by Alana Khan
“Good plan. Slow is good in all things. Perhaps now is a nice time for bake-a-cake.”
He lifts me off him and sets me on the floor, then rummages under the bunk. He emerges with a hunk of cake in his hand and a smile slashed across his face.
“Take off everything above your waist,” he orders, his eyes dropping to half-mast.
My first impulse is to say ‘no’ and glare at him. I never learned how to take orders. That’s one of the reasons my foster parent, Mr. Ochsner, used to put a bar of soap in a sock and hit me with it.
I never quite understood his method until years later when I Googled “how to hit your child without leaving a mark.” It was the first thing that came up. Leaving marks would have killed the goose that laid the golden egg, ie: foster parent income from the state of Florida.
But I’m Aerie-Evolving and I need to avoid my knee-jerk reactions. One more glance at the molten-expression in his eyes and I tear off my black t-shirt.
“That too,” he says, tossing a pointed look at my bra.
It joins the tee on the floor.
He sits back in the black-padded captain’s chair, swivels toward me and commands, “Sit.”
It looks like Aerie-Evolving is going to learn how to follow orders this evening. I’ll assess how I feel after this little exercise.
“Face me,” he orders.
Three demands in a row. My molars grind as I fight the instinct to argue. But his lap looks so inviting, and his heated gaze holds such promise.
I climb onto his lap, my bent knees tucked against the back of the chair, my core riding his cock.
Those emerald eyes roam up and down from my waist to scalp and back again. “You’re a beautiful female,” he murmurs.
The husky tone of his voice and the lusty expression on his face prevent me from arguing.
He offers me a bite of the white cake with vanilla frosting. My mouth is dry from desire. I’ve lost my appetite.
“Not hungry.”
After dragging his finger through the icing, he rests it on my bottom lip. “Not hungry for this? It’s delicious.”
Well, when you offer it so nicely, who am I to refuse? My tongue snakes out, the tip stealing the tiniest lick from his finger.
“Certainly you want more than that little taste.” He hasn’t taken his gaze from me, like there are volumes of subtext lurking just under the surface.
“Lick it,” he’s back in drill Sergeant mode.
Oh . . . I’m the slow student in class. I get it now.
I swirl the icing off the tip of his green finger, first one way and then the other. Then I suck it into my mouth, just to the first joint. I make a little promise to myself. No matter what happens, I am not going to tear my gaze from him until his finger is well and thoroughly clean. Two can play at the Beast of Tramachor’s games.
I can taste the tang of his flesh beneath the artificial sweetness of the icing.
My head bobs as I suck his thick finger up and down. With every pass, I reach lower until I can’t go any farther. Now I add a sexy, satisfied moan to the mix, just to see how this affects him.
He’d be a good poker player. I see only the tiniest glimmer of increased passion on his face. His cock, however, tells another story. It kicks against my slit. Note to self—he likes noises of appreciation.
After pulling his finger out of my mouth, he brushes it against my lips.
“Aerie’s got a naughty mouth. I like that.” He grants me a hint of a smile, then swipes some more frosting onto his very clean finger.
His brows furrow as he dabs icing on one nipple, then the other. The expression on his face announces that this is important, industrious work. I imagine this same look on Michaelangelo as he painted the Sistine Chapel.
Glancing down, I watch as he pats, then dabs, then circles first one hardened nub and then the other. My nipples have been tight since we entered the pod. Now they’re hard enough to drill stone.
He cocks that beautiful head to the right and then the left just like Michaelangelo might have done when he was deciding if the hand of God was, indeed, perfectly painted, then pops his finger into his mouth to suck the remaining frosting off. It leaves his mouth with a soft pop.
“I’m starving,” he says, a wolfish gleam in his eyes.
His hands surround my back, thumbs under my armpits, as he drags me closer and dips his head to my breast. He’s not shy as he releases a deep moan.
“This stuff tastes so good,” he makes an attempt to control his tone, as if he’s describing a delicious dessert and not my nipple.
He licks each breast clean, taking his time, using the tip of his tongue, then the flat of it. Sucking first one and then the other into his mouth, he nips the tips until I clutch the globes of his ass to press him closer to me. This earns me a happy grunt.
He’s plucking one nipple, and gently biting the other when the comparison to Michaelangelo returns. Beast is an artist—an artist at this.
He pulls away, kisses me chastely on the lips and lifts me off his lap.
Wait. What?
“Here.” He hands me my t-shirt.
“I thought you were hungry.” I accuse.
“We just agreed to go slow.”
I fucking hate you. I can’t complain, though. I’m the contract queen. I can’t renege on a contract before the proverbial ink is dry.
