Hunter

by Emmy Chandler

  Callum grabs my chin and turns my head so that I have to look at him. “Maci?” He looks mad. “Hurt? Not…sex?”

  I know what he’s asking, but I don’t have the words to tell him I’m a virgin. Or, I was. I didn’t think that’d make him mad. I thought men liked that. But Callum looks furious as he pulls out, leaving me sore, and damp, and oddly, frustratingly empty.

  7

  CALLUM

  Maci’s a virgin.

  Fuck, why didn’t she tell me? I would never have—

  Okay, I would have, but I’d have gone about it all differently.

  How the hell does a woman maintain her virginity on a prison planet, anyway? Around here, a virgin is like a fucking unicorn—everyone’s heard of them, but no one I know has ever seen one.

  Until now. But how was I supposed to know? She was so into it. So eager. She was naming her body parts like an X-rated vocabulary lesson, and that shit was hot as hell.

  And she said yes.

  Fuck, she probably thought she had to. That if she didn’t give me what I wanted, I’d just take it. Or I’d kick her off the platform and leave her to fend for herself. That’s what anyone else would do on this piece of shit red planet.

  Damn it. My frustration boils over, and I slam one fist into the platform beneath me. The whole thing shudders, and Maci cowers away from me, hands covering her breasts, eyes wide and frightened.

  Great. I’ve hurt her and scared the shit out of her.

  “I’m sorry.” I can’t even remember the last time I apologized for something—not that it matters. She can’t understand a word I’m saying. So, I hold up my hands, palms out, in the hopefully universal signal for “I mean you no harm.” Though I’ve given her no reason to believe that.

  How the hell am I supposed to tell her that I’m mad at myself, not at her, with a vocabulary consisting of a few body parts and some plant words?

  I make an over-the-top scowling face and mime slamming my fist into the platform again, without actually making contact. “Angry,” I say, giving her the word for what I’m feeling. “Angry at Callum.” I pat my own chest. “Not angry at Maci.”

  She nods hesitantly, seeming to understand.

  So here I am, fighting blinding anger at myself and a raging hard-on, while a willing, naked woman looks up at me with big brown eyes. At least, she was willing. Maybe she would be again, if I weren’t crippled by a toddler’s grasp of her language. If I had any way to explain that I can make it good for her. That it doesn’t have to hurt.

  I guess I’ll just have to show her.

  “Maci.” I take her hand and hold it for a second, until she no longer looks like she wants to pull away from me. “No more pain. I promise.” I know she can’t understand me, but I’m hoping that she’ll understand the sentiment, if not my actual words. “Sex? Yes?” I say in her language.

  Are you still willing to give me a chance?

  At first, she just blinks at me. Then she gives me another hesitant nod.

  I’m not sure whether or not she still thinks she has to do this, and I don’t know how to ask. All I can do is offer her pleasure and demonstrate my willingness to stop whenever she wants. No matter how badly my cock aches at the sight of her laid out in front of me, bared to my eyes, thanks to whatever razor got ahold of her very recently.

  I frown as that thought sinks in. This naughty grooming is totally at odds with an intact hymen, and neither of those concepts seems native to a prison planet whose population is eighty percent male.

  Who the hell shaved a virgin, then threw her half-naked into the hunting enclosure to be torn apart by metal hounds or shot with a laser rifle?

  “Callum?” Maci gives my frown a worried glance.

  “It’s nothing.” Just another question I have no idea how to ask her.

  I lie next to her again and lay my hand across her stomach, and for several seconds, I simply maintain eye contact, giving her a chance to object. When she doesn’t, I lean in for a kiss.

  This time her mouth opens instantly, welcoming me in, and she’s so responsive that I get lost in the moment, making out with her like we’re a couple of teenagers skipping class. Then she groans into my mouth, and my cock jerks against her leg, ready to pick up right where we left off.

  Instead, I keep kissing her while I slowly run my hand over her stomach toward her breasts. They’re small but firm and nicely rounded, and she moans again when I palm one and rub my thumb over her nipple. Maci wants to be touched. She enjoys being touched. She just needs to be touched by someone with a little more patience than comes easily to me after a year alone in a cage.

