by H. E. Trent
He brushed his thumb over Trig lush bottom lip, tugging it a bit to let Trig’s sigh out.
Trig closed his eyes and tipped his head back as Murk skimmed down his throat and around his neck.
He pulled a gasp from the other man as his tongue swirled over the dip between his neck and shoulder. Grabbing hold of Trig’s neatly knotted hair, he pulled his head to the other side to kiss up the exposed one. Warm as always. Sensitive to the touch and with a familiar taste that always made Murk eager for conquest.
Though, there wouldn’t be much of a battle to speak of. There never was, not even the first time. There’d been no words, back then. They hadn’t been necessary. Trig had very nicely rolled over for him, and Murk had made love to him in a full house where everyone else had been too busy to pay attention. They hadn’t even closed the bedroom door.
The passion had always driven them that way before The Ague found Murk. They’d let their desire out whenever their needs became too great—almost like bloodletting. They had to be together to be healthy and sane. In spite of the upward swing of his health due to Courtney’s feminine influence, Murk wasn’t feeling so sane, though. He’d been ignoring Trig’s needs for too long, and some of his own, as well.
He slipped his hands down the front of Trig’s loose pants and wrapped his fingers around the hot, heavy length.
Missed me, did you?
He grinned against Trig’s neck and began stroking him in long, slow tugs that had his nuts twitching against Murk’s knuckles.
So patient.
Second men tended to be inherently submissive to their lovers. Undemanding. They took what they were given, and no more.
Murk had seen that Trig was a bit more aggressive with Courtney. Curious about her femininity, but even with her, he held back. Trig would never try to dominate her unless she asked him to. If she ever did, Murk would certainly like to be in audience. For the moment, Trig was content with receiving rather than giving, and Murk needed that—he needed to be in control.
He freed his hand from Trig’s pants and grabbed Trig’s wrist. He led him upstairs to Courtney’s room, laid him on the bed, and rolled him over. Pulling the other man’s pants down slowly, he enjoyed the splendor of Trig’s body. Had always admired the sinews and muscles. Long, beautifully formed lines of a man used to hard physical labor—a man who enjoyed such work and found his satisfaction reaping the products of it.
He pressed his hands to Trig’s ass and kneaded the muscular swells. Perhaps one day soon, he’d be what he once was. Undoubtedly strong. An imposing figure, but so, so gentle. If Murk could just get him out of the city…
Back to his farm.
Courtney had said she’d find a way. He could only hope she was doing that and that she’d have news when she got home.
He pulled Trig onto his knees and delved his tongue between his cheeks.
Trig muttered something low and vulgar in their native tongue that had Murk chuckling.
Enough distractions.
He gave Trig’s ass a hard swat that silenced him, made him bow back.
Murk alternated fingers and tongue, probing his tight hole and stretching it, until Trig whispered his request for mercy.
Merciful didn’t describe Murk’s mood, but he’d concede for once. He made Trig sit up and guided his cock into Trig’s mouth.
Trig never went halfway on anything. Murk had only needed for him to wet the head—his spit would do just fine in the absence of good oil—but even for the act being done strictly for preparatory purposes, his tongue felt so good. Trig had a heavenly mouth, and the things he did with it…
Hissing, Murk pulled Trig’s head back and took back his cock. He had other things in mind than shooting his load down Trig’s throat. That wasn’t what either of them needed.
He settled behind Trig yet again, pushed his wet cockhead against Trig’s hole, and reached around for the other man’s flaccid shaft. After all the years they’d been together, his body still feared what Murk would do to it—forgot that it liked Murk’s attention.
He pushed past the tight barrier and stroked Trig as his breath devolved into uneven pants. If he’d had his voice, he’d whisper some instructions to Trig—some placating reminders that Murk knew how to take care of him. But, he had no voice. All he could do was show his love through actions.
