Discovery

by T M Roy

  * * * * *

  THE BURRITO DIDN'T LAST long. Nor did the others he’d left in her reach. Feeling stronger, Povre unfolded her legs and moved silently across the room. She looked at the unusual items and wondered what they were for, but she didn’t touch them. She was more curious to see what Kent was doing. She shuddered.

  Bathing in water. Maybe it was fine for some species, but the very thought of it filled her with dread. If he insisted…

  I can’t, she thought. I just can’t. He won’t make me do it. I’m sure he won’t. I’ll explain it simply isn’t done.

  The nagging of her curiosity edged Povre toward the bathing room despite her personal fear of undergoing such an ordeal. How did a human “take a shower”? She hesitated only a second before touching the door. She admitted to herself she was a lot more curious to see Kent without his clothes than she was to observe the bathing procedures of the local dominant life forms.

  He’d left the bathing room door ajar and she slipped inside. Steam assaulted her. She didn’t like that so much, but the heat felt good. She could take it for a little while.

  There was a place to sit, a curiously shaped white chair without arm rests. Pulling his shirt over her bottom and backs of her thighs, she settled on the cold white material and turned her attention to the outline of Kent through the clouded clear material separating them.

  A mistake. Scientific observation dissolved into the steam. The material wasn’t occluded enough for her not to see him, for the first time, totally nude. Her insides grew as hot as the air. He had a beautiful body. His chest was more heavily furred than the rest of him, except his head, and she wondered why. She caught a glimpse of heavier fur near his sex, too, and stared at that spot, willing the material to clear for a better look. What she could see made her glad she sat down, for her legs felt wobbly. All sorts of strange and wonderful and frightening new feelings pulsed through her body. Feelings she couldn’t name, having never experienced them before.

  The hissing sound of the water stopped. The partition started to open.

  “Oh, Goddess,” she said reverently. She glanced to the door and willed her legs to move, to flee. She sat.

  The partition slid back, giving her an unobstructed view.

  “Povre! What are you doing in here?”

  She swallowed and offered a weak smile. “I’m taking notes?”

  He snatched a thick white cloth from a rack and covered himself, but not before she saw evidence her presence affected him. From what she saw, her race and his could…

  Instead of its light tan color, his skin from head to toes had turned a reddish shade, much like his face. Tucking the cloth around his hips, he crossed his arms and fixed her with a stare that made her entire body lock up with delicious tension. Water dripped from his skin, his hair, down his legs. She watched a small puddle growing larger on the floor and thought that if she moved, she’d probably be in the same condition.

  “Saw what you wanted to?”

  “Enough,” she managed on a squeak, dragging her gaze to his mouth.

  “Okay, Povre, so you’re ready to solo?”

  Still frozen in place, she tilted her head back as he closed the gap between them, adjusting the cloth more firmly as he came.

  “Your turn, babe.”

  “Kent, I—”

  “You look like you need a shower. A cold one.”

  “No, Kent!” But she was helpless when his hands closed on her arms. Shocks went from her dry fur to his wet skin. He yelped in surprise, but only tightened his grip, lifted her to her feet, balanced her with one arm and stripped her of his shirt.

  “No, Kent!” pleaded Povre as he got her to the bathing cubicle, reached inside, and turned the water back on. Again she willed her body to respond, to flee, but it wouldn’t listen to her. Her inability to move had nothing to do now with Kent’s body. It had to do with hers.

  Terror made her inarticulate as he pushed her inside.

  “Doesn’t it rain on your planet, Povre? Haven’t you ever been out in the rain? Of course you have, just today. This is nicer, it’s warmer.”

  “No, please!”

  He let her go and she went to her knees under the water. Covering her head with her arms, Povre felt she would surely die. The others from this planet wouldn’t have to do anything. Kent would. Anger and fear surged through her. She’d trusted him. Couldn’t he see this was wrong? How could he do this? Her throat clogged and sobs shook her body as the water pounded on her, soaking into her. She waited for death and prayed to the Goddess it would be quick.