  I give her breasts plenty of attention, and when she starts arching into my touch again, I reluctantly abandon her lips and leave a trail of nibbling kisses down her throat. She throws her head back, granting me more access, and I groan as I work my way over her collarbone toward the hard peak of one breast. As I take it into my mouth, I slide my hand slowly down her stomach and over the bare mound of her pubic bone into folds already slick with need.

  My cock aches as I find her clit and rub a gentle circle around it. Maci squirms beneath my attention, arching her back, her eyes closed. She makes soft, needy noises in her throat, and if she doesn’t stop, I’m afraid I’m going to spill all over her leg.

  It’s been too long. And as tragic as this may be, considering we’ve both been put here to die, she seems to have been waiting for this her whole life.

  Waiting for me.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I move my hand down from her clit—gritting my teeth against my own need when she groans in disappointment—and gently slide one finger inside her.

  She’s so wet. And tight. How the hell could I not have noticed that the first time?

  A year of abstinence makes for one callous bastard of a lover. But I can make up for my mistake.

  I press up with my finger and my cock jerks again when I find a small, slightly rougher patch. I rub it lightly at first, then more firmly, and when she begins to grind up into my hand—fuck, that’s hot—I press my thumb against her clit and rub.

  Maci makes a hungry noise deep in her throat, her head still thrown back, then she whispers words that sound like she might be praying. Or…begging.

  I ignore the ache in my cock as I give her a little more pressure, a little more speed, and I capture her nipple lightly between my teeth.

  She bucks beneath me, and she’s so wet now I could cry. My cock wants—needs—to be where my finger is, but she’s not quite there yet.

  I stop stroking inside her just long enough to add another finger, and she’s aroused enough that it fits nicely. So, I add a third. When she stiffens a little, I tease her nipple with my tongue and rub her clit a little harder. She relaxes again, and soon she’s making panting noises.

  “Oh…” Maci grabs a handful of my hair and pins my face to her breast as she thrusts against my hand. Her instincts are so sweet. She’s so close…

  Close enough that I slide my hand free and gently pry her fingers from my hair.

  “Callum…” she moans. Then she murmurs that polite word. The one that sounds like she’s begging. “Please…”

  I can’t wait any longer. If I don’t bury myself inside her, I’m going to come all over us both, and now that she’s really ready…

  “Just a minute, hellkitten,” I whisper as I settle myself between her legs. “I’m not done with you yet.” I may never be done with her. That eager little body… Those hungry noises. Her grip on my hair—and on my fingers…

  She’s fucking addictive.

  I prod gently at her opening, and she when she wraps her legs around my hips, I slowly slide all the way home.

  8

  MACI

  Callum slides inside me, and this time there’s no pain. There’s only an oddly satisfying sensation of being filled by him, and a resurrection of that blissful pressure he teased out of me with his fingers. And with his thumb on my clit.

  Let’s not forget th
at thumb.

  He moves slowly at first, watching my face to make sure I’m okay. But when I close my eyes and give myself over to the moment, he begins to thrust in earnest, and as his pubic bone provides friction against my clit, that pressure builds faster. Tighter.

  I can only cling to him, thrusting up to meet him, chasing this apex of pleasure I’ve never felt. Something I’ve heard about, but I can’t describe, or even picture. Something I know is there.

  Callum whispers something in my ear as he lowers himself onto his elbows. Something unintelligible, but…urgent. He wants me to come. He’s waiting for me. Begging me…

  “Oh…” I breathe as that spiraling sensation crests, and finally explodes within me in wave after blistering wave. “Callum…”

  He groans, and his thrusts grow frantic as he pumps into me over and over, prolonging my orgasm with the intensity of his own.

  For a moment, as the sensations fade into a pleasant throbbing, I am aware of nothing but Callum’s warm weight over me. If the hunter finds us now, we’re both as good as dead.

  At least I won’t die without ever knowing this was possible.