He pushed in farther, stopping frequently as much for his sake as Trig’s, because he knew he wasn’t going to last. Things were different with Courtney. He could rationalize with his body and endure longer than he might have otherwise been able to in order to stoke her pleasure, but he didn’t know her like he knew Trig. Yes, he cared a great deal for her. Would probably love her some day, if he didn’t already, but what they had was so young. A fragile thing. They handled each other delicately because she thought him an invalid and he thought she’d run from them as soon as she could—not just because he was a murderer, but because that was what women did.
He was a man of numerous flaws, all of which Trig tolerated, though Courtney might not.
She probably wouldn’t, baby or no baby. But, gods, he needed her. They needed her. He couldn’t fuck up.
“Gods, Murk,” Trigrian whispered.
Murk turned his attention back to the other man and tucked his muddled thoughts away to unpack and assess later.
He leaned onto Trig’s back and kissed his neck and shoulders as he stroked in and out, drawing long gasps from Trig and making his fingers claw into the bedspread.
He tugged Trig’s dick back to hardness as he thrust harder, owned his body they way Trig had to know he would.
Trig pulled up from the bed, shouting as he came, and forcing Murk to clamp a hand over his mouth.
And when Murk came, there was no scream. Barely a groan, but still more than he’d been capable of weeks past.
Noise, but not enough. His throat remained too inflexible to allow him to shape words. Even as his body recovered, there was no guarantee he’d get his voice back. And maybe that would serve him well.
___
Brenna was waiting for Courtney outside the ladies’ room when she stepped out, drying her hands on her cargo pants because maintenance had—yet again—forgotten to repair the drying heat lamp.
Court held up her hands in mock defeat and chuckled. “I swear, I was only in there for ninety seconds. I’m getting back to work now. Gonna get my gun and go walk my teeny tiny beat.”
Brenna swatted a dismissive hand at her. “Oh, it’s not that.” She looped her arm around Courtney’s and guided her toward the evidence lockup.
Court cleared her throat and whispered, “Something you need to show me?”
“Surveillance cameras in there went out during the last solar flare.”
“Okay, and…”
“And Pete Leonardo doesn’t come in until late. Right now, I’m the only other person in the building with a card that can unlock the door.” As if to demonstrate, Brenna swiped her employee badge past the sensor. The lock gave a happy chirp. She opened the door and they stepped in.
“I know Pete doesn’t work until thirteen-hundred, but what’s that got to do with me?” Court asked.
Brenna closed the door and put her back to the metal. “I needed to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong? Who do you need me to beat up?” She grimaced inwardly. She wouldn’t be beating anyone up any time soon if she knew what was best for her. She needed to cut her number of physical altercations down to a manageable zero for the sake of her nausea-inducing fetal bean. She’d had a headache since waking. Brenna had claimed that was a good thing and pushed a cup of weak coffee to her, but Court hadn’t believed her.
“I don’t need you to beat anyone up,” Brenna said. “I have my brother for that. He tracks my com signal while he’s working like a properly overprotective stalker-type, but thanks for caring. Listen, I did some poking around.”
“Oh. You mean about my gran—”
Brenna gave her head a hard shake. “No, not that, and
I’m still doing research about where you could possibly find an untraceable long-range vehicle. My brother has some leads—”
Court opened her mouth to express her reluctance to let one more person into the loop, but Brenna shook her head again. “Don’t worry about him. He’s an ask-no-questions kind of guy. Plausible deniability. He just knows that I know someone who needs a flyer and that the vehicle won’t be used for any nefarious purposes.”
Court settled against the desk and crossed her arms. “So, what you have to tell me is something bad?”
Brenna cringed. “I’d say so. There are only a handful of working women in Buinet, and I know which ones to trust and which ones have drunk too much of the cult Kool-Aid. There’s one who works as a relocation liaison who just returned to the job after a couple of years at home with her kids.”
“You mean her husband is letting her go back to work?”
