He loved her.
The mating process had merely hurried the relationship to a conclusion. Tamaki snorted. Not that Cimmaron would accept defeat. He needed to find a way to make her happy, otherwise neither of them would find contentment. But what? How?
An abrupt tap sounded on the door and Rico walked in. “Did you get the info to head office?”
“Yeah. It’s still sending.” Tamaki let his chair settle on all four legs. “How are things going with Marianna?”
Rico brightened. “Better. She’s accepted my offer to take her to the Marchant picnic on Founder’s Day.”
Tamaki did an internal eye roll. Man, he hated the pretentious Marchant upper-class sector, and he didn’t like Marianna’s superior manner either. But since Rico was happy to move in those circles and was steadfastly hooked on Mariana, he wouldn’t verbalize his doubts. He studied his friend closely, his mind working at speed. Was it possible?
“I have an idea.” Tamaki glanced at the transmitter and tapped his forefinger on the hard surface of the desktop. “Can you stay for a bit longer or are you seeing Marianna?”
“Yeah, I can stay.” He didn’t add any further explanation so Tamaki figured Mariana was busy. None of his business, but he thought his friend could do better.
“Okay, listen up,” he said. “Here’s what I was thinking.”
* * * * *
Cimmaron went through the motions of cleaning behind the bar, immersed deep in her thoughts. Phrullin’ male!
“Where did you disappear to?” Melad asked, breaking into her mental cursing.
She concentrated on a dirty spot on the shiny bar, scrubbing her damp cloth across it with brisk moves. It did nothing to settle her ruffled mood. “Rico asked me to find Tamaki urgently.” Her voice was sharp. Defensive. And it gave away almost as much as the color of her skin.
Phrull!
She refrained from looking at Melad, not because she was worried about lying convincingly but because her skin was giving off a golden glow. She knew her eyes would be flashing a brilliant gold, bright enough to dazzle. A sure signal of her emotional state. Anyone with half a brain would guess sex had induced the glow.
“Wish he’d sent me,” Melad said in a dreamy voice. With sure, competent moves, she stacked goblets in the sterilizer. “I’d like to know what Tamaki looks like under all those black clothes he wears.”
“He’s our boss.” Thank goodness Melad hadn’t seemed to notice anything strange.
Melad’s head jerked up. A flash of surprise shot across her face, and Cimmaron forced her lips to a stiff smile to counteract the sharp tone.
“Sorry.” Cimmaron sucked in a deep breath, attempting to stuff the surge of jealousy in the far reaches of her mind.
Melad shrugged and turned back to stacking the bronze goblets. She pulled out another rack and stacked the silver goblets separately. Cimmaron resumed her cleaning. Tamaki didn’t belong to her despite his assertions they were mates now. After another inhalation, Cimmaron felt marginally calmer. The answer was simple.
She’d leave.
That’s what she’d do. Paying for the suppression pills had cut into her funds, but the tips plus the part of her wages she’d been able to save had added to a decent amount of currency. Maybe she could hire on as a deckhand?
When a Dlog mated, they were planet-bound. This mating was different. It was against her will. She suppressed the blip of excitement as she thought of Tamaki and the way he made her feel when he touched her, when his cock was deeply embedded in her pussy. The way she felt safe and happy whenever she spent time with him, as if she belonged for once. She shook herself. No! The mating was against her will, dammit.
She couldn’t afford to stay here on Marchant, not if she wished to clear her name and graduate to full pilot status. But despite this, Tamaki kept creeping into her mind, and she whirled with a huff of impatience to stock the chillers.
As usual, the vroom compartment was totally empty. Cimmaron worked quickly, efficiently stocking the white flasks and other drinks as she made plans. Her mind kept drifting. Tamaki. Tamaki. Tamaki.
She picked up an empty crate, stomped from the bar and slammed it onto the pile awaiting pickup by the local brewer.
A snarl built low in her throat, easing out in a feral growl. That was it. No matter who she had to sign on with or what demeaning job she had to take, she was going to leave Marchant. Despite her craving to find Tamaki, she couldn’t settle, not like this without a fight. She’d battled too hard to overcome her Dlog heritage. She’d depart tonight.