  It didn’t hurt. She must be dead already. But she still felt the warm liquid hitting her, matting her hair. It dripped toward her eyes even though her face was down. She watched the excess puddle and swirl into a drain on the slick, smooth floor under her knees. It made her dizzy. With a moan, she closed her eyes tight.

  “Povre.” Kent’s voice came inches from her ears. “You really are scared. I’m sorry, I thought you were kidding with me. Well, you’re wet now—and you’re not melting.” A lame sort of chuckle did nothing to reassure her.

  She realized Kent crowded the narrow cubicle with her. He lifted her to her feet. His hands rubbed her body and a clean fresh smell followed, along with other sensations his touch, at first impartial and businesslike, relayed. Feeling started to come back to her legs, and she found balance. Still she refused to open her eyes, and instinct prompted her not to allow the water to go inside even though they were dry from her upset. With the fresh scent she could smell a chemical one, and although it didn’t hurt her skin she knew it would burn in her eyes.

  Strong fingers worked through her hair. Feeling his body behind her, she relaxed and let her head roll with his massage. His chest rose and fell as if he’d been running. His hands moved slower, with deliberation, sliding from her head to her throat, her shoulders, lightly grazing over her breasts. She groped to find his hands, which made lazy circles with the cleaning substance over her belly, leaning into him more. His masculine hardness against her back made her bite her lip.

  “Kent—” Povre closed her mouth as some of the scented chemical stuff dribbled dangerously close. His finger wiped it away and she then felt his lips. After that Povre didn’t notice the water anymore.

  “Oh, Lord,” she heard him say with a deep groan. “Back to business, Xavier!”

  “If you are killing me, don’t stop,” she said in her language, having forgotten any of his as his hands touched places she didn’t know could produce such feelings. She wanted his touches to linger in certain areas, but he continued covering every other inch of her body until she was ready to scream with wanting him. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

  “We’re almost through, Povre,” he whispered. “Oh, hell, I’m almost through.” He guided her fully into the stream of water where his hands glided over her body until they squeaked against her fur.

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  She did and realized the water sounds stopped. She no longer stood in the cubicle with Kent. One fluffy rectangle of material was wrapped snugly around her body and another around her head. She sat on the white seat. The fibers of the material wicked the dampness away from her skin.

  “You’d better dry yourself off.” His voice sounded clipped, flat. “I’ll get you something to wear.”

  A shirt like the other one, along with another garment, was flung through the bathing room door before it closed tight with a bang that made Povre jump and come fully alert from her lassitude. She stood, letting the drying cloths fall, and shook herself vigorously, a growl rising from her throat.

  “What are you doing? What happened? Povre!” he yelled through the closed door.

  She didn’t answer. She was too angry to reply. What did he care? Why did he always start something and never finish? Did she read his feelings the wrong way? Couldn’t he see she was just burning with wanting him? Ready to give to this alien human male what she was never ready to give any of her own kind?

&nbs
p; “I must be insane!” She snarled in frustration.

  THE DARK, ANGRY NOISE convinced him to open the door.

  Kent tore his eyes from her magnificent wet body, as smooth and sleek as a seal just emerged from the ocean. He eyed the water droplets over the mirror, the walls, the ceiling light fixtures. She glared at him, fire in her lovely eyes, and he discovered the source of the thundering sounds that alarmed him. She shook herself, much the same as any other furred creature did when wet. Her entire body blurred with the action and it set into motion enticing curves.

  “What is this, the Sirgel hula? I like it,” he said, trying to tease her into a smile.

  Another growl, and she shook again. More water flew and he ducked.

  The fine, short hairs stood out now at angles all over her body. She resembled an angry, wet kitten. One very angry wet kitten. One that emitted sparks. Real sparks that hissed and crackled. If not for the acute discomfort on her face, he would have laughed.

  Of course he realized what was happening. Water conducted electricity, her body produced electricity, and he was Earth’s greatest idiot for not thinking about that a bit earlier. Wincing, he imagined what intense static charges all over one’s body must feel like. Forget that tiny snap your fingers got after crossing a woolen carpet and touching metal. She was experiencing heavy duty shocking. Miniature sheet lightning popped out all over her body. Ouch!