“I’m not sure I like you right this moment.”
“Well, I like you enough for both of us,” he says as he rummages under the bed for something else.
Coward. He couldn’t say that while he looked at me. But the Beast of Tramachor just said he liked me. I don’t even try to hide the smile stretching across my face.
He emerges with three sheets in hand.
“Braxxus told me to rig a covering around the toilet. I’m not sure what he wanted, nor am I certain why. I just know he was adamant that I do it before you have to use it.”
“A privacy curtain,” I answer, assuming this explains everything.
When his response is to simply lift an eyebrow, I explain, “I think you can tuck the fabric between the ceiling plates there,” I point, “and there.”
And . . . another raised eyebrow.
“Then it will hang down and hide the toilet,” I explain as if to a small child.
“In human culture is the toilet offensive to the eyes? Does it offend one of your Gods?”
I have to inspect his face to see if he’s fucking with me. No.
“No, it’s for privacy.”
He wipes his face with his palm as he ponders this very difficult concept, then, “You don’t want me to watch you shit and piss.”
“Exactly.” I touch my nose like you do when someone guesses the correct, very hard answer in a game of charades.
“Why?”
He’s not playing.
“It’s embarrassing.” C’mon Beast, this isn’t that hard.
“I had my tongue in your cunt. You had my cock in your mouth. I watched your face as you came apart. But shitting and pissing is embarrassing?”
“This conversation is officially over.” Yeah. You don’t have to remind me what happened last time your cock was in my mouth. You screamed another woman’s name. Let’s not go there. “Just rig the fucking curtain.”
Something about my tone must have expressed the depth and breadth of my displeasure, because he stands on the toilet and begins shoving the ends of the sheets into the tight spaces between the metal ceiling tiles. The end result looks precarious at best—a strong breeze will make the sheets flutter to the floor—but I’ll be able to sit on the throne unobserved.
I debate whether to even thank him, he made me work so hard for it, but I eventually say it, albeit grudgingly. I don’t get how the male could be so dense.
“I’ve lived in a barracks my whole life. There was one place to shit. We were lucky to have it. It never occurred to me that it was supposed to be a private affair.”
I’m a bitch. I really am. It never cr
ossed my mind that he’d never been allowed this tiny modicum of privacy, of common decency. All of a sudden I feel tremendous compassion for this male. My jaw tightens as I attempt to hide all the feelings swirling inside.
I reach out to help him step down. I’m overpowered by the need to know more about him, to understand him better, to have deeper insights into what it was like to grow up a slave.
“Thank you for doing that,” I say, this time with feeling. “I’m going to inaugurate the toilet and then shall we lie down and answer one question each?”
He leans to kiss my forehead, then pulls back to look at me, his face serious. “You know I’ll still be able to hear you, right? And the curtain will do nothing to hide the smells.” He’s so earnest, as if he’s informing me of facts that weren’t already in evidence.
“I’m aware. But let’s do it like we do on Earth. We pretend we don’t hear or smell any of it. We pretend, without comment, that it smells as fresh as an ocean breeze.”
His head snaps back as if I just smacked him. “Really?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. How did you guys handle it in the barracks?”
“We joked. It was fair game. We laughed and sang songs about it. Want to hear one?”
“NO!”
I step into the only private space on board, do my business—thankfully just number one—and emerge as if I’m the Queen of Sheba.
“I don’t smell a thing,” he says with an earnest smile.
“Beast! No comment, remember? We just pretend nothing happened. No songs, no jokes, no negative or even positive remarks.”
“Ohhh, got it.”
Beast
Ten minimas later, we’re in our bunk illuminated only by the instrument panel lights. The bed is tucked against the circular wall, so half of it is cut off at the top and bottom. Aerie fits perfectly. I like her there, as if she’s mine to protect.
“I agreed to your terms. You said I could get to know you five minimas at a time. I have a question,” I say.
“Okay,” her voice is wary.
“Tell me about the closet.”
“I was hoping you weren’t paying attention when I mentioned that.”
“I pay attention to everything you say. I imagine the closet story will tell me a lot about you.”
“Tomorrow.”
This doesn’t surprise me. I doubt it’s a happy story.
“All right. Tell me about the stilts.” I lift her head, so it’s on my bicep. It’s comforting to have the little human so close.
I’ve only slept with a female once before. That was a day ago with Aerie and I was determined to stay as far from her as possible so I didn’t spill my seed twice before the biggest match of my life.
Now I’ve got her trapped between the wall and me. It feels good.
