Moon Struck

by Heather Guerre

  She nearly gave in. But then she remembered herself, grabbed hold of her integrity, and tried to step back from him. His grip remained a vice on her wrist, holding her close to him.

  “You’re high, and you’re not wearing your mask. This isn’t you. You’re just under the influence of too many different intoxicants, and I won’t take advantage—”

  He reeled her in with a tug on her wrist. His other arm slid around her back and he pulled her onto his lap in one fluid motion. His thighs were hard and strong beneath her. Under the cover her her gown, she was naked. The thick weave of his trousers pressed against the bare skin of her thighs.

  “What if—” he leaned down until his lips were only a hair’s breadth from hers “—I leveled the odds?”

  Hadiza was trapped between the iron strength of his arm and the impassable wall of his chest. Each ragged breath she took pressed her breasts against him. Her hips were flush against his abdomen, her thighs spread over his lap. He was so big, he consumed every corner of her awareness. He filled her vision, enveloped her body with his. He didn’t need to intoxicate her—she was already burning with desire for him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.

  He tilted his head and his lips touched her cheek, warm and firm. Hadiza closed her eyes, savoring the feel of his heat and his strength. He could overwhelm her, overpower her so easily, and chose not to. God, she wanted him. But not like this. She wanted him to want her because she was desirable. Not because he was a helpless victim to the biochemical trickery of human pheromones.

  “Errol,” she said softly against his ear. She felt tension ripple through his body at the sound of his name, and her body answered in kind. “Stop. Let me go.”

  He was still as a statue, taut as piano wire. “I don’t think you want that.”

  She felt the press of his erection against her thigh, hard, hot, and alarmingly large. She was getting wet, her body hungry for him. Her hips rolled involuntarily against his, grinding her core against the stiff length of his cock. A tortured groan wrenched from his throat at the same time as a shuddering gasp escaped hers.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she panted. “We shouldn’t—”

  He held her tightly, rocking his hips against hers, driving the thick ridge of his cock between her thighs. Her argument broke apart on a soft cry. Her fingers curled, nails raking over the hard skin of his chest.

  “You want this,” he growled, grinding against her again and again. Her spine arched and her hips rolled against his.

  Yes. Of course she wanted this—wanted him. But, they shouldn’t. They needed to—what? There was something, some reason—

  Errol’s hands slipped beneath the hem of her gown, slid up her thighs to grip her hips, helping her ride the hard length of him through his trousers. Pleasure rumbled deep in his chest, a vibration she felt pass beneath her skin and echo inside of her. She wanted to feel more of him, feel all of that hot skin against her own. She struggled with the billowing gown, trying to fight her way out of it. Errol’s hands left her hips, whisking the gown over her body in one fluid motion.

  He went still for a second, staring down at her. Then his hands returned to her hips, slid up the sides of her ribs, coming to rest alongside the curve of each breast. Slowly, gently, he slid his palms over them. A shudder ran through him. Her nipples hardened to peaks beneath his touch, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to her core. The air was cold, but his hands were so hot, sending ripples of fire over her skin.

  She tried to pull away from him, but he caught her, holding her in place. He bent down, pressing hot lips to the curve of her shoulder, trailing them gently up the sensitive skin on the side of her neck. She whimpered, hands clenching on the massive expanse of his biceps.

  “Errol—”

  “Why can’t you let yourself have what you want?” His lips moved against the hollow beneath her ear as his low, rumbling voice reverberated beneath her skin. His beard rasped against her skin.

  “It’s not—”

  His hot, hard hands gripped her waist, slid up the sensitive skin over her ribs.

  “Errol, I can’t—when you—ah!” She broke off into a gasp as his thumbs swept over her nipples. She felt the wet, hot press of his tongue behind her ear. Her entire body pulled tight, helpless to do anything but cling to him, press against him, open herself up to his touch.