  She’d tried to tell him. She really had. He hadn’t listened or bothered trying to understand why she hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of bathing with water. He just assumed she, like most humans, would appreciate the luxury of a hot shower with soap and shampoo, especially after sleeping in the woods and running for their lives. Stupid. Really stupid. Guilt smacked him hard in the gut.

  He’d proceeded to get her completely soaked and lathered, not letting the building tingles warn him. Instead, he’d gotten lost in the pleasurable aspects those small shocks produced, along with the tactile pleasures of laving her wet, sleek body with slippery lather. He sought comfort in knowing that for a while she’d enjoyed it too.

  But now—

  He pushed his damp hair from his eyes and shook his head. “She liked everything else. Go figure. I get the alien with the ‘Dry Clean Only’ tag. What an idiot I am!”

  Now she stood there, angry, the damp air surrounding her thrumming with electricity. It had to hurt. And nothing grounded her. Through his bare feet he started to feel the shocks that rammed through her damp form with every beat of her pulse.

  “I better ask for more towels,” he said, feeling discretion was the better part of valor at that point. He grabbed the clean clothing before the shirt and sweats became soaked like the rest of the room. “I’ll leave these right outside.”

  She snarled something at him in her language and he didn’t want to ponder over possible meanings. She punctuated it by hurling a sopping wet towel with such uncanny speed and accuracy it slapped him full in the face before he could pull the door closed.

  The housekeeper’s arrival took place with gratifying swiftness and Kent told her sheepishly they’d been camping out. She just looked at him, shrugged, and said “No hablo Ingles, señor.”

  “Gracías,” Kent said hastily and thrust a ten-dollar bill into her hand.

  She beamed. “Buenos noches, señor. Gracías.”

  He let out a long breath and marched to the bathroom in time for Povre to fling open the door and march out in a likewise manner. They collided in a flurry of sparks and curses. Ignoring the tingling, he grabbed Povre in one hand, a fresh towel in the other, and started scrubbing her dry.

  Of course this resulted in her struggle and even more static. The television he’d turned on was awash in interference. The fluorescent light fixtures buzzed. She wept in her dry-eyed, heart rending gulps and begged him to stop, but he figured getting her dry was the only thing that would end this. He pinned her between his knees and grimly continued, grateful she was still exhausted and disoriented enough not to use her superior strength against him.

  Four towels later, she lay still, fists clenched, eyes closed, still gulping, and he maneuvered her into the clean clothing. Even in that Oregon Ducks T-shirt and cutoff sweats, both way too large and baggy, she was sexy as hell. He drew the drawstring on the sweatpants snug and tied it off in a bow. Panting with exertion and arousal, he staggered to his feet, picked her up, and without ceremony slung her into the huge bed.

  “I hate you, Kent.”

  Her voice, tiny and pitiful, made him think about leaping from a tall building instead of over one. Instead he picked up all the towels and took them into the bathroom.

  “I’m sorry, Povre,” he mumbled. “I really am. I should’ve listened to you, but I didn’t know. And I just thought you’d enjoy it. I didn’t even think that you might not like water, of all things.”

  She covered her ears. Her brief look sent daggers.

  “You’re very beautiful, Povre,” he tried. Honesty combined with honest flattery, maybe? “But…”

  Her hands slipped down and picked at the covers, but she didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she turned on her side and yanked the blanket over her head.

  “But I’m not a human woman.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.” Kent sat on the edge of the bed. “Wait a minute. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  He jerked his hand back.

  “Always you touch. I touch you, for good reasons. I like it, and want you like it too. To want me. If you don’t want me, stop. Just go make notes.” Her words came in jerky fits and starts, with pauses of varying lengths between sentences, and again Kent found himself amazed at the difference in her command of the English language.

