Creations Collection 2: sci fi alien romance

by Marie Harte

  Though Pyrgo refused to comment on his background, the male’s scent and face reminded Tarn too much of a truth he was hard pressed to deny. Yet another surprise on this pain the ass mission.

  Pyrgo groaned. “That’s it, Shazza. Suck it harder. Stars yes. Beeta, roll my balls. Good girl. Now which of you wants to swallow first?” he asked, his voice thick. “Here it comes. And I’ve enough for the both of you,” he promised as he jetted into the blonde’s mouth.

  It wasn’t long before she coughed and pulled away, unable to swallow any more. Tarn watched as Pyrgo continued to come, and then the other woman lowered her pouty lips to his cock and swallowed more. But even she couldn’t handle all of him. She raised her head and milked the rest of it from him, watching with her friend as if mesmerized.

  The copious amount of seed indicated Pyrgo’s Time, that the male had entered an Ebrellion heat. During the next few days, unless Pyrgo took the steps necessary to manage his arousal, he’d be desperate to impregnate anything near, day and night. So long as Pyrgo was unmated, Ebrellion herbs and rituals would enable him to control his fertility and the next Wave—that craving for his intended. That Pyrgo seemed in control of himself told Tarn he had no mate. Mated males, during their Time, went crazy for sex, but only with their bonded other.

  Tarn had no mate. He too had been able to withstand his Time when the cycles hit. Thankfully, he had weeks before his next heat. He could only imagine what a nightmare that would have been to add to this already problematic mission. Zachem was enough to deal with.

  At the thought of his new fixation, he hardened like stone.

  The scene on the bed didn’t help matters. Pyrgo had finally finished climaxing and raised both of his partners to their knees. He began kissing their breasts, fondling them everywhere with his hands. “So good,” he murmured as he toyed with them. By the scents and sounds of his playmates, Pyrgo had satisfied them and was well on the way to arousing them again.

  Unfortunately, he showed no sign of stopping.

  Tarn twitched, trying to put a stopper on his own arousal, no closer to relief due to Zachem’s resistance. Though he fully understood Zachem’s disgust with Tarn’s pretend occupation as a slaver, their conflict was hell on his libido.

  Should he slake his need with one of the females? With Pyrgo? The younger male had a warrior’s shei, which Tarn found acceptable for a male he considered fucking. But Pyrgo didn’t arouse him the way that damn Creation did. In fact, lately, Tarn didn’t want anyone but Zachem, and he found the notion not only annoying, but disturbing.

  Tarn growled.

  Pyrgo reluctantly eased from his partners. “My threll needs to go out. Don’t leave this bed,” he rasped, thrumming with power.

  “No, Master,” the females responded, as if drugged on his taste, further solidifying Tarn’s suspicion of Pyrgo’s identity.

  “Come on, Beast.” Pyrgo donned a pair of loose-fitting trousers and pulled them up over his semi-erect cock. He didn’t bother with a shirt and grabbed Tarn’s collar and loincloth off the table. They left the room and quickly walked down several corridors, ducking into an alcove where Tarn could shift back into a man’s form.

  As he dressed, Pyrgo muttered under his breath about bad timing and unnecessary interruptions.

  “Would you shut up?” Tarn snarled, struggling to put the loincloth on over his own arousal. Fuck if he couldn’t stop thinking about Zachem.

  “Like you couldn’t have waited until I came again. I hurt.” Pyrgo rubbed himself. “My Time is coming harder and harder lately.”

  Tarn eyed him with concern as he put his collar back on. “You shouldn’t be outside the palace. How many guards are with you here?”

  Pyrgo blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Please. I served with your father years ago during the Dexi War. Emperor Nhajir’s a friend of mine.”

  “Damn.”

  “Your resemblance to him isn’t your only tell. You do a good job hiding it with Furon and the guards, but you’re a little too imperious when we’re together. And there’s no missing that drugging effect your seed had on your partners. Watch yourself, or you’ll end up getting some foreign slave pregnant. Not something you want to bring home to Nhajir, let alone your mother.”

  “Shit. I know, I know.” Pyrgo sighed then grabbed his arm when two guards and a gaggle of slaves passed. He mentally responded, I’m actually here on a classified mission for our Intelligence Sector. The Dorvians must get back that crystal. In the hands of the wrong people, the crystal and its holder can cause massive damage.