  “Are your people modest?” Errol’s lips moved down her neck, finding the pulse in her throat. “Like the Yiruba?” He licked her pulse, making her squirm against him, panting and speechless. “Good little humans don’t give in to the animal side of themselves, is that it?” His thumbs flicked over the pointed tips of her nipples.

  Hadiza whimpered, fingers curling into his iron skin. “Not good Kepleran girls,” she whispered breathlessly.

  Errol dragged his lips over the edge of her jaw, until his mouth hovered over hers. “What if I take away the choice?” His resonant growl chased hot shivers over her bare skin. “You’d still be a good girl, and we’d both get what we want.” The firm curve of his lower lip was close enough to touch her lip ring, but not her lips. The tip of one fang teased the corner of her mouth.

  Hadiza hovered on the brink of no-return. If she leaned in, just a scant millimeter, she’d be able to taste him, lose herself in him. But she shouldn’t. Because he didn’t really want her. And she shouldn’t want this.

  “Let me find out what a good girl tastes like,” he growled. He pinched her nipples, tugging gently. She cried out and arched against him as he rolled his hips, stroking his erection against her clit.

  Hadiza was lost. She arched up against Errol, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his chest, and opening her mouth to him. She felt the tips of his fangs against her bottom lip, and then their tongues swept together.

  The intoxication was a familiar feeling by now, but there was no fear with it this time. She already wanted Errol. She knew she was safe with him. And the burning need, the desperate hunger—it could be satisfied with him. That it was his toxin flooding her senses only heightened the arousal.

  Her hands went to the band of his trousers, fumbling for the fastening. Opened, she slid her hand inside and found his cock, hot and heavy, too big to grip with just one hand.

  He groaned at her exploratory touch, thrusting into her grasp. He was hard as steel, sleek as silk, hot as fire. She could spend all night feeling him, learning his contours. But the intoxication was pulling her under, making her ache with need—to have him inside her, filling her, taking her. She needed to be consumed by him, to give her body over to him.

  Her grip tightened on his cock, and he groaned again, falling back onto the bed and pulling her with him. His hand slid between her thighs and he cupped her there, pressing the heel of his hand against her clit. A wave of pleasure crested through her, rendering her momentarily immobile as every muscle in her body pulled tight.

  “So wet,” he growled, his mouth still pressed to hers. One big, blunt finger circled her slick folds, finding the entrance to her body, and sinking in.

  Hadiza sagged against him, a tortured moan wrung from her throat as she savored the bold intrusion.

  “So tight, my little Hadiza.” The words sounded slurred, unsteady. He withdrew his finger, only to push two fingers inside of her.

  Hadiza whimpered, rolling her hips, riding his hand.

  “That’s right, rourra,” he urged. “Stretch for me. Get yourself ready for me.” His speech was almost incomprehensible now—the words of the Creole lost in that deep, Scaeven growl. He uttered something halting and low in his native language.

  “Hmmm?” Hadiza murmured, tightening her grip on his cock, sliding her thumb over the slick head.

  His hips bucked, and he made an animalistic sound of deepest need. But his eyes were fluttering shut.

  “Errol?”

  “I think it’s finally hitting me,” he slurred in the Creole.

  “What?”

  “Sleep phase… over
due… thought smoking would…”

  Errol’s entire body went lax, and he was suddenly insensate beneath her.

  Hadiza sat astride him, burning with helpless lust, staring down in utter disbelief at the unconscious fool who’d left her high and dry. The need that the toxin awoke was something akin to the physical pain of starvation. It was an aching, urgent emptiness that both hurt and terrified. It scattered her thoughts and swallowed her humanity until she was a creature of only instinct, desperate for gratification.

  She refused to give in. It took every ounce of her willpower to climb off of him, and slide out of the bed. Sweat prickled across her back. Cold shivers chased over her skin.

  Hadiza peeled off the gown and went to the lav. She turned the spigots in the tub to the coldest setting, and climbed in.

  Chapter Nine

  When Errol woke, the room was quiet and dark. His head pounded, and his mouth was dry. He could taste sounds and hear colors—an after-affect of the naptala that would fade as soon as he drank some water. He was undressed down to his trousers, which were unfastened, and Hadiza’s scent clung to his skin.