  “Povre—”

  She went on, cutting him short. “If had my…computer, I make notes, too. We go back to report on alien behavior, no problem. Look almost same. Feel almost same. Safe bet species can interact, even on intimate level. Only humans have no…special emotion involved. Sirgels cannot couple without special emotion involved, so nothing took place beyond kissing and touching. No report on that, sorry.” The voice under the blanket shook.

  “Special emotion,” repeated Kent. He wanted to turn her toward him and watch her eyes glow with the extraordinary warmth that swallowed him whole. “You think you don’t make me feel special emotion?”

  “You feel only urges to couple,” she said in contempt. “No wonder the Affiliated Cooperative holds back on a proper contact. No passion. No caring. Everything superficial. Primal urges only.”

  “Primal urges!” spluttered Kent. “Like the one I feel when I’m consumed with a need to protect you? And that superficial desire to make you happy when you look so sad and lost? Don’t forget that. I guess I’m only imagining the ache in my heart and guts when I think what might happen to you if you get caught. And watching you up at that campground where we stopped…you were so happy and beautiful you made me want to cry with my primal urges because I couldn’t feel exactly what you did. What about—?” He raked his hands through his long hair, relishing the tug and pull as he encountered snarls he had yet to comb out.

  “Understand this, Povre, if I gave in to my primal urges, I would’ve ripped off your clothes and raped you as soon as I noticed you were female. We’d still be out in the friggin’ woods coupling in a primal fury whether you were capable of it or not. All right?” He stood up, grabbing a pillow and the bedspread. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you again.” Seething, he thunked himself into one of the easy chairs.

  “You must let the agencies have me.” Her husky voice was strained and low.

  He refused to look in her direction. “Fine. I’ll call them in the morning. They’ll use their primal urges to take you apart one small piece at a time.” He punched his pillow and despite himself, shot a glance toward the contortions she was making beneath the covers. Two seconds later she emerged, naked from the waist up that he could see. The rest, too, he imagined. �
�Did you hear me? Understand that?”

  “Yes.” She sent him a look of defiance. She flung the clothing he’d put on her into a corner and confirmed his guess as to her total nudity. “You will contact them in daylight. And it is unhealthy to sleep with clothing. Skin needs to breathe.”

  “Well, forgive me for not reading the manual you came with,” growled Kent, tearing his eyes away and staring at the pattern in the drapes. “I thought I would be protecting your fair blue body from my primal urges that way.”

  She said something in her language he was sure he didn’t care to have translated. He snapped off the light and scrunched into the chair. Well, at least it was warm, he was clean, and things could be a lot worse.

  Visions of being tangled with Povre in a tight sleeping bag teased his mind. Her slender form snuggled trusting and tight behind him. That subaudial electric thrumming that both stimulated and soothed, as lulling as the purring of a cat. Her flash of outraged jealousy when he, in the grogginess of awakening, called her Lynn. He granted her that womanly anger. He guessed he deserved it, but hell, three years of waking up alongside someone he thought he loved, calling her name in a sleepy murmur or in the mindless throes of passion—that was hard to erase.

  Then again, Lynn never erred. Never in all their time together did she call him Jim, or Tom, Dick, or Harry either. Another sign of her shallowness, as far as Kent was concerned. He wondered why she bothered being so nice about checking on the house.

  His notebook was on the table and he gave up thoughts of sleep. Soon the light was back on, his pencil was busy. He added to his notes, making corrections in spots. Then he flipped to the back and let his restlessness loose on the blank pages there.

  His thoughts returned to Povre. One of the most gentle, passionate, sensitive people of any race, color, sex, or size he’d ever met. Even after he’d scared her to death, she’d stayed to bandage his self-inflicted wound. Her pure, sensual pleasure in nature was a definite turn-on. He could swear she was trying to communicate with that ancient behemoth of a mountain hemlock, with every living thing he watched her encounter. Even her touches to him—perhaps in the excuse of science—were bestowed with such tenderness, such wonder and longing. And to punctuate her touches was that deep expression in her eyes, timidly begging him to understand, to return her regard in kind.