Cimmaron made haste to the boarding house but still took care to keep to the brightly lit streets and alleys the security droids patrolled. At the boarding house, she let herself inside and went directly to her room. After packing the meager belongings she’d accumulated since being on Marchant, she left out enough currency to cover her lodging and scribbled a brief note to Lissa. She dressed in her plain brown tunic, trews and boots, and left the blue shrinkton skirt and top on her sleeping mat. The boots were in her locker at the club.
As she let herself out and walked off without looking back, Cimmaron pushed aside the loneliness that suddenly assailed her. Her steps faltered then she threw her shoulders back and increased her pace. She was used to being alone. Ever since she’d decided to train as a pilot, she’d traveled a solitary road. Once she cleared her name and they reinstated her, the hole wouldn’t seem quite as large.
She stalked down the brightly lit streets, but instead of heading for the club, she turned toward the spaceport. Vagrants loitered in the shadowed recesses of buildings. She kept moving in a confident manner, knowing the slightest trace of fear would lead to disaster.
A sudden sharp pang of pain in her chest took her by surprise. She gasped and staggered at the intensity of it. Clutching her chest, she attempted to breathe through the torture. The shuffle of feet behind her made her spin with an instinctive feral growl. No way was she succumbing to vagrants intent on stealing her possessions and currency.
“Back off,” she snarled.
A gnarled and stooped male wrapped in a grubby white cloak held up his hands in a peaceful sign of surrender. “Not me to worry ’bout,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from years of smoking the harsh local tobacco. “Rich young males slummin’. Thems cause worry. Hide!” He slipped into the shadows and disappeared from sight.
Cimmaron glanced over her shoulder. Phrull! The same group who harassed her most days. Had they followed? She’d been so leery of what was in front of her, she hadn’t checked for danger slinking at her rear. She slid into the shadows and hastened her pace, moving swiftly through the dimly lit areas of the rutted streets. A wave of pain crashed through her chest again. Phrull. She’d taken a pill before she’d left for work. Determined footsteps behind made her suck up the agony and move.
Dilapidated stalls and areas to display traders’ wares were in evidence now. Another bolt of cramp hit and with a silent grimace, she sank to the ground behind a pile of discarded display tables. Her boot went into an open drain, the splash too loud for her liking. She froze, hoping they hadn’t heard.
“Where chica go?” a sing-song voice called.
“No see,” someone answered. “No see.”
“Tricky chica. Tricky. Tricky. Tricky.” Cimmaron recognized the leader’s voice. Phrull. Just once she’d like to level the playing field and have a one on one confrontation with the coward instead of the complete gang. Her top lip curled in contempt. It would never happen—not with his rich parents and their currency behind him.
A spaceship roared overhead, taking off from the spaceport. The flare from the propulsion unit lit the entire street for an instant while the rumble from the engines filled the air. She crouched even lower, glad of her nondescript brown tunic. It would be difficult for them to spot her. All she needed to do was wait them out—if the stench of rotting rat-creatures didn’t kill her first.
“Chica must ’ave gone other street,” the leader said. “Backtr
ack.”
He wasn’t going to check behind all the piles of rubble in the street? Surprise made her blink. She’d thought him brighter than that. Or…perhaps he was. She remained where she was for long moments after he’d spoken and she’d heard them retreat. The cold ground cramped her legs, matching the throbbing in her chest. She shifted uneasily but the pain grew worse. When she was about to move, she heard a soft curse and then footsteps. Cimmaron’s heart thundered with sudden apprehension. She’d been right to wait before moving. The leader had tried to smoke her out with trickery.
Pain hit again. She curled up in a tight ball, trying not to make any noise in case they came back. A shiver racked her body. Phrull. Cold. So cold. Tamaki would know how to warm her freezing body. As the thought slipped stealthily into her mind, the cramps eased. Cimmaron listened carefully and heard the murmur of voices to her left. The shuffle of feet. The swish of a cloak. She pressed a fist to the nagging ache emanating from her chest and concentrated, trying to discern if it was the gang of youths or others.