  But in the next second, that thought fades, and I’m angry for having had it. It’s not okay for me to die now. It’s not good enough that I got to spend one night with Callum. That I got to have one orgasm. I want more than that, and Scott Hansen has no right to take that from me, just because I didn’t want to fuck his psycho brother.

  “Maci?” Callum lifts himself off of me, and I feel him withdraw. “Hurt?”

  “No,” I assure him as I sit up and reach for my shorts. Though the truth is that my back is a little raw from the rough wood beneath us. And I’m kind of sore in the best possible way.

  I’m also starving and exhausted, but I’m much less satisfied by those problems.

  He says a word I’ve heard from him before, then he closes his eyes and make a snoring sound.

  “Sleep,” I tell him.

  “Yes.” His deep voice is surprisingly soft, and rather than grouchy, now he looks…pleased. “Maci sleep. Callum…” He makes a gesture like looking through binoculars, to tell me he’ll keep watch.

  I should object, but I’m so tired I wouldn’t be very good as a lookout. And even though he’s pleased, now that at least one of our physical needs has been met, I seriously doubt he’d trust me to take watch. So, while he props himself up on his elbows and peers out over the edge of the platform, I close my eyes and try to relax enough to go to sleep.

  At first, that doesn’t seem possible, with nothing but the hard wooden platform beneath me. But then exhaustion overwhelms me, and I’m aware of nothing until a hand shakes me awake by my shoulder.

  My eyes fly open, but before I can move or make a sound, a hand clamps over my mouth.

  Disoriented, I claw at it, kicking as I try to scream, but then weight settles onto my thighs, pinning them down, and a familiar face appears over me. Callum puts one finger in front of his lips, warning me to be quiet.

  Seeing him reminds me of where I am and how I got here, and I nod, my hair catching on the rough wood beneath me.

  Callum uncovers my mouth and silently lifts himself from my legs, then lies next to me on the platform, still wordlessly shushing me with one finger. Then he points.

  I roll over and follow his finger. What I notice immediately is that the sun is brighter and the day is far hotter than it was when I fell asleep. Based on my month in zone four, I know that means it’s past noon. But at first, I can’t see what Callum is pointing at.

  Then a clump of underbrush rustles below us, and my focus narrows on the movement.

  A second later, one of the robo-dogs emerges from a deeply shaded patch of foliage, and sunlight glints off its pointed ears and narrow muzzle. And two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

  I grit my teeth to keep from gasping, and Callum reminds me—again—to be quiet. As if I might forget. He seems wary, but not truly worried, and after a couple of seconds of watching, I understand why.

  The dogs are below us, but they don’t seem to know we’re here.

  We watch, my heart pounding, as the mechanical mongrels make their way slowly beneath the hunting stand. When they emerge on the other side, Callum silently lifts himself and turns, then lies down facing the opposite direction so he can watch their retreat. I try to imitate his movements, holding my breath, and I’m certain until the moment that I lie down next to him that the wood beneath me will creak and give away our position.

  When that doesn’t happen, I exhale silently and return my attention to the robo-dogs.

  Before, I was too terrified to process much about them, other than how quickly they could kill me. But now, from the relative safety of our perch, I notice something interesting: their ears move, but more like a cat’s than like a dog’s. As if rather than sniffing out scents, they hunt using their hearing, which, in the case of any machine, is actually just noise detection. Though presumably they’re able to determine the difference between the chirp of a bird—the only animal I’ve heard in the enclosure—and a human voice. Or even the snap of a twig beneath someone’s feet.

  As I watch, I realize their ears are still turning, slowly and steadily rotating as they scan the forest for sounds. But the hounds’ ears don’t tilt up, which means they’re effectively blind to anything above them—assuming we don’t actually talk or go out of our way to make noise that would travel down to their level.

  And as they disappear into another clump of brush in the distance, I notice a set of bright red flashes, one right on the heels of the other. Right at the tips of their tails.

