by Ruby Dixon
But safe.
I’m safe. I shiver, and then I’m shaking as a sob escapes my throat.
VEKTAL
Not for the first time, I despair at how helpless my mate is. I’m utterly confused by her—if she knows nothing about the land, how did she get here? Even the metlaks didn’t know what to make of her. I’m furious at myself for letting her wander away. I’m furious that the metlaks could have hurt her more grievously than they did. I know of kits that have been torn apart by accidentally encountering a group of metlaks on the prowl.
Georgie, my precious mate, my resonance, fell right into an entire den of them. She could have been killed before I made it down to rescue her.
The thought has my hands shaking and my khui thrumming against my chest with an angry beat. How can I possibly take care of someone who is more helpless than a kit? Someone who demands to go into the dangerous mountains instead of letting me take her home to my people?
Who is my Georgie? How did she get here? Other than the metlaks and the sa-khui, there are no other people on this land. She is precious.
And I nearly lost her. I’m twisted in my own anger, stalking about the cave as I prepare a fire for my shivering mate. I stack wood and dung chips, rub the fire-making implements between my palms until I catch a spark, and then create a fire by feeding it tinder. When the flames begin to lick at the wood, I gesture that Georgie, shaking with cold, should move closer.
“Dankyew,” she says in a soft voice.
“I don’t understand you,” I growl at her. It’s another obstacle in the way of my mating. I want to tell Georgie that she is mine. That she is my resonance. That she’s safe with me and I won’t let any harm come to her if she’ll just trust me. That she is my light and my reason for being now, and that we shall create a hearth and family together. But I can tell her none of these things.
She sniffs loudly and moves a little closer to the fire, sticking her tiny, five-fingered hands out to warm them. Her bad wrist is an angry color. Maylak, the tribe healer, could cure this with a touch. But she is not here, and my Georgie must suffer. “Give me that,” I say gruffly, indicating that she should give me her injured hand. She probably hurt it worse during her fall, and I’m chagrined that my mate is so poorly cared for.
“Nowyurmadatmeeh,” she says and sniffs loudly again. Then, she bursts into tears.
“Ah, Georgie,” I murmur and pull her against me. Her face presses against my vest, and she sobs. I stroke her hair, now crunchy and hard with ice. She’s going to get sick. I’ve forgotten she has no khui to warm her and dragged her up one side of the mountain and down the next. She’s fragile, my small five-fingers. I chide myself for not taking better care of her. “It won’t happen again, my resonance,” I tell her, stroking her rounded cheek. “I shall take better care of you, starting now.”
And even though it’s callous of me to use all of the supplies here, I build the fire even higher. I don’t care if I’m sweating as long as my Georgie is warm and comfortable. And I hold her against me for what feels like forever. Her hands burrow under my clothing, seeking my warmer skin, and my cock grows hard at her small touches. But she’s still crying, and so I hold her and comfort her as best as I can, until the tears die away and she’s only sniffling her unhappiness.
Her hands are still under my clothing, though. My cock hasn’t forgotten this, and I ache with need, my khui thrumming in my chest. I want to make her happy. I want to make her strange, sweet face smile instead of cry.
So while she warms herself by the fire, I dote on my mate, like I should. I examine her wrist and then cut a strip from one of the furs, binding it tightly and splinting it against one of my bone knives. It will hold until I can take her to the healer. She gives me a grateful smile and points at another one of the bone knives on my vest.
“Kinnihafwon?”
I shake my head to indicate I don’t understand, and with gestures, she shows me she wants to hold it. Ah. She wants to defend herself. I give her one of the blades. I wear six, and now I am down to four. Tomorrow, I will show her how to use it and how to stab with it so if she is attacked by metlaks again, she will be able to fight back. They are cowardly creatures at heart and will run if endangered.
At the gifting of the knife, her smile widens and she beams happily at me, as if I have given her the greatest of treasures. “Iveel betterwit it.”