  What had he done?

  The last thing he remembered was leaving the fight club with his two new Bijari friends—the ones who’d sliced his ribs open and bloodied his nose—and going into the smoke parlor. He’d expected the naptala would drop him right into the waiting arms of sleep. But what if…

  He sat up abruptly. “Hadiza?”

  “You’re awake?” Hadiza’s voice came from the bunk above him. She didn’t sound frightened or angry or hurt. One of her feet appeared above his head, toes pointed as she quested blindly for the ladder. The hem of her Yiruban formal cassock fluttered around her ankles. She found the ladder, and clambered down nimbly. Humans may be small and fragile, but they moved with a grace that Scaevens didn’t have.

  “When did I get back?” Errol asked, moving quickly to fasten his trousers before she saw them open.

  Hadiza didn’t answer right away. She leaned against the ladder, searching his face. “You don’t remember getting back?” she asked.

  The careful neutrality of her tone had him sweating. What had he done? Why was her scent all over his skin? “Did I hurt you?” he asked, barely able to push the words past his throat.

  Another loaded pause as she regarded him. “No,” she said finally.

  His shoulders sagged in relief. He could hear the truth in her tone.

  “You were injured. Bleeding. I cleaned you up and put you to bed.”

  Errol nodded. That would explain it. She’d had to muscle his doped-up, half-conscious body into the bed. And being the overly-empathetic little doctor, of course she’d had to get in close and tend to his already half-healed injuries.

  “You should have just left me to sleep on the floor.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but it was gone in an instant. She stepped away from the ladder, leaning against the far wall and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m hungry. And I’d like to get some clothing other than theses gowns—not that I’m not grateful for them.”

  Errol nodded. “I’ll go—”

  “You’re not going without me. I can’t stay in this room for another second. I will go insane.” She didn’t move from the wall, but there was a violence in her expression that had the force of a shove. “I will wait exactly long enough for you to get me sufficient cold weather clothing, and then you are taking me into the market.”

  Errol hesitated. The only other humans on Daalinalikiniri-din-kaal were cargo. He could do nothing for them without jeopardizing Enforcement’s entire operation. But he didn’t want Hadiza to see the signs of the trafficking ring from which she’d only just escaped. He didn’t want to explain to her why he could do nothing for them. Not now. Not yet.

  “Find me a disguise if you have to. I don’t care. I can exchange funds into Ravanoth krigr and pay you back when I have access to a comm.”

  “You aren’t paying me anything.” He rose from the bed, found his shirt, and pulled it on. It was stiff with blood and sweat. He was going to need new clothing as well. He pulled on his coat and hat. “I’ll be back soon.”

  He found a shop that sold Ravanoth clothing, which was ideal. The Ravanoth were even more sensitive to the cold than humans, and not much taller. Their offship, offplanet clothing was always woven with thermal fibers that magnified heat inside the garments. He got boots, trousers, undergarments, a sweater, a thick coat, mittens, and one of the scarves the Ravanoth always wore over their heads. All bundled up, with the scarf covering her face, she’d pass for a particularly puny Ravanoth female.

  Back at the room, Hadiza accepted the clothing with a soft thanks and went into the lav to change. She emerged fully encased in thermal gear. She bound the tumultuous black cloud of her hair into a single thick, short braid and tied it off with a scrap of blue silk. She draped the thermal scarf over her head and pulled the end over her face, tucking it securely into the collar of her coat. Completely covered, she went immediately to the door.

  Errol followed after her, on high alert. As they left the docks and entered the twisting confines of the market, he kept a careful eye the other creatures they passed—waiting for a Scaeven to take note of her scent. But the heavy cover of the Ravanoth thermal gear rendered her essentially scentless. To Errol, standing right next to her, she gave off only the vaguely metallic scent of the thermal fibers woven through all her clothing.

  He let himself relax, marginally, and followed her as she wove through the colorful, noisy throng of the market.