  Why didn’t Nhajir ask for my help?

  Because he likes you where you are, away from home and diplomatic issues, not causing trouble, Pyrgo answered. Besides, this is my job. I’m being primed to take over for my uncle in Intelligence. Now that Dervon has been chosen as my father’s successor, I can breathe easy. You wouldn’t believe how thrilling my work is. Did you know that because of some of the information we’ve gathered, we can now broker for better weapons with the Laar?

  You’re kidding.

  Times are changing, Pyrgo sent. It’s not all about conquering our neighbors anymore. We’re investing in our future by building up our defenses, as well as our own star system. I mean, look at the Vrail. Technologically, they’re behind us. But socially and economically, they put us to shame. With you keeping a lid on our rogues and preventing more kidnappings, we might just be able to establish trade here.

  Hell. Great. Tarn would never be able to leave this star system.

  Yeah. This liaison stuff with other worlds in our own system opens up whole new possibilities. New battles, new conflicts. Pyrgo paused. Even a need for stealth and destroyers.

  At least all this peace crap is good for something. They neared Zachem and Tarn’s cell. I’ll still have a job.

  Pyrgo nodded to the guards and pushed Tarn toward the door. Destroyer, you’ll always have a job. I think my father’s scared of you.

  Tarn coughed to hide a chuckle.

  Look, keep winning your fights and stay out of Furon’s way. And see if you can keep the beast—Zachem, he said before Tarn could correct him, under control. I saw a shift in his shei during one of his fights that concerned me. That shift looked very similar to the pulses of energy I saw briefly in the Dorvian crystal before it disappeared into the catacombs under The Pit. Zachem is connected to the crystal and important to our cause. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it.”

  So could Tarn.

  Pyrgo opened the door and shoved him inside. “Idiot,” he said scornfully before slamming the door and locking it.

  Tarn entered the cell, searching for the lumbering male who wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

  On the pallet, Zachem blinked at him once before he rolled onto his side, giving Tarn his back.

  Tarn clenched his fists, annoyed and aroused. Zachem wore nothing, his tight ass and sculpted back on display like one very large tease.

  Pyrgo needed Zachem for the mission, because he had some connection to the crystal.

  Tarn could pretend he needed the Creation for the same reason, but he’d be lying. Zachem aroused him in a way he couldn’t explain. A few steps closer and Tarn smelled him, the warm scent of wildness and chaos and the potential for destruction. The very qualities all Ebellions prized in battle.

  And in a mate.

  Crazy thinking. Yet it didn’t diminish the stiffness of his cock at all. He too easily remembered how Zachem tasted, coming in his mouth. Visions of Pyrgo and those females pleasuring one another fueled his lust, imagining Zachem between his legs, swallowing the desire he couldn’t stop.

  Tired and sexually frustrated, Tarn sat down on the oversized pallet, conscious of Zachem’s sudden stiffness. Wanting the affection Zachem had shown him thinking him a threll, Tarn sounded overly harsh when he said, “I don’t have the patience for your shit right now. So move over unless you want me buried so far up your ass I’m coming in your throat.”

  Zachem said nothing
and moved over.

  More annoyed that the man would give him neither a fight nor an excuse to screw him, Tarn swore and tried to fall asleep.

  To his surprise, the scent of Zachem calmed him, and he soon fell into a dreamless, well-needed rest.

  11

  Zachem spoke little when he woke the next morning. Tarn still lay in bed, apparently too tired from his previous night’s activities. Jealousy reared its head at thoughts of Pyrgo fucking Tarn, but he didn’t smell Pyrgo on him at all.

  Damn it, why do I keep thinking of him as mine?

  My what? Zachem didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He lived to fight, to one day lull his captors into believing he liked The Pit, so that he could escape. Once he figured out how to disable his collar, he’d kill Furon and a few of his friends and take off. Yet the thought of leaving Tarn behind bothered him. A lot.

  After visiting the lav and cleaning up, Zachem sat and stared at the puzzle of his cellmate. The urge to fuck him was still there, but not as strong as it had been. Instead, Zachem felt a need to submit, to be fucked, to please Tarn in hopes of making his master smile.