I nod, though I don’t know what she’s rambling about. Just that she’s smiling. It’s enough for me. I will do more, though. There are furs in this cave, furs left for comfort for hunting warriors who venture out this far. They’re stale and stiff with age, but they’re warm. When we leave in the morning, I will break the rules of hunting politeness and she will wear them as we travel. I won’t have her shivering any more.
“Cookh?” she asks and points at the kill slung at my belt. “Cookhnao?”
“Cookkh?” I repeat, holding the quilled beast up for her to see. “Is that what you call it? Cookh?”
“Eeeht,” she says and smiles up at me, her small teeth gleaming. She points at the beast, then at the fire. “Cookhden eeht plis.”
Ah. Instructions. I point at the fire. “Cookh?”
“Wellthassfire ifyewont tewget teknikal butyess.” She nods. “Cookh.”
Even though it goes against every instinct I have, I do as she asks. I skin the animal and skewer tasty bits on one of my bone knives, and she holds them up to the fire and then eats one with happy smacking noises. She exclaims over each bite, and by the time the food is gone, her eyes are getting drowsy and content.
I’m content, too. We’ve stopped early, but Georgie is warm and safe and fed.
I explain to her with hand signals that I must collect more wood and set traps for more food. She is to stay in the cave and keep the fire going and rest. She looks uneasy but nods, and I leave her with my bone knife and water skin.
I hurry through the gathering, finding dvisti dung instead of wood. I have no axe with me, and this far up the mountain, the trees are stunted. I set snares for more quilled beasts and the scythe-beak birds. Dvisti are the best eating, but Georgie seems determined to go up the mountain and we cannot carry so much meat. If she were another sa-khui, it would be easy, but my Georgie is delicate and not nearly as strong as our weakest warrior.
I return to the cave near dark to find Georgie sound asleep, curled up in the blankets, knife in hand. The fire is banked to coals, and her hair has dried into shiny, golden-brown curls that are lovely to see.
They’re almost as lovely as the soft smile she gives me when she wakes up. She sits up in the nest of blankets and gives me a sleepy look. “Mountain?”
I shake my head and set down the fire supplies off to one side in the cave. There’s a fierce snowstorm outside, and the drifts we must wade through to go up the mountain are getting deeper by the moment. I pull back the hide door to show her the snow, and she looks crestfallen.
“Tomorrow, we will go to the mountain,” I tell her. I’m not sure why she is desperate to go, but it must mean something to her. I gesture with my hands, trying to explain that we will go when the sun rises again and the storms stop. Eventually, I just settle for soon.
“Soon,” she echoes and gives me a smile. She seems satisfied with my answer.
The day is going to be a long one. The suns would still be high in the sky if they were out, and we are snowed in, tucked away against the bitter cold. Georgie cannot withstand it like I can, and having her with me slows me down. I would not trade her presence for the finest hunting, but I must acknowledge that having my mate with me means I must make different choices than I would if I was alone. Caring for her has now taken priority.
The thought of being with her all day feels like a gift.
She gestures at the fire and says my word for fire.
“Yes, fire.”
“Fire,” she repeats. Then she grabs a handful of the furs she is sitting on and gives me a questioning look.
“Furs.”
“Furs,” she echoes. The words sound funny in her mouth, as if she has a hard time making the rumbling throat noises that I do. But I’m pleased she wants to learn how to communicate with me. For the next while, we name off things that are easily pointed at, and Georgie tries to pronounce them. Then, she goes back and repeats them in different orders each time, trying to learn the words.
Eventually, we run out of things to name in the cave and proceed to bodies. She pats her curly, disheveled locks.
“Hair,” I say automatically, amused that she immediately starts finger-combing her tresses. I will make her a bone comb when we return to my home cave.
“Hair,” she grumbles, giving up on the tangles. Then she leans toward me and pats my mane. “Hair?”
“Hair,” I agree.
Her fingers move to my horns, and she lightly skims one. “Whazzis?”
“Horns,” I tell her. I scarcely dare to breathe as she traces along it. Though my horns do not have much feeling, her breasts are close to my face and the scent of her arouses me, as does her fascinated touch. I long to grab her and pull her against me. Instead, I clench my fists and force myself to remain unmoving.
