by Helena Maeve
Even if they knew—would anyone care?
“So how does this work?” she asked. “Do I get to sew your name into my clothes?”
“Only if you’re feeling dexterous with needle and thread,” Jackson said airily, but his clenching fists betrayed him. He was pretending to be unaffected by their proximity and trying even harder to ignore the brush of Alana’s fingertips down his inner thighs.
“You won’t put a collar on me,” Alana said.
Jackson arched a brow. “I won’t?”
“No. And you won’t trade me to anyone, either… You’ll keep me for yourself, right in this bed where I wish to be.” It was the first time she had admitted it to herself and she felt her cheeks heat at the thought. “You won’t send me to work in the infirmary,” she added, figuring it was better to get everything out now, before she lost her nerve and Jackson’s patience ran dry.
It dawned on her that she might have been overly optimistic in her calculations when he covered her palms with his, aborting her caresses. “Why not the infirmary?”
“Do we need to rehash that argument?”
Jackson shook his head. “I think you’re making a mistake. I think… The things you know could help save lives. But if you don’t want to work in the infirmary again, I won’t force you.”
It was as if a weight had been lifted. ”Thank you,” Alana breathed. She tipped forward, knowing it would distract Jackson from the matter at hand and brushed her lips against the jut of his hipbone. “Now… How shall I serve you?”
There was no use denying that she wanted to.
Chapter Nine
Alana had been aware of the blanket sliding off her shoulders since Jackson had cinched it with his belt, but she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to secure it back into place—especially now. If it fell loose, so much the better.
She felt her nipples, peaked and sensitive, scrape against the prickly cloth. She had some idea that damp and wool didn’t go well together, so it might have been prudent to sit up and remove the damn thing the moment she felt her cunt flood with arousal, but that would have involved stopping what she was doing—the greater sin by far.
Jackson’s cock was a heavy, silky weight and it twitched whenever Alana dug her tongue into the slit, lapping up the salty slick pre-cum. She didn’t mind the helpless tug of his hands through the messy twist of her hair, either, or the moans that tangled in his throat when she made to take more of him between her lips.
If anyone had told her she would be making love to her captor after he had staked a claim to her as his slave, Alana would’ve laughed out loud.
But that was before Jackson had turned out to be a tender lover, before he had held her as she had wept for her dead neighbors. It wasn’t enough to be his, she wanted him to belong to her too, and that primal urge cared nothing for reason or better judgment.
It was the reason why Alana didn’t stop her ministrations even when she felt the flared cockhead press against the back of her throat. She choked, tears springing to the corners of her eyes as she pulled back. It didn’t count as her most delicate attempt, but at least it was freely offered.
Alana coughed, ignoring Jackson’s frantic queries, and slid her mouth back down his length, hollowing her cheeks in that way he seemed to enjoy.
She wondered if he could tell she’d never done this before, if it excited him to know he was her first. She hadn’t given much thought to that before, assuming that her virginity was only a prize as long as she was marriageable. And besides, with the books she’d read and the fantasies she’d entertained, there wasn’t a pure bone in her body.
She would’ve been surprised when Jackson said “Enough, no more,” if he didn’t dip down to kiss her by the same token. When he pulled back, his green-gray eyes seemed almost black and the intensity of his focus was enough to make her moan.
He bore Alana down into the sheets before the sound had left her throat, scrabbling at the fastenings of the belt to pry off her makeshift toga. He didn’t hesitate to cup her breasts in his broad palms. There was nothing tentative in that greedy touch.
Alana fell back onto the mattress, arching her back without a thought for modesty. Leona was right—virtue was paltry consolation by comparison.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Jackson growled into the glistening patch of skin between her breasts. “Was it the fiancé?”
“What?”
“You said you were to be married,” he recalled huskily.
Did I? Alana could barely remember. It didn’t seem to matter, when she had Jackson sinking to his knees on the bed and hitching her knees up and around his shoulders. “There was no—fuck—no engagement,” Alana bit out. “It didn’t work like that.”
How it worked was a story for another time, when Jackson didn’t have his mouth pressed against her cunt and he wasn’t lapping at her like she was raspberry-flavored crushed ice.
Alana fisted the sheets in a white-knuckled grip with a vicious, needy whimper, rocking desperately against his mouth. Conversation could wait.
“Yes,” Alana panted, “yes, right there—” How did he know how to do that thing with his tongue? It caressed her swollen clit just the way she liked best, with an ounce more pressure than if she would’ve been teasing herself with the tips of her fingers.
Jackson’s exhales fanned over her pubic bone as if on the cusp of laughter, stirring her riotous black curls as he sent a hand journeying up her body to grope at her breast. He could laugh. He was definitely allowed to laugh as long as he kept that up.
Alana sensed the familiar approach of orgasm as he lapped at her sex, her legs shaking with it and her heart skipping beats. She’d never thought to conceal her arousal before, never needed to, and it didn’t occur to her that Jackson might stop when she was on the edge—not until he did.