“Psst!”
Cimmaron threw her head backward and thumped against the stone wall behind her. For a moment, she saw stars. A groan squeezed past her lips as she tried to figure out which part of her hurt worst—her head or her chest.
“Psst, they’ve gone.” A male in a dirty white robe appeared in front of her. It was the vagrant she’d seen earlier. “Leave now. Peaceful street. Don’t want trouble.”
Well, that was telling her. Her presence was not required. “I’m going.” Cimmaron turned away from the vagrant and walked quickly to the relative safety of the spaceport.
The agony in her chest intensified, robbing Cimmaron of breath. Clutching her chest, she pushed through the growing throngs of beings exiting and entering the spaceport. The microt she entered the port, she made a point of standing straight and pretending her chest didn’t hurt like the devil. Once she found paying employment on a ship leaving Marchant, she’d have time to recuperate from whatever ailed her. Meantime, she’d suck it in.
Cimmaron decided she’d go to the workers’ canteen first. Gossip was usually the best source when it came to searching for employment. And if she had to use her Dlog looks to gain the information, then so be it. The knot on her head continued to ache in harmony with her chest. A film of sweat broke out on her forehead.
“What happened to you?” a male in oil-stained coveralls said.
Cimmaron frowned. “Nothing.” She stuck her nose in the air and attempted to sidle past.
“The side of your head is bleeding.”
“Where?” Cimmaron prodded the lump on her head. A sharp pain shot through her head. She winced. Her hand came away bloody. “Oh that. I hit my head. Tripped,” she added. “Are any of the ships hiring?”
“You?”
“No, the king of Viros,” Cimmaron snapped. “Of course it’s me.”
“Not many beings willing to hire a Dlog. Too much trouble.”
Cimmaron drew herself up tall and stared down at him in distaste. “I’m not a Dlog.” She maintained his gaze but it was difficult with the persistent throb in her chest. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball of misery, or even better, lie down with Tamaki at her side. He would make her forget the pain. They’d touch each other, stroke, fondle. Kiss.
A maintenance droid dropped a tray on the floor with a loud clatter, thankfully yanking Cimmaron from her traitorous thoughts. Tamaki. Bah! The male had set her up. Tricked her. Not that she believed anything about the mate thing. She didn’t feel different. A vision of Tamaki formed inside her head, and her whole body jerked, shock freezing her rigid. The bloody male was naked, his erection thrusting outward. He was flaunting himself.
“Are you all right?” the male asked.
Cimmaron shook the vision from her head. “Yes. Anyone hiring?” she demanded out of patience with the male. She’d asked a simple question. Was it too much to expect an answer?
He waved his hand in the direction of the far wall. “Check out the notice board over there.”
“Thanks.” She walked in the direction he’d indicated. Each step was pure torture. Beads of sweat formed on her brow again even though she’d wiped it earlier, and her meager possessions weighed heavy on her shoulder, as burdensome as two crates of vroom. Her chest continued to ache with sharp flashes striking like lashes from a whip. She transferred her scruffy bag to her left hand and raised her right hand to massage her chest.
It didn’t help.
With each step she took, the stabbing pangs radiated from her torso. She gasped, her bag dropping from nerveless fingers. It hit the floor, falling in front of a trader. The trader tripped and fell headfirst onto a table laden with trays of Marchant stew and flasks of vroom and reeb. Crashes and colorful curses filled the air as chairs scraped across the floor, and the beings seated at the table jumped to their feet. A pungent stream of Marchant stew dripped over the edge of the table.
“I’m so sorry.” Cimmaron’s hand pressed against the middle of her chest but still the pain intensified. She wobbled then crumpled to the ground, her legs unable to support her any longer.
The nearest being, a pilot from one of the freighters judging by his uniform and boots, knelt beside her. “You okay?”
“Looking for job,” Cimmaron gasped out, her mind focused on the one thing most important to her. A job. Freedom. Independence.
He touched his palm to her forehead. “You’re sick.”
“Not. Need job.”
“We have a job available. For a pilot. Not a…ah…” The male trailed off while several of the others laughed.