  “How long will we be on this planet?” Hadiza asked him, pausing to stare at glass cages filled with the glowing orange firemoths from the Yiruban colony planet of Bebena.

  “Another day or two. I’m waiting on a part. As soon as it’s ready, I’ll install it and we can leave.”

  One of the firemoths opened its wings and gave them a settling shake. Bright yellow sparks flew from the insect, and Hadiza gasped in delight. He couldn’t see her face through the scarf, but her mittened hands flew to her mouth. She exclaimed in her rolling, tapping human language.

  Her obvious pleasure moved something in Errol’s chest, something warm and sweet. Beneath the scarf, her face tilted towards him. He pressed his lips into a hard line, fighting a smile.

  “I’ve never seen a firemoth, except in pictures and vids,” Hadiza said in the Creole. “They’re beautiful.” Her veiled face tilted back to the caged insects. “Poor things,” she muttered.

  She straightened and moved on. At a stall selling garments fashioned from elaborate silk brocades, Hadiza stopped and stroked her fingers over a short tunic woven in a pattern of purple and gold flowers on a black background. Varying textures lent the fabric a nearly holographic effect, giving the flowers the appearance of depth and shadow.

  “This weave is impossible,” she said, sounding almost breathless.

  The colors were admittedly beautiful, but it was obviously too small for her. “That’s a child’s shirt. It would only cover half your torso,” Errol said.

  “No. It’s a cropped shirt.” She pulled it down from the rack. “Humans wear them all the time.”

  “Your abdomen would be bare,” Errol argued.

  “Yes,” Hadiza replied.

  The thought of her dressed in such a way was enough to silence him for a long moment. It took him a while to realize that Hadiza had finished haggling with the elderly Bijari seller, and needed him to hand over funds. Lurching into motion, he pulled a neutral currency marker from inside his coat and tapped it against the seller’s receiver.

  The old Bijari male wrapped the impractical garment in tissue and handed it over to Hadiza. Errol descended into another prolonged silence as he realized that the seller—that everybody at the market—would think Hadiza was his mate. His Ravanoth mate, but still. His mate. His.

  He trailed numbly after her, instinctively watching for danger, but otherwise lost in an emotional tumult that kept careeni
ng back and forth between proprietary satisfaction and uncomfortable self-recrimination. It wouldn’t do to let himself get too wrapped up in imagining a future that would never be. He’d start wanting it too much—more than he already did. And yet, the chance to pretend for just a short while, that things could be so easy and uncomplicated…

  Hadiza stopped him again at a shop selling Ravanoth clothing, and selected some more practical garments. Two tunics, a softly woven shirt with long sleeves, a sweater, another pair of trousers, and more undergarments.

  “That should keep me covered for a while,” she said as the shopkeeper slid her folded garments into a carrying bag. She reached for it, but Errol picked up the handles before she could.

  “You don’t have to—” she objected.

  “I know I don’t have to. Let’s go.”

  She looked up at him. He wished he could see through the scarf veiling her face. Was she grateful? Pleased? Did she see right through the pathetic fantasy he was living out, buying her clothing and carrying her bags like a devoted mate?

  “Why are you being so agreeable?” she asked.

  “I’m always agreeable,” he objected.

  “That has not been my experience.” She said it so lightly, he couldn’t be offended. She was teasing him. The warmth in his chest swelled higher.

  He cleared his throat, chasing away the fawning smile that wanted to stretch his face. He was letting himself get carried away. He had to get a grip and reinforce the necessary distance between them. As soon as they were airborne, he was taking her back to human territory. “Perhaps you don’t inspire agreeability.”

  Instead of getting angry, Hadiza laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me so.”

  Flummoxed, Errol lapsed into another disturbed silence. Instead of trailing behind Hadiza, he was leading the way now. He kept his pace slow so that she could walk beside him. Her arm occasionally brushed his. Their bodies were separated by thick winter gear, but he still felt each touch like an electric current over his skin.