Brenna scoffed. “No. He’d never do that. He died. Friendly fire during military training. He was an air force corporal or some such bullshit. Anyhow, she’s a little bitter. She wants to pack up her kids and go back to Earth, but she’s tied up in so much red tape right now that by the time she gets approval, she’ll be too old to clear the medical requirements for space travel.”
“And she wants to help me because she wants to stick it to the man? Is that why?”
Brenna made a waffling motion and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Yes and no. Like every desperate person on Buinet right now, she’s an opportunist who’s always looking out for ways to pull herself up. The relocation agency works very closely with the immigration authority and the matchmaking office. In fact, they share a building.”
“I noticed yesterday. Go on.”
“I guess word got around to the wrong people that you called off your match.”
“Fuck.” A burning sensation crept up from Court’s belly, and she rubbed her diaphragm, willing the acid to abate. God, not now. She gulped down the sourness in her mouth and took a long breath. “And I’m guessing someone other than my would-be match had a problem with that.”
“Reg Devin is problem enough. He didn’t try to contact you after arrival, but he certainly got word about you dumping him fast enough and he made his displeasure very clear. Said he paid good money for you.”
“What?”
“You had to suspect there was money changing hands behind the scenes. Matchmaking isn’t just a public service, McGarry. Men here don’t usually have the luxury of being selective, and a little money greases the wheels and gets them choices. He wanted you from the moment you popped onto the registry. And now he’s pissed.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He didn’t want to listen to you talk or hold your hand during long walks along the river wall. He just wanted you for what’s between here and here.” She held up her hands to indicate the general expanse between Court’s breasts and loins. “And sometimes here, assuming your mouth is doing things other than talking.” She waved a circle around Court’s face.
“That’s disgusting.”
“You said it yourself. This is the lawless Wild West. The Australian Outback, minus all the convicts. The Final Frontier. Blah blah.”
Court let out a ragged exhalation and straightened her cap. “And how did your friend on the inside hear about this?”
“Because men can’t keep secrets worth a shit. There’s no such thing as a private file over there. They’re all up in your business, and that’s most definitely why your shuttle attendant friend tried to blank your medical records before you left Earth. We may not all talk, but most of us women are skeptical.”
“You non-Kool-Aid drinkers, you mean.”
“Naturally. Still haven’t figured out why your record here keeps going on the fritz. Festus has started keeping a paper file on you, just FYI. He carries the folder around all day as if he’s afraid someone’s going to snatch it up. Anyway, my insider friend says Reg is pissing mad, and he’s ending his cargo run early to come back to Jekh to deal with you.”
“Shit.” There went that acid again, burning up Court’s esophagus. She swallowed hard and regretted that small cup of coffee for the fourth time in an hour. “When’s he due back?”
Brenna held up two fingers.
“Months? I could swing two months. I might not even be showing yet, and I could work all the way up to my departure.”
“No, honey. Two weeks.”
“How is that possible?”
“Ships move faster with lighter loads, and your boy dumped his early and for a loss, from what I heard.”
“I…no. I—” Two weeks? No way could she clear out of town by then. She needed to collect resources. She didn’t know what she’d have access to in the remote place where Trig’s farm was located, and she wanted to be prepared. The prospect of having a baby outside of a hospital was frightening enough. What if there isn’t even clean water there? Trig assured her that wouldn’t be a problem, but her McGarry cynicism had bubbled up and she’d told him, “Sure, it won’t be.”
“Two weeks, Brenna? I can’t deal with two weeks.”
Brenna set her hands on Court’s shoulders and sighed. “You’re going to have to. Once Reg gets here, slipping out of the area unnoticed is going to be harder. He’s got a lot of money and a lot of clout.”
“What did you find out?”
“He’s dirty, that’s what. There’s no record of what he does because he doesn’t want there to be. He’s going to have you watched, if he isn’t already. I’d start packing up now. My friend in relo can stock some things in a distant warehouse for you to pick up on your way out of town.”
