him woefully, my face wet. "I like being your friend. I don't want that to change."
He looks down at me with a gentle expression. "It won't change."
It does, though. Jerrok doesn't come to bed that night, and I fall asleep to the sound of his drill a few rooms away, the low drone in the back of my mind. It's there when I wake up in the morning, and he's quiet for most of the day, his eyes ringed with sleepless circles.
I can take the hint, though. That night, I peel the bandages off and my blisters are almost completely healed, my hands a little shiny and tight. I can use them, though, and so I take Sleipnir and go back to bed in my room. Jerrok needs his space, and as his friend, I'm going to give it to him.
Even if I don't want to.
I worry I'm starting to depend on him too much. That I'm clinging to him. Because I don't like being in my bed by myself. Sleipnir is fine, of course, but I liked the feel of Jerrok's body pressed against mine. It made me feel safe. And I miss talking to him. I miss working with him. I want things to go back to the way they were before that shower and I asked about his piercings and made him grossly uncomfortable.
Wouldn't he just laugh his head off to find out that the annoying human that got dumped on him was also developing a tiny crush? I imagine his mouth twisted in a cruel smirk and shudder. Yeah, no. Distance between us is a good thing.
My vow for distance lasts all of a few hours. I read for a little while, greedily sucked into the old-fashioned red book entitled The Last Days of Pompeii by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The language is a little stilted and the pages yellow with age, but that just means I can read it slowly and savor it. The other book is A Night to Remember by Walter Lord and it's clear some alien out there loved himself some human disaster porn. It's not the cheeriest of subjects for either book, but I'm just thrilled to have something new to read. I'm engrossed in the lives of Romans, Sleipnir asleep and pressed against my back as he hogs the bed, when I hear it.
A low moan.
I get to my feet and adjust my tunic around my shoulders. My hands feel a little hot, but not so bad, really. I'm more concerned about poor Jerrok, because I know what that moan means. Sleipnir gets up and moves to my leg, but I stroke his head and point to the bed. "Go back to sleep."
He ignores me, of course, because he's got a lot of cat in him.
"All right then," I sigh. "Just don't eat Jerrok, okay? He can't help his bad dreams." I hug my tunic closer to my body and pad down the hall. As I get closer, I hear breathless counting and tossing. My heart squeezes for him and I move over to the bed. Instead of waking him up, though, I just climb in right next to him, sliding an arm around his torso and spooning him from behind.
Jerrok twitches and sucks in a breath. He half rolls over, and then realizes I'm tucked behind him and stops. "Sophie?" he murmurs, voice sleepy. "What are you doing?"
"Coming to bed," I say with a yawn. "I didn't realize it at first, but you sleep better with me, don't you? The nightmares don't come." I slide my hand to his waist and press my face against his back. My legs are bent, lined up with his, and I've never been the big spoon before. It's kind of funny, considering I'm probably half of Jerrok's size, but it's also kinda nice. Like I'm the one giving comfort. After the last few days, he could use it, and I like giving it. I snuggle my face against his skin. No shirt while he's sleeping, it seems, and he's warm. So warm.
He touches the arm I have lying across him. "Is this…going to bother you? Are you uncomfortable?"
Maybe it would have before, but my crush on Jerrok is working overtime. His scent is in my nose, and because I'm the big spoon, I'm also at the edge of the bed, my butt hanging off the side, just a little. I have an exit, though. I'm not pressed and trapped between multiple bodies, so no, it doesn't bother me. I rub my nose against his back and there are hard metal bits just under his skin, along his shoulder blade. They poke and press against me, but I like them, too.
They remind me, even with my eyes closed, that this is Jerrok, and he's safe.
"I'm not uncomfortable," I reassure him. "Go to sleep."
He laces his fingers with mine over his stomach, and I think for a moment that he'll protest again. He doesn't, though; he goes quiet and a short time later, his breathing evens out once more. Sleipnir hops up on the foot of the bed, as graceful as a house cat, and settles in against Jerrok's legs. That wakes him, but only slightly, and I can feel when he drifts back to sleep again.
I smile as I close my eyes.
37
JERROK
I wake up with warm breath against my hair and horns, and Sophie's teats pressed against my face. She's curled around me—clinging to me, actually—and I vaguely remembe
r her coming to sleep with me last night. I must have been having bad dreams again, though I don't remember them. I just remember her sliding into bed next to me.
It makes me ache with want. She's special, this female. She's got such a kind, giving heart, and it's wrapped up in a beautiful, delicate package. I'm envious of the male—or female—that will finally get to call her their own. I close my eyes, wanting to stay in this moment for as long as possible. I won't move until Sophie wakes up, I think. I don't want to move, ever, actually. Just drink in Sophie's scent and let it fill my mind for a bit. I don't even care that the heavy carinoux is draped over my leg and cutting off my circulation. It's not like I can lose a toe, anyhow.
Sophie shifts, letting out a little sigh, and her breasts brush against my skin. Her nipple scrapes against my cheek and instantly, my cock fills and grows heavy. Kef me. I clench my jaw, determined not to ruin this moment. It's not her fault I'm aroused by her. She doesn't need to know the disgusting things that fill my mind when she's in bed with me. She—
"Jerrok?" she murmurs, her voice achingly sweet and sleepy. Her fingers graze over my prosthetic arm. "Your circuits are jumping."
"Ignore them," I mumble. Just like I'm ignoring the tease of her nipples, so close to my keffing mouth.
Instead, she reaches out and presses her fingers to the synth-skin on my arm, rubbing. "Does this help?"
It does, and it doesn't. My arm does calm down, but parts of me that are…lower…are definitely not calm. Her touch is just making those worse.
"I'm sorry for kissing you," she murmurs, even as her fingertips glide over my arm in the gentlest caress.
That's not what I want to hear from her right now. I don't want to hear anything about her regretting touching me…while she's touching me. My hand is on her hip as she massages my arm, and I move my fingers, ever so slightly, rubbing her. "Why did you do it?"