“What—?” Alana groaned. “Why did you stop? Keep going. Please—please, Jackson, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he murmured, swiping a hand over his lips and chin. Was he angry? Alana sincerely couldn’t care less. She was too far gone to be less than selfish. She wasn’t the only one, if the way he grabbed her by the arm and flipped her over onto her belly was any indication.
Alana gasped, the breath knocked out of her as she landed on her front on the bed. It was only an instant before she felt Jackson settle over her, his knees spreading hers wide.
He kissed the back of her neck like he was trying to leave a mark—a request Alana might have rebuffed under different circumstances but couldn’t find less than arousing when he was stroking his slick length between her ass cheeks like that.
She’d heard of men who wanted to stick it into that hole—the old books spoke of sodomy like it was a sin—and she’d had clients of both sexes who came to purchase oils for that very purpose. The thought itself didn’t faze her, but she wanted something else tonight.
“Not there,” she gritted out, turning her head so Jackson would hear.
He stilled as though she’d poured a bucket of iced water over him.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t—” The stutter of his voice heralded another deferral.
“Save your apologies,” Alana huffed and arched her hips against his. “We’re not finished here.” She didn’t need to hear that he wouldn’t hurt her. She already knew that. Part of her had known it from the moment he had walked into her shop, looking to make a purchase like an honest customer instead of pillaging like his kind were wont to do.
He was decent. He had taken her under his wing when he could’ve used her and left her to fend for herself. Above all, Jackson was sweet enough to stroke her skin as he sank into her, making sure it was as pleasurable for her as it was for him. A lesser man would’ve cut his losses long ago.
Alana reached for his hand and wound their fingers together tightly.
“Feels good?” Jackson murmured into the shell of her ear when her moans rose in pitch.
“Y-yeah…” If only he didn’t choose that moment t
o dial down the steady pace of his hips, it would’ve felt even better, but Alana was fast coming to grips with the fact that Jackson could not be led.
He liked to be in control and control suited him like a tailored coat. However frustrating it might have been to suffer every transition from fast and shallow to slow and deep, his rhythm was never less than precise. His thrusts never failed to stroke against the coil of nerves at her center, strumming her need with a practiced touch.
Alana savored the sweet torment even as it brought her to tears. It was too much, it wasn’t enough, and suddenly, when she least expected it, Jackson bit down into the wing of her shoulder and Alana felt the flames stirring in the pit of her stomach detonate like a clap of thunder.
She was distantly aware of Jackson moving inside her, heard him speak her name like a mantra, but it didn’t touch her. She was flying somewhere high above her body, watching herself from a distance and thought, So this is why they call it the little death.
Tremors rode her like the electric current in John Lau’s potato battery, back when they were kids, until at last Jackson desisted and pulled out, replacing his cock with three long fingers.
“I like feeling you clench around me,” he whispered into the knobs of her spine, as though it was a secret. “I think you like it too,” he added, and that, Alana thought privately, definitely was.
She huffed out an exhausted laugh, too drained to protest and not entirely sure she wanted to.
* * * *
Many hours passed before Alana found the strength to roll over and reach for the covers. By chance, she slapped her hand against Jackson’s chest instead—and a little too roughly, at that, because he jerked awake with a start, his eyes wide and unfocused.
“Sorry,” Alana yawned. “Miscalculated.” The reason she couldn’t find the covers was that they were snarled under Jackson’s hips. She attempted to nudge him out of the way, but somehow became entangled in his arms.
Jackson grinned unapologetically. “”You’re cold?”
“I’m sleeping naked, in a room with no carpet,” she pointed out testily. “What do you think?”
“I think you should let me warm you up.” His sleepy smirk betrayed his intent even if the offer itself was perfectly anodyne.
Alana considered it in the way of warriors who already know they have lost a battle. Jackson’s fingers were stroking a path down her hip to where she was still soft and slick and only a little sore from their earlier play. She didn’t hesitate to spread her legs wider to make room for Jackson.
“I love how this feels,” he murmured, a strange quiver of awe seeping into his voice.
“My cunt?” She was tired enough and half asleep, and the thought of spelling it out didn’t even give rise to a fraction of her usual discomfiture.
New Eden had drilled into her that there were some things a woman didn’t bring up unless she wanted men to consider her worthless. She doubted Jackson followed those rules, particularly given where his mouth had been recently.
In the darkness of their room, his features were lost to shadow, but there was just enough light spilling out from the door by which to make out his glassy, deep-set eyes. “Your sweet cunt,” he murmured, sinking a finger into her.
“Mmm, I like it, too,” Alana echoed. “First time I touched myself, I couldn’t understand why I should wait for a man to do it when it felt so good…”
Jackson chuckled warmly against the jut of her collarbones. “Wicked girl. You don’t think much of men, do you?”
It was entirely unfair of him to ask that when he was rubbing her pussy with slow, unhurried strokes, but if he wanted to know…
“Men don’t usually think much of me,” Alana mused. “Why shouldn’t I return the favor?” Her breaths were coming faster and faster by the second. If Jackson kept this up much longer, she would end up gasping out her answers while he had his fun.