“The opportunist, huh? She’s not helping me out of the goodness of her heart, so what does she want?”
“If she can’t go back to Earth, she wants to get out of Buinet. When you get settled, she expects you to find a place for her and her kids. She refuses to go back onto the match registry, and she’s getting a lot of heat for the decision. She may not be able to say no. They may threaten to take her kids away. They may say she’s unfit and that there needs to be two parents in a household.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Are we having fun yet?”
“Not even a little.”
“Get ready to move, and I’ll do my part. We’ll find you a flyer. Just give me two days. I swear we’ll get you out of here.”
“Thanks, you’re a good friend. You didn’t have to be, so thank you.”
“Being a good friend is easier than being a bad one. At least, for me. I’d like Karma to remember me fondly.”
“Good philosophy.”
“Thank my mother for the lesson. She was a sweetie, and I miss her terribly. I should have stayed on Earth with her.” Brenna sighed and pressed her glasses up her nose yet again. The pads must have been faulty and slippery. “You should get back to work, but before you go, you should know that you won’t be able to keep the secret here long. Confidentiality is an illusion. If Festus doesn’t know yet, he will soon through unofficial means. I suggest you make yourself scarce.”
Court lifted her hat and scratched her scalp. “Damn. I didn’t even think about that. That wouldn’t be an issue on Earth.”
Brenna shrugged. “This isn’t Earth. The sooner you let that fact settle into your brain, the better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trig hadn’t been in Zone Seven in months. If their situation hadn’t been so urgent, he would have avoided the place altogether.
Two weeks, Courtney had said. That was all they had.
Barely enough time to make a plan, much less implement one, but if they were going to make a move, he was going to make sure they saw success.
After a skin-starved Murk had pulled a very drowsy Courtney into bed, Trig quieted Jerry with a bowl of leftover stew and snuck out.
Trig pulled his hood over his hair and kept to the shadows, taking the alleyways instead of the streets. It was past midnight. Save for a few l
ights in upstairs windows, homes were dark. Quiet. He burrowed beneath the gap of the fence that surrounded Zone Seven, next to the river, and jogged up the bank.
His fellow Jekhans, out for night strolls or sweeping their stoops gave polite waves as they passed. They wouldn’t disturb him, nor him them. No one in Zone Seven ran unless they had someplace important to be. People who ran far too often got shot, but Trig had to risk it.
He hoped the captain was still there.
He passed a cluster of small shops that hadn’t been there during his last visit—the illusion of a robust local economy—and rounded the corner onto dark Buinet Boulevard. The block had once bustled with youthful exuberance. Art and music. Good food and good company. Murk had rented space in a studio there…before the Terrans came. He’d kept an apartment right above, but of course that beautiful old building was gone now. In its place was the same three-story faux stone monstrosity like there was on every other corner of the gods-forsaken place. Neat and tidy on the outside, cheaply constructed, and with floor plans designed to maximize usage of space. Jekhans didn’t have personal space issues as a matter of course, and didn’t build living spaces anything like Terran ones, but the Zone Seven housing was a slap in the face. One hundred and fifty square meters was simply too small a space for families with a minimum of three members. Multi-generational housing had once been common. It had become virtually impossible to secure.
He padded down the garden level steps and rapped on the side door. “Please be here,” he whispered, casting a gaze toward the river.
The Terrans said the river stank. It didn’t—not to Jekhans. Before the Terrans came, the river water was clear, but after they arrived and set up their factories, the water flowed with a slight green tinge. “Progress,” they called the pollution. He hated to see what progress entailed on Earth.
He knocked once more, and squinted at a boat bobbing next to the pier. He was pretty sure that was Captain’s boat. Trig had been on the small craft a time or two, helping the old man pull in his nets. River crabs were a delightful delicacy. The Tyneali had brought them from Earth over a thousand years ago, and the crustaceans had adapted and thrived on Jekh. It’d been ages since Trig had feasted on one.