  He froze. Master. Tarn. Submission. Three words he’d never thought—or wanted—to use together.

  Worried about his state of mind, Zachem rose, determined to put as much distance between him and Tarn as possible. He quickly left his cell and requested an audience with Master Furon, who proved willing enough to grant him everything he requested. Zachem should have questioned Furon’s generosity, but he was too relieved to look deeper into Furon’s acquiescence.

  “Just make sure not to kill him,” Furon warned. “Slave Six has the potential to pull as much currency into The Pit as you do. And I like him.”

  Shit. When Furon liked someone, they normally ended up dead within days.

  “Yes, Master Furon. It’s just that apart, I’ll better be able to focus on the fight. I sense Tarn studying me, and I know I’m studying him for weaknesses all the time.” Truth. “It would be a much better battle if we met in the ring without so much familiarity between us.”

  “You make a good point, but then, that’s one of your strengths, isn’t it? To constantly look for ways to win, no matter the cost.” Furon studied Zachem with an intensity that unnerved him. “We’re going to make more on this fight than we’ll probably make on the upcoming slave trade.” Furon smiled, a genuine show of pleasure. “And that’s saying something. Extra rations for you and Slave Six. I want you both strong and ready in three more days’ time. Don’t disappoint me, Beast.”

  “No, Master Furon.” Relieved Furon meant to agree, Zachem bowed his head, something he’d normally refrained from doing to annoy Furon.

  “Excellent.”

  He forced himself not to shy away from the touch of Furon’s hand over his chest. Everything about the slave master felt wrong. The lingering graze of his palm over Zachem’s muscle burned, like an oily fire licking at his energy.

  Furon nodded to himself and pulled his hand away. “Three days. Then I want results.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Guards led Zachem out of Furon’s quarters and to the training center.

  For the next three days, Zachem prepared with a ferocity he hadn’t used in years. He couldn’t help anticipating the fight. The ability to challenge a worthy opponent ate at him. To go one on one and not pull his punches or limit himself was in itself freeing. Furon hadn’t issued him any mandates on how long to allow the fight, or when to crush his adversary in which round.

  Zachem did miss Tarn, but not seeing him allowed Zachem to focus better. He still hungered for Tarn’s touch, but he didn’t have to live right next to temptation. And during the nights, Six continued to visit. Zachem talked about his dreams, about his needs and his confusing desire for the confined slave master. Six didn’t judge him, didn’t do anything but sit and listen with an acceptance that stole its way into Zachem’s heart. When he finally left this place, he intended to take Six with him.

  Comforted by Six’s presence, he wondered how Tarn fared. Furon had been a man of his word. Zachem didn’t see Tarn at all, but he didn’t worry. Furon would take good care of Tarn. He needed Slave Six for the big fight.

  Before Zachem knew it, the night had come. Several other matches played out as the crowd revved up to see the bout of the season. The Beast versus Slave Six. Oiled down and dressed in a pair of battle trews, rak-hide trousers that protected his groin and legs from waist to mid-calf, Zachem felt like a real warrior as he met Tarn, similarly garbed, in the ring.

  Tarn’s eyes glittered, and that strange inner membrane blinked at him once, enough to tell Zachem Tarn also wanted this fight.

  Zachem licked his lips and watched Tarn’s eyes narrow, drawn to the motion. He adjusted his stance, and Zachem didn’t need to look to see that Tarn sported the same hard-on he now had. Excitement, anticipation, and the thrill of what was to come hovered just out of reach.

  Yorum announced them, and a ring echoed in the sudden silence.

  They stood there, gauging one another. Then Tarn pounced.

  The crowd went wild as Tarn and Zachem struggled against each other.

  “I’ll try not to hurt you…much.” Tarn grunted and pushed him back, grinning.

  “I’m not as nice. I’m going to hurt you, oh so good. And when this over, that ass is mine.” Zachem glanced at Tarn’s crotch and smirked. “I’m going to rip you open and fill you right up.”

  “Promises, promises,” Tarn ended on a breath as Zachem took him to the mat.

