The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  “Dax,” she moaned, as her body came alive under his touch, her legs moving restlessly, the muscles of her belly contracting with need. Her hands slid over him, down his back. He felt her fingers pause over the faint scars, then trace them with a gentle touch, as if she, too, wished to soothe away old pain.

  She said his name again as she pressed his weight to her, palms flat against the small of his back. He was fully, painfully erect, caught between their bodies, and the added friction made him shudder. Her fingers slipped to the edge of his pants, and his breath caught at her whispered plea.

  She didn’t have to ask; if he didn’t get free of the constraining cloth, he was going to die of the pressure. He quickly rolled away and sat up long enough to shed the rest of his clothes. Then he brought himself to his knees between her parted legs.

  He watched Califa’s eyes as she looked at him, saw her gaze skate up and down his body. He couldn’t begrudge her, he’d looked hungrily enough at her once he’d rid her of the flight suit. Yet it made him uneasy. Nervous, perhaps. The realization made him draw back for an instant; even in this, she was different. Never before had he worried about such a thing with a woman. He’d come to accept that females found him attractive, even though he guessed that it was his reputation that made up for what he lacked in the traditional Triotian golden beauty.

  Yet his reputation as a skypirate held no such attraction for Califa. Indeed, except for getting her out of that prison, he’d done nothing but complicate her life. A life that was already not even her own, not while she wore that collar. She had no reason to lust after the infamous Dax, for there was no one for her to boast to afterward.

  With the others, he hadn’t known, hadn’t cared why. It had been enough that they had been there of their own free will. And if they chose to ignore the facts and instead boast of something that had never happened, in a way that only enhanced the other reputation he seemed to have acquired, for his prowess with females, there was little he could do about it. Little that his remaining pride would allow, at least.

  Perhaps it was this realization that made him pause, wondering if even now, while he sat here, the swollen, jutting proof of his raging need obvious to her, she would change her mind. And when his eyes traced the slender lines of her body, up the long legs, lingering at the invitation of that sleek, dark delta of curls, over the slight feminine swell of her belly and the full, soft curves of her breasts, to come to a stop at the dull gleam of gold that banded her throat, he knew he had to give her that chance.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he choked out the words. “You’re sure? You want this?”

  “Oh, Dax.” It was a moan that was almost a pained laugh. “You don’t understand, do you? I’m no innocent, I wasn’t, even before. But I’ve never wanted like this.”

  She held her arms out to him, and with a groan he went into them, biting back a cry of pure pleasure as naked skin touched naked skin. He’d never known such need, never been so tightly wound, so achingly hard. He began to touch her again, first blazing trails with his hands, then following with his mouth. Her instant, heated response inflamed him further, because he had no doubt of the genuineness of it.

  As she writhed beneath his ministrations, he allowed himself a brief moment of hope. Perhaps it hadn’t been something wrong with him, all this time. Perhaps it simply hadn’t been this woman. Then he buried it, knowing the chance was less than slim, and concentrated on what he knew was possible; he set about wringing every possible sign of desire from her, until she was clinging to him, her fingers digging into his flesh as she nearly wept his name.

  “Dax, please! I can’t bear it, I—Oh!”

  This as his mouth found the heart of her, his tongue parting the dark curls and stroking until he found that tiny knot of nerve endings that made her go rigid against the hands that lifted her for the intimate caress.

  He drove her to the edge, retreated, then began again. Only when, in desperation, she slid her hand down his body and curved her fingers around him, did he pause.

  For a moment, he remained motionless, savoring the feel of her hand as she stroked him, base to tip and back, and then again, until he shuddered. Surely his body wouldn’t betray him now, not when he felt he would explode at her next touch, at the next movement of her fingers. And then she did move, a slow, downward stroking that went beyond the length of his rigid shaft until she was cupping him in her palm, the feel of that delicate grasp on rounded flesh drawn tight with want threw him out of control.

  He came down on her fiercely, his mouth on hers, his chest crushing her breasts, his thighs separating hers urgently. She opened for him, welcomed him, with an eagerness that seemed almost taunting in the light of what he knew as the futility of it. Yet even knowing he was dooming himself to even more torment, the pull of the pleasure he’d already felt, so much stronger than any he’d ever known, drew him on irresistibly, and he plunged forward.

  He heard her gasp as he thrust into her soft heat, heard her cry out, and echoed it as her flesh closed around him, searing him until his arms shook with his effort to hold himself steady.

  The look of startled, wondering pleasure on her face stripped away his doubts about what he was letting himself in for; for that look, he would suffer a lot more than the temporary, if painful, ache of frustration.

  “Why surprised, snowfox?” he murmured. “It’s supposed to be this way.”

  He began to move, rocking his hips against her, inching deeper with each forward motion. She was moaning his name, begging him not to wait. And then he couldn’t wait. With a quick jerk of his hips he sheathed himself to the hilt, and a guttural sound of pleasure broke from his throat.