  Antennae. The robo-dogs have antennae for tails, which means they’re either sending or receiving a signal. Probably both. Someone is monitoring what the dogs see and hear. Maybe even controlling them remotely.

  For several minutes after they pass out of sight, we remain still and quiet up on our perch. Finally, when he decides we’re in the clear, he leans over and kisses me.

  “Mmmm…” I murmur, and that’s evidently the same in his language as it is in mine.

  When he pulls away, I point in the direction the dogs went. “Robo-dogs,” I say. “Did you see their tails?” I pant and wag one finger like a tail. “Tail?” I repeat. “Did you see the flash? The red light?”

  Callum frowns, so I pick up a leaf that’s fallen onto the platform and show it to him. “Leaf.” He already knows that word, so I add to the concept. “Red.” Then I point at my bra and say “black,” to illustrate that it’s the color of the leaf that’s important.

  He frowns. “Breast.” Then he reaches out to run one finger against the peak. “Nipple.” When it draws into a tight point, the outline of his cock swells in his shorts.

  “Down boy,” I scold, impressed by his vocabulary retention, if not his grasp of the relevant factors. “That’s not what we’re doing right now.” But obviously he’s going to need some clarity. So, I push my bra up and cup my left boob. “Breast.” I point to the peak. “Nipple.”

  He leans forward with his mouth open, and when I push him back, he looks both disappointed and confused. “Callum, nipple.”

  Evidently my method of instruction is…misleading.

  “Later.” Though maybe not much later… “Breast, nipple.” I point them out as I name them. “Bra.” I snap the material back into place. “Black bra.” I pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “Black shorts.” Then I hold up the leaf. “Red leaf. Red.”

  “Red.” He nods, then says the word in his language, and finally we’re in the same place. “Red…robo-dog?”

  “Red light. A flash.” I make an exploding gesture with one hand, and when that doesn’t clue him in, I mime a signal coming from the flash, then I undulate my fingers, like waves traveling through the air.

  “Yes. Red.” He makes the flashing sign, and I hope that means he actually understands what I’m trying to say. Then he touches his ears and looks at me expectantly.

  “Ears,” I tell him, and I can’t
help noticing that now that he’s gotten laid, he’s much more enthusiastic about learning my language.

  “Ears,” he repeats, then he cups his hands on the top of his head and rotates them like a cat’s ears, while he makes a staticky whispering sound, which is evidently what he thinks data transmission sounds like. Though I’ve never known it to make any noise.

  We might not be on exactly the same page, but we both seem to understand that the dogs represent more of a threat than just sharp teeth. And I can’t help wondering, though I lack the ability to express the thought in his language, what I could do with the insides of one of those dogs. If we could kill it—deactivate it?—and take it apart.

  When Callum is sure the dogs are far enough away, he climbs down from the stand, then gestures for me to join him. The second my feet hit the dirt, I miss our perch. I don’t feel safe on the ground, but we can’t stay up there forever. We need food and water. And a more solid plan than just “find the wall and hope there’s a gate, even though we don’t know how to open it.”

  We take off to the northeast, veering away from the direction the dogs headed in without totally abandoning our quest for the eastern enclosure wall. And the longer we walk, the harder it is to think about anything other than water. Even with the pleasant ache between my legs as a reminder of what happened a few hours ago.

  But as hungry and thirsty as I am, Callum must have it worse. He’s been out here longer than I have, and I don’t think he got any sleep.

  Twice, I hear a stream gurgling in the distance, but I don’t suggest finding it because the temptation to drink would be too great, and without any purification tablets or anything in which to collect water and dissolve them, the risk of ingesting an intestinal parasite is high.

  So, water remains a problem, but food…. Audra, Tyson, and I always had fresh meat in zone four. I don’t think I could replicate any of Ty’s traps without at least some basic supplies, but even if I could make them and we had time to let them catch something…I’m not sure there’s anything for them to catch. I haven’t seen so much as a single glimpse of wildlife, other than a few birds in the canopy. I’ve heard nothing scurry through the underbrush. I’ve seen no telltale signs of dens or boroughs, and no scat.