“I grew up poor. On Earth we call it dirt poor. I didn’t have a family, so I lived with people who took children in for money. I always envied other kids who had more stuff than me.” She takes a breath and cranes her head to look at me. “This has to sound ridiculous to you. You grew up as a slave. I feel selfish even talking about this.”
“It’s not a competition, Aerie. This lets me picture you as a little one. I want it to come into focus. I’ve already got part of it, tell me more.”
“I had one thing going for me—I was smart. If I applied myself I could be at the head of my class. At first, I didn’t work or pay attention in school. I didn’t see the payoff.
“I daydreamed and was oppositional and didn’t try at all. Then I stumbled into the awareness that succeeding in school got me the trifecta of good stuff. First, it took my mind off the . . . hard things that were happening in my homes. Second, it got me attention, the good kind. And third, I felt proud when I got good grades.
“So fairly early in life I became an achiever. Some would say an overachiever. It’s what lifted me out of poverty.”
I tuck her head under my chin and close my eyes, picturing a little female in ragged t-shirt and leggings—it’s the only thing I know Earth females wear other than Aerie’s armor—working hard in a schoolroom.
“I studied hard and earned a scholarship to college, and then law school, and through nothing but my own merit, I landed an amazing job that could earn me a ton of money, which on Earth is what it’s all about.
“The shoes are a status symbol, they signi—”
“What is a status symbol?” I ask.
“It’s something that’s hard to get. Anyone looking at you knows at a glance that you have money—which is status—if you own it.”
“I’m not certain I understand.”
“Being a Pinnacle is a status symbol. You don’t even have to brag or say a thing. One look at the five rings on your nose and people defer to you.”
Is that true? Do people defer to me? “Is that what you see?”
“When you boarded the Fool’s Errand, the guys surrounded you and fawned all over you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
I replay it in my mind. Yes, they flattered and pandered to me. “Yes,” I admit.
“On Earth it can come from status, like being a Pinnacle, more often, though, it comes from money and stuff—things. So the shoes are expensive, ridiculously so. You could get similar shoes from a crappy store on sale for like twenty of your credits, or you can buy these shoes. They have a fancy name and sell for close to a thousand. People know the difference because of the red sole.
“Of course, there are knockoffs, cheap shoes that dye their soles red, but these are the real deal. They scream that I am somebody.”
My chest tightens. I don’t like that the little female needs to scream her worth to anyone. Pressing my lips to the stiff peaks of her hair, I whisper, “You are somebody, Aerie. You don’t need to prove anything to anybody. You’re beautiful and competent. Look how you negotiated those bouts on Galgon. Even Zar admitted he couldn’t have gotten near that price had he been in charge.
“And you’re strong. I’ll tell you a secret,” I dip my voice low, like I’m conspiring with her.
“Don’t think for a moment this will get you out of sharing your own five minutes, Beast,” she says. But I know her better now. Her sass is her self-protection, like those dracking shoes.
“Yes. I owe you my five minimas, but I’ll tell you this for free. When I first saw you, kicking and screaming and fighting your way into my cell, I thought you were magnificent.” Magnificent and insane for resisting even though she wore the pain/kill collar, but I don’t add this last piece.
“Really?”
“Fearless.”
I tilt my head to confirm my suspicion that this made her smile. Yes, indeed. There’s a pretty smile on her face.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question?” She looks shy.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Emmannee.”
I knew that would be her question. I was prepared.
“Tomorrow.”
“I knew you’d say that. So I planned a backup question. Tell me the most surprising thing about you.”
“You’re from Earth. How would I know what surprises you. I never would have guessed that bathroom habits were private.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “I agree. That question is too hard. So, alright, tell me the kindest thing you’ve ever done.”
“You just watched me kill six males in the arena and you want to know the kindest thing I’ve ever done?” She thinks I’m bloodthirsty. She watched my come splatter on Tsing’s breasts without a shred of remorse on my part. Aerie wants to know I’m capable of kindness.
“I have no stories to tell,” I admit.
“Liar,” she accuses.
“You explained how money and things are status on Earth. What’s important in my world is power and strength. You can’t show weakness—and kindness is weakness. I have no stories to tell,” I reiterate.
“You’re a fucking liar, Beast. The first thing you did when you met me, while I was still unconscious, was to catch me to keep my head from sp
litting wide open on the hard floor. Then you held me tight during the battle. Totally sexy, by the way,” she adds as an afterthought.
I’d hoped to keep my cock under control while we talked in bed. That desire just vanished.
“Then, nicest thing of all, you threatened to break my neck—swiftly so as not to cause pain.”