  She tilted her hips, as if to better feel the length of him buried within her. Her hands were gripping his shoulders, using his body as purchase for the rippling movement of hers. She was driving him mad, her slick, wet flesh coaxing, caressing his, until he couldn’t believe his body would not accede to the demand of hers.

  But he’d known the moment he’d entered her that it would not. For he had been so close, so near to erupting that just the feel of her body accepting him, of that tight yet yielding passage closing around him, should have sent him spiraling into climax. But he only ached, that painfully familiar driving, pulsing ache, different only in the fact that now, with Califa, it was more powerful, more excruciating then it had ever been in his life. And he—or she—could do nothing to end it.

  But he could end her ache. He could ease the need he felt in every movement of her body, in every touch of her hands, in every ravening kiss she gave whatever part of him she could reach as she lay there beneath him, and in every breathless word she uttered.

  “Dax . . . I don’t . . . I . . . Eos, what are you doing to me?”

  What I can’t do for myself, he muttered silently. Putting the hope for himself that he’d briefly, foolishly held back in the dark cavern of his mind where the rest of his demons lived, he concentrated on Califa, on his snowfox, on her warm, slender body and the way it responded to him. He began to move slowly, driving himself into her and then withdrawing with long, slow, controlled motions. He moved for her, not himself, shifting his position, changing the angle of his hips so that his own rigid flesh slid over the most sensitive part of her with every thrust.

  She was quivering, and with awed amazement of her cries gave him the strength to go on, to ignore the fact that her wet heat was searing him to ashes, even as his own body denied him. And then he felt it, in the instant before she cried out his name yet again, that rippling, flexing convulsion of inner muscles, gripping him, making him want to scream at the ferocity of the strangling pressure that would not release. He did cry out, as he buried himself deeply in her quivering body in a final, futile effort.

  But Califa was quaking in his arms, moaning his name over and over, clinging to him as he instinctively knew she had never clung to anyone. She
was nearly sobbing as her body continued to convulse, crying out her shock and awe and wonder. And for that sound, that undeniable knowledge that he had shown her something she had never known before, he would have suffered worse than this.

  Chapter 15

  SHE WAS LOOKING at him, still seeming dazed, yet at the same time troubled. The slight crease between her brows had appeared the moment he had withdrawn from her sated body and she had realized he was still fully erect, that sweat beaded his brow, that her slightest movement was agony for him.

  “Dax?”

  He sagged back on the bunk beside her, trying to slow breathing that was still accelerated, and the pulse that was still racing toward a climax that would never come.

  “Sshh. Just rest,” he managed to get out.

  She needed to rest, he thought, able to smile inwardly despite the persistent hurt that had settled in his groin. It would recede, eventually, he knew. The ache would fade, the strained tautness of his flesh would ebb, leaving behind another layer of the gut-level tension he’d learned to live with. It was just a little worse this time, he told himself.

  He pulled her closer against his side, his still distended shaft brushing against the silkcloth smoothness of the skin of her naked hip. He tensed involuntarily.

  All right, he admitted caustically, a lot worse.

  Califa began to raise up on one elbow to look at him. She fell back, as if her muscles were refusing to obey. He smiled at her, but she frowned back.

  “Dax—”

  “Sshh,” he repeated.

  “But you didn’t—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Believe me, I know.” He tried for some nonchalance in his shrug. “It’s all right.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry about it, snowfox. It’s . . . something inherent in Triotians.” In this one, anyway, he thought in pained ruefulness. “Besides, it was worth it, just watching you come apart in my arms.”

  That, he judged by the sudden rush of color to her face, had sufficiently distracted her. “I . . . I’ve never been like that. I didn’t know it was possible, to feel like that.”

  Dax’s mouth curled in purely male gratification. He was surprised at how good he felt, in spite of the fact that his body was so achingly tight he wanted to curl up and groan. Yet despite the pain, he knew he would do the same thing again; just looking at her, soft and naked beside him, made him want to start now. He might not have reached the ultimate pleasure, but he had never felt so much in the process.

  “It’s supposed to be like that,” he said.

  She snuggled closer, a small movement that had a much bigger effect on him; strangely, it was more in the area of his heart than his groin.

  “I never believed that,” she admitted, still sounding amazed by the pleasure that had overtaken her. “Shaylah did. It was what she was waiting for.” She paused, an odd look coming into her eyes, one almost of revelation. “I never knew what my mother was seeking, with all her matings. I only knew she never found it. I think it must have been this.”

  Dax was torn between that smug satisfaction that he had so thoroughly achieved his goal, the lingering throb of his unsatisfied body, and a shock at realizing this was the first time she’d ever mentioned anything about her family.

  “Your mother?”

  She looked at him, her expression suggesting she would take offense at the question were she not been so replete. He couldn’t stop that satisfied smile from forming again.

  “Even slaves have them.” She sounded as if she were trying to be irritated, but the contented laziness of her expression, lashes half lowered, detracted from it a bit.

  “I know. I just wasn’t sure Coalition officers did.”