“Whazzis?” she asks again, and her fingers brush over my forehead, the bony ridges there, and then my nose.
“Face?” I don’t understand what she’s asking. I touch her cheek. “Face, like yours.”
But she gives a small head shake and rubs one of the ridges with a small fingertip. It makes my cock leap to attention, and now I’m fully erect and aching, my pulse pounding directly in my groin. Her fingers touch the ridges along my nose, and then over my brows, and then brush over my heart. “Slikeharmr?”
“It’s just skin,” I tell her. Hers is smooth all over, while mine has texture in certain places. Her funny, flat brow and tiny nose look odd to me, and her comment makes me think that perhaps I look strange to her.
Her fingers trail down my chest a bit more, and she keeps touching me with soft, ticklish brushes of her fingertips. My khui vibrates with need, and I have to close my eyes to brace myself. I’m going to burst across her hand if she reaches any lower, so I grab her hand before she can keep exploring.
Georgie is in control, but I cannot take much more of this gentle exploration. If she touches me again, I’m going to throw her down on the furs and fuck her until she screams with pleasure.
GEORGIE
Vektal takes my hand in his as I run my fingers down one big shoulder. It has that ridged, gnarled armor-like plate over one bicep and the back of a hand.
“No,” he tells me in his language.
I’m confused. I thought he liked me and wanted me to touch him. His soft leather leggings can’t hide the erection straining against them. I’m a little frightened by the sheer size of it, but I know Vektal would never hurt me. He’s been fussing over me all afternoon, making sure my wrist was all right, checking my bruises, and shoving small bits of cooked food into my mouth the moment they were ready. All the while, he was touching me with possessive little touches that let me know that he was right there with me, that he was aware of me.
So to be pushed away now? When we’re learning about each other? It hurts my feelings. “No?”
He sees the hurt on my face, and I hear his chest thrumming even harder. “Georgie,” he says in that soft, unique way of his. He gestures at himself, then glances heavenward and mutters something I can’t make out.
“Are we done playing our game, then?” I ask. I was just getting to the interesting parts. And, okay, I might be flirting a bit. Because touching him and feeling that suede-like skin against mine and watching him react? It’s like catnip to a cat. He’s just so warm and has such soft skin over those rock hard muscles, and he looks at me like I hung the moon, and . . . it’s intoxicating.
I wonder if he’s attractive for his people. He’s attractive to me, now that I’ve gotten past my initial shock of the horns-and-blue-skin-and-glowing-eyes thing. His features are strong and well-defined, his nose straight and regal, even if it is ridged. His cheekbones are high, and he’s got a beautifully sculpted mouth.
And he has the most amazing shoulders and biceps. I want to fan myself just thinking about them. Fact is, he’s just pure pleasure to touch. I’ve been enjoying running my hands over him quite a bit, and I can’t get our little interlude in the stream a few hours ago out of my mind. About his hand, dragging down to my pussy and claiming it with a touch. Letting me know that he wants me if he’s going to take me up the mountain.
I’d touched him back. Gripped that big, delicious cock in my hand and gave it a squeeze to let him know I was willing to play his game.
“Georgie,” he says again. He gives me another shake of his proud head and then rubs a hand down his face in a very human-looking gesture of frustration that makes me smile.
“Yes?” I purr, sidling up to him again. Now that the cave is warm, I’ve stripped off most of the furs I was cocooned in and am down to my jumpsuit. I’m so close I can practically rub my breasts on his arm.
And he won’t look at me. Instead, he shakes his head and says something that sounds like, “Sa nisok ki yemev.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” I say, brushing a finger through his mane. His hair is straight, black and coarse, and super thick. It doesn’t grow anywhere else on his body, either, which I find interesting.
He pushes my hand away, but I hear the strange purring going wild in his chest. I know he’s enjoying my touch. I just don’t understand why he won’t look at me, or why he pushes me away.
“Vektal?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”
His eyes flare with light anew, and he takes my wrist and guides my hand to the erection straining his soft breeches. Then he gives me a look as if to say you see?