“Not a Dlog concubine,” a female pilot said with a disdainful curl of her lip.
“I am a pilot.” With great effort, she stood. When she wobbled precariously, the male who’d helped her grabbed and held her upright. “Second pilot on the Intrepid.”
“Yeah right,” the female countered before turning her back on Cimmaron in a pointed snub. The rest of the pilots did the same.
The male pilot pulled a cloth from his tunic and wiped her forehead. “You’re not well. Why don’t you find lodgings until you’re feeling better? Phrull, I hope whatever you have isn’t contagious.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Staying would mean facing Tamaki again. She scowled even though the chest pains had eased a fraction. The stupid male thought they were mates. Yeah. Okay. They’d had a little fun together, but they weren’t mates. She’d know if they were since she’d have trouble leaving his side. She’d turn all obedient. Subservient. She’d want to touch him all the time and be touched in return. She’d…
Phrull, she definitely had the touch thing down. Her fingers practically itched with the need to fondle, to run her hand and tongue and lips across his naked torso, across his family tattoo. And lower.
“No one will hire you if you can barely stand.”
Cimmaron sighed, aware the male was taking most of her weight. If he let go she’d likely fall flat on her face. “But I need to leave Marchant.”
“Not gonna happen.” The male checked his timepiece. “Time for me to head back to my ship.”
“Thanks.” She retrieved her bag and found an empty chair to sink onto before watching the pilot stride away. Envy sat uneasily in her gut. That male was going to fly a ship out of Marchant airspace while once again she would remain stranded.
Chapter Nine
Tamaki strode down the narrow alley, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. The Marchant morn was cool and a puff of steam erupted with his exhalation. He drew his cloak around his body to keep the worst of the chill at bay and increased his pace.
Cimmaron. His mate.
He couldn’t wait to see her again. First, he’d kiss her golden lips then he’d swing her into his arms and carry her off to her room where they could be private, their loving as noisy as they wanted. He’d strip her lean yet curvy body of every scrap of clothing. Next, he’d tie her hands and legs with the silken scarves he carried in his pockets so sh
e couldn’t move. He’d tease her breasts and nipples until they stood erect with lots of kissing and nuzzling in between. He’d kiss the vulnerable skin of her neck and behind her ears. He’d draw her taut golden nipples deep into his mouth and suckle. Gradually he’d work down her body. Yeah. Tamaki grinned. He’d delve into the dip of her bellybutton with his tongue. She’d be hot for him by this time.
Impatient.
She’d wriggle and twist against the silken scarves that kept her bound. Hell, she might even start to beg. Tamaki chuckled at the thought. Somehow, he didn’t think his mate liked begging. She might demand in that imperious way of hers. Captain mode. Life between them would never be smooth-running, but the odd disagreement wouldn’t trouble him. They’d function well as a team.
What would he do to her next?
Ah yes. Maybe he’d skip a few parts and stoke her impatience even higher. He’d massage her feet and calves with a delicate-scented cream. Maybe a cream scented with moonflowers and a hint of jabo aphrodisiac to make them both even hotter for each other. Desperate.
Tamaki paused to open his cloak to the morn chill because suddenly, he burned with heat. A sharp pain tore through his chest, and Tamaki drew in a harsh breath. Damn, he’d had a cramp in his gut all morn. He breathed through the twinge of pain before continuing his brisk pace. He thumped on the door of Lissa’s boardinghouse, his feel-good mood returning once the nagging throb in his chest faded.
The door opened. Tamaki grabbed Lissa in a firm hug and squeezed her until the air hissed from her lungs and she started to protest.
“Let a lady breathe,” she gasped out.
“But it’s such a fine morn. Has Cimmaron risen from her slumber?”
“Cimmaron’s gone. You’d better come inside.” She led him through to her meeting room and gestured him to take a seat. “She left a note.”
“Gone where? I didn’t think she had enough currency yet.” Tamaki sat but jumped to his feet microts later and strode from one end of the sumptuous room to the other. He dodged a green velveteen cozy chair and paused briefly to stare through the privacy slats at the windows. His gut churned. He’d thought…
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