Alana didn’t reject the possibility out of hand. She was in no hurry to stop his ministrations provided they weren’t just another prelude. He seemed to enjoy bringing her to the edge, then easing off. He was far too good at it.
Had Leona taught him that trick?
And what if she did? Alana wondered. There were worse things than being someone’s lover. Leona had her own thrall and ever since they’d met in the badlands, she’d expressed little interest in anyone else. It wasn’t such an absurd notion—a master loyal to her thrall.
“I don’t count y-you among other men,” Alana found herself biting out, in case it needed to be said. Jackson’s tender caress was making it hard to string words into complete sentences, but she had no desire to cut him off. She was greedy for him, for every press of his talented fingers between her legs.
“Nor should you,” Jackson breathed and circled the heel of his palm over her clit.
Alana choked on her breath. “Because you’re my master?”
“Because I’m your master,” he echoed. “Because you’re my thrall.”
There was such dark promise in his voice that Alana couldn’t hold herself back. She gripped his wrist—not to stop him, but merely to offer herself another point of contact as she felt the heat in her cunt reach a tipping point. She didn’t cry out as she rode out her climax against the callouses on his palm, somehow feeling more wanton than she had with Jackson’s tongue flicking over her clit. Perhaps it was because this time Jackson didn’t stop his attentions until she begged him to, or that when he did, he licked his palm clean while Alana caught her breath.
“You’re filthy,” she accused, on the cusp of a laugh.
He didn’t deny it. “Do you mind if I…?” He canted his hips against her thigh, his hard length hot as a branding iron.
“I could do it.” If she didn’t sound certain, it was because Jackson had robbed her of her strength.
“I’d rather you watched,” he said and it seemed like something he’d been itching to ask, because he didn’t try to turn it into a joke or a farcical order, much less a real one.
Alana stroked a hand over his chest, using the tips of her fingers to nudge him away. “Go light the brazier.” She wanted light. She wanted to do this properly.
She had never watched a man find his pleasure before. She wasn’t going to turn Jackson down if this was something he needed.
She could only make out the slant of his delighted smile once he returned back to bed, his body lit amber and gold and his cock jutting out proudly between his thighs.
Sleep was overrated, anyway.
* * * *
Alana dropped into a seat at an empty picnic table and smothered a yawn behind her hand. Perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss the necessity of a good night’s rest. For a good long while this morning, she had considered spending the rest of the day in bed and basking in the post-orgasmic glow of her almost-nuptials, but eventually hunger prevailed.
So here she was, perched over a plate of black bread, salted cheese and olives, a mug of strong black tea steaming in one hand. She was only a little sorry she hadn’t woken up early enough to share her meal with Jackson, but he’d told her to rest, that he had to go back to see to the repairs on the wind traps, and Alana hadn’t thought to disagree.
She didn’t mind the solitude. Her biggest fear after yesterday’s ceremony had been that people would look at her funny, but so far no one had even acknowledged her presence. Even the thralls charged with toiling in the kitchens only greeted her as courteously as they did everyone else—which was to say with a wink, an unsubtle comment about the state of her intimate parts and a promise that they were just joking.
“Sounds like I missed a big old party last night,” a voice said, jarring Alana out of her thoughts.
Of course, the reason why no one had said anything about the claiming ceremony might have been that she hadn’t yet spoken with anyone she knew. There was a reason for that—Jackson had said Maity would be working in the laundry room this morning and Finn was meant to be watching over his mistress.
Alana had
n’t counted on Leona making short work of her instructions and leaving her sickbed before it was safe.
She looked poorly, even now, but some of the color had returned to her pale cheeks since yesterday. She even found it in her to smirk when Alana stared a trifle too long. “Yes, I’ve risen from the dead. Feel free to drop to your knees in horror…”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Alana protested, once she found her voice.
How could Leona be cracking jokes? Just yesterday she’d been a hair’s breadth away from the final, bleak void that made up Alana’s version of the afterlife.
Leona merely hitched up her shoulders. “I don’t know about you, but I find breakfast very restful… What are you having?” she asked and unceremoniously pulled Alana’s plate over to see for herself. “Ugh, olives.”
“Where’s Finn?”
“Over there, probably getting more olives,” Leona said, waving a hand in the general direction of the kitchens.
He mouthed I’m sorry when Alana caught his gaze.
You should be, Alana mouthed back, but whether or not he understood was less certain, because Leona had taken to drumming her fingernails against the table, exasperation palpable.
“So? Come on, dish. I want to know everything.”
“Everything about what?” Alana demurred. She knew where this was going. Leona had made no secret of her interest in Jackson in the past, so why start now?
“You can start with the sex,” Leona said, folding her hands over the table. “The ceremony’s just boring ritualistic nonsense, anyway… Unless you got any good gifts. Did you get any good gifts?”
Alana gaped. “Are you on drugs?”
“Only a little vervain,” Leona said. “You didn’t burn my whole stash.”
“Vervain doesn’t…” The properties of the plant weren’t remotely relevant. “How can you be drugging yourself after you almost died?” Alana asked, scandalized.