Ah. I get it now. A small smile curves my mouth, and I feel rather powerful at the moment. He won’t touch me—won’t look at me—because it’s arousing him and he doesn’t want to push me into anything.
Really, for a big barbarian, he’s being the perfect gentleman.
It’s ironic because now I’m the one who wants to do more. Maybe it’s the need for comfort or the fact that I find him weirdly attractive. Or maybe it’s that my belly’s full and I feel safe for the first time in what feels like forever, but I’m in the mood. The more he tries to be noble about things? The friskier I get.
“I guess I don’t need to ask about birth control, do I?” I say to him and put a hand on his shoulder. God, I love touching him. It feels utterly decadent. “I’m not on the pill, not that it matters now. And I’m pretty sure that since we’re different species, you can’t get me pregnant.”
He watches me with narrowed eyes, as if waiting to see what I’m going to do.
“Allow me to make the first move,” I tell him softly, reaching out to undo the top laces on his unusual vest.
Vektal’s strange eyes flicker with light, and then he purrs harder than ever, his chest practically vibrating from the strength of it.
“I appreciate the rescue earlier,” I say, tugging at the laces. The fabric, a soft hide of unnatural coloration, falls away at my touch. I brush aside the knives and pouches tied to it, revealing Vektal’s broad chest and the ridges that cascade down his breastbone, between two massive, hard pectorals. “Allow me to show you how much.”
I lean forward to kiss him—
And he automatically leans away, looking at me with surprise.
“Kiss,” I say, stifling a giggle. I’d almost be offended at his expression of surprise, but I know Vektal’s not familiar with kissing. Maybe he doesn’t make love like humans do, either. The thought intrigues me.
“Kiss,” he agrees, and when I lean forward again, he doesn’t pull away.
I brush my lips over his firm mouth. His lips don’t part under mine. If anything, he’s stiff and unresponsive while I kiss him. I decide to coax him a bit more, pressing my lips to his over and over again, then nibbling on his lower lip. He doesn’t open up no matter how much
I coax him, so I gently brush the seam of his mouth with my tongue.
He jerks back in surprise, eyes narrow as he gazes at me.
“Still a kiss,” I tell him. I wrap my arms around his neck. “It’s called a French kiss. It’s where tongues mate. I think you’ll like it if you’ll give me a chance.”
Vektal’s gaze remains focused on my mouth as I speak. He leans in and presses his mouth to me, quickly, and then gives me a suspicious look, as if waiting to see if I’ll correct him.
“Kiss,” I agree and press my mouth softly to his again.
When I feel his tongue brush my lips, I capture the tip of it and suck lightly.
He groans . . . and so do I. The ridges creasing his brow, his chest, his cock . . . they’re also on his tongue. I’ve forgotten about this, and I moan when I remember how it felt as he licked my pussy.
Vektal thrusts his hands into my tangled hair and holds me against him. “Kiss,” he demands again. It’s clear he wants more.
So I give him more. I lock my mouth to his and slide my tongue against that textured one, moaning again as he rubs against mine. He’s still against me, as if judging my movements. Learning them. So I brush my tongue along one of his long fangs, pleased to feel the purr in his chest escalate. When I’m breathless from kissing, I pull away from him and give him a pleased look. “How was that?”
“Kiss,” he says again, and then he takes charge. Pulling my mouth to his, Vektal begins an all-out kissing assault that leaves me utterly dazed. He nibbles and sucks at my own tongue, and then starts a slow, languid thrusting that reminds me of sex and leaves me aching with need.
By the time I pull up for air, we’re in the furs together, and I’m pressed against his bare chest. My pulse is throbbing a beat between my thighs, and I’m aching with need.
“You’re pretty good at that.” Boy, really, really good. He’s going to kill me if he gets any better at it.
“Georgie,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Kiss.” And his hand goes to the collar of my grimy jumpsuit. He presses his mouth along my upper lip. Then my cheek. Then my jaw. “Kiss,” he says softly again.