  Her lashes lifted sharply. She eyed him, as if unable to believe he’d made a joke about it. He wasn’t sure he quite believed it himself. Somehow his priorities had definitely shifted; her past still bothered him mightily, but it seemed to have paled in significance beside the knowledge that a small part of his world had survived and was fighting back.

  He couldn’t think about that now. He’d been wrestling with it for days, closed away in here, and he wasn’t any closer to resolving anything.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her tone was sharp enough to sting, her expression suddenly cool, and he felt as if she’d slammed a door in his face. Dax drew back a little, telling himself that just because he’d poured out his entire life to her didn’t mean she was going to do the same. Nor did the fact that she’d just gone to pieces in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, contritely, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I don’t talk about her much. I don’t even think about her much.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, uncertain what else to say.

  “Don’t be.” She grimaced. “It’s quite mutual.”

  “What about your father?”

  She laughed then, humorlessly. “That’s why I don’t think about her.”

  Congratulations, he told himself ruefully. You’ve surely managed to shatter the mood. “Califa, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She lifted one slender, bare shoulder, as if to emphasize her words. The movement made the soft flesh of her breast rise as well; Dax tried to ignore the stab of heat that resulted. “I have no idea who he is. Neither did she.”

  Dax’s brows furrowed. He was more and more wishing he hadn’t pressed. She went on as if she hadn’t seen his expression. As if it truly mattered little to her. Or as if she owed it to him, in return for his own confessions. He didn’t like that thought.

  “My mother was . . . the personification of the Coalition view on mating. She had many men. They never stayed long. My father could have been any one of three or four of them.”

  He truly didn’t know what to say to that.

  “When I was small, and there was one I liked,” Califa said, as calmly as if what she was describing was—as perhaps it was, Dax thought, in her world—normal, “which usually meant anyone who acknowledged my existence, I would pretend that he was the one. Then Trayon came.”

  “Trayon?”

  She nodded, smiling, so wistfully Dax felt his throat tighten. “He was different. He liked me. He really liked me. I knew, because sometimes he would come when my mother wasn’t even there, to see me.”

  So she’d had someone to care for her, at least for a while, he thought. An old, familiar jab of guilt prodded him; his father had been a stiff-necked, authoritarian man, but Dax had never doubted his love. Even their arguments never shook that belief. Perhaps it was why he’d left so easily, because he knew that, since his father truly loved him, they would eventually make it up. But instead, he’d wound up having to live with the knowledge that the last words they’d ever spoken had been harsh and angry.

  But Califa hadn’t even had that. “This Trayon,” he said, his voice a little unsteady, “he was good to you?”

  Her eyes glowed. “He taught me to sing.”

  Such a small thing, really, he thought. Yet from that look in her eyes, and the fondness in her voice, it was perhaps the brightest memory in a grim childhood.

  “That’s when I decided it must be him. That he had to be my real father.”

  “Was he?” Dax asked, feeling he already knew the answer.

  The fond light faded from her eyes, to be replaced by bitter remembrance. “No. When I told my mother, she laughed and said I was very wrong. That she might not be sure who my father was, but she could be sure it wasn’t Trayon. I didn’t understand. I insisted that if she didn’t know, it could be him. She thought I was calling her a liar.”

  “But you were a child,” Dax protested instinctively. “You didn’t know—”

  “Exactly. So she made certain I did know. She sat me dow
n and told me more about the facts of mating than any child should ever know.” He felt a shiver ripple through her. “Then she made me . . . watch. The next time she had one of her men. So I could see exactly why she could be sure.”

  Dax’s stomach knotted painfully. The persistent ache of his arousal had faded as her grim story had come out. Shame replaced it; she had had so little, and he so much, and he had taken it for granted. And so he had lost it all. But Califa had apparently never had anything or anyone tender and loving in her young life, except the kindly Trayon.

  Unable to stop himself, he gathered her up into his arms and cradled her to him, much as she had cradled him when he had been racked with a pain too great to bear alone. For an instant she stiffened, resisting, but then went pliant against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hand resting on his side over his ribs.

  “Your mother,” he said gruffly, “deserved to lose you.”

  Califa made a low, remorseful sound. “I’m not sure she did. In the end, I think she may have won.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believed what she told me, that mating was merely a physical need, and that no one male could satisfy a woman for long. That the only way to protect yourself from hurt was never to give yourself away.”

  She sighed then. And she pulled away from the encircling shelter of his embrace. She faced him, but didn’t look at him. As if heedless of her own nudity, or feeling modesty was unimportant compared to what she had to say, she didn’t try to cover herself. When she spoke, it was in the tone of a confession, of one expecting punishment for some wrongdoing.

  “I’m sorry, Dax. I should have told you this before we . . . mated. Perhaps you would have changed your mind. Perhaps you will regret it, now.”

  “I could never regret it, snowfox,” he said quietly. Even though it had been agony as well as bliss, even though it complicated his life impossibly.

  “You may. I’ve . . . been too like my mother. Thinking mating was as the Coalition decreed it, a casual thing, between two beings possessed of a mutual urge, nothing more. Were you to ask someone who knew Major Claxton, they would tell you she was not above sampling. Widely.”