  They continued to test each other’s strength and agility as they danced out of reach while trying to connect, fist to body. Both took care not to hit the other in the face, though Zachem wondered if Tarn’s reasons matched his own. Simply put, he didn’t want to mar that face. A silly excuse, but he could do more damage to Tarn by hitting his body anyway.

  The bell rang, announcing the end of the first quarter. Then the second, the third. When the fifth bell rang to commence the fight, the betting in the crowd swelled as they cheered for the Beast and Slave Six. No one had thought Tarn would last as long as he had, not even Zachem. Impressed and not trying to hide it, Zachem grinned even as he fell under a compilation of kicks and blows to his mid-section.

  But just when Tarn had gained real ground, he pulled back, as if winded.

  Annoyed at what he knew to be pretense, Zachem rolled to his feet and struck hard and fast.

  Tarn went down and got up much more slowly than he had before. They both tired, but now Zachem doubted the extent of Tarn’s exhaustion. The battle forced Zachem to draw on reserves he hadn’t had to use since the Dorvian Conquest. What did Tarn use to keep up with the beast?

  “Don’t hold back on my account, Slave Six,” he taunted.

  Tarn grimaced and wheezed, “I don’t want to hurt you too much. Not when I have that fine ass waiting for me.”

  Zachem feinted left and followed with a blow to Tarn’s gut, which he expected Tarn to lean back from. The move wasn’t special, nor was it harder than any he’d pushed before. Yet Tarn fell into it and groaned as he hit the ground. Stunned, Zachem waited for him to recover instead of going for the man’s throat. But Tarn remained down.

  Through a flurry of screams, congratulations, and enthused well-wishes from the crowd, Yorum declared Zachem the victor and pushed him off the dais. Rushed away from the fight and down into the caves, into the cleaning area, he allowed a few slaves to wash him and a medic to check over his wounds.

  The bruises he’d received still hurt and would take some time to heal. Tarn had beaten the hell out of his ribs and thighs. But why the hell had he fallen and remained down? Was he playing or did I hit what I didn’t mean to? Concerned that he’d seriously hurt him, Zachem demanded to see Tarn again.

  Once clean and draped in a coarse robe, guards led him to Master Furon’s quarters.

  “Well done, Beast!” Furon laughed with delight. “We made more tonight than we did all last quarter. Outstanding. You’ll be rich
ly rewarded for this. Now go.” He motioned for the guards to remove him then turned back to the slaves waiting on him.

  The guards led him from Furon’s room and Pyrgo joined them. “Bring him this way,” Pyrgo ordered the others.

  “What the hell? I want to see Tarn.”

  “Where do you think we’re taking you?” Pyrgo answered. “And while it was a nice fight, you need to watch your tone. Slave.”

  Still riding on a battle high, Zachem snapped, “Shut the fuck up, Pyrgo. I’m not in the mood.”

  Pyrgo drew a phaser and shot Zachem with a pulse vibrant enough to stun him to immobility.

  “Shit, Pyrgo. What the hell?” one of the guards asked.

  “He’ll remember later,” another warned.

  Pyrgo swore. “I’m not afraid of Beast. Now bring him with you. I don’t care how heavy he is. Grab a few more guards if need be, but move it.”

  It took four large guards to drag Zachem into an unfamiliar cell and toss him onto a massive, surprisingly soft bed. After the others left, Pyrgo leaned down, looking for what, Zachem couldn’t say.

  The guard muttered, “You have tonight. Don’t blow it.”

  Tarn’s laughter met his ears, but he couldn’t turn his head, still paralyzed from the stunner. “Oh, I intend for him to blow it,” his cellmate answered.

  “Funny. You have the privacy you asked for, and Master Furon sends his regards. You made him a very rich and even more powerful man tonight.” Pyrgo didn’t sound happy about the fact, which made Zachem wonder just what the hell was going on.

  Tingling spread through his limbs, but he forced himself not to move yet.

  “Thank you, guard. Now, if I might enjoy my delectable reward?” Tarn reached out and ran a hot hand over Zachem’s chest, pushing the sides of the robe apart.

  Pyrgo said something nasty that made Tarn smile. But Zachem didn’t sense an attraction between the two. Nothing they did or said was overtly sexual, though they acted like equals. Due to Tarn’s position as an ex-slave master? Or something more?