The Quarry Master: A Grumpy Alien Boss Romantic Comedy

by Amanda Milo

  Agitation seems to surge up in him, teasing out old relationship ghosts, irritating the festering hurts that never quite healed. “What about when you are approached by other males?” His gaze rakes over me like he can see under my clothes, and my body is much more overpoweringly alluring than anyone ever knew.

  “Well you’re good for my ego, I’ll give you that.” I sigh, and pat his chest—and watch his eyes blaze at this small contact. My body thrills, but I keep my head in the game. “Commitment isn’t a problem for me. We,” I point between us, “are iron-clad.”

  He rubs his face against my front like he’s scent-marking the heck out of me… which is exactly what he’s doing. My blouse gets wrinkled to heck. When he’s done, he scowls at me like this isn’t enough. “You are certain that you won’t be tempted? No matter what male approaches you? No matter what he offers you?”

  I purse my lips. “I take back my ego-compliment. I’m not a prostitute. And I’m not a cat in heat, geez.”

  Bash looks frustrated, and when he growls, he sounds frustrated too. He wraps me up in a tight hug. “I don’t mean to offend you. It’s just that you’re so powerfully attractive—”

  “Okay. You just regained your compliment-points.”

  “—that no unmated male could avoid being drawn to you.”

  I take his ear, cupping the length of it. I want to make sure he hears me. “This is the part where you have to trust me not to be a faithless whore—”

  Bash jerks as the word is translated in his head.

  “—and believe me when I tell you I’ll be able to control myself. Surly aliens do it for me, apparently, and you’re the king of them all.”

  Seemingly pacified with this logic, Bash nods. Then he grabs me and hauls me into his arms and he takes advantage of that idea for a claim-fucking against the door. When we finish, I think that’s that—but then Bash collects the leg chain and starts to come at me with it. “I regret that I must leave you here—” he starts.

  I gape at him. “Oho no. You’re serious? Bash, come on: ouch. We’re MARRIED, you should trust me!” I wave at myself. “I have your cum running down my leg. You have nothing to worry about—”

  His eyes are lasering into mine. His horns stab the air when he leans in, passionate in his argument. “I wish that I could trust you! You’re too beautiful for me to believe—you will never convince me that other males won’t pursue you.”

  I touch my finger right to the end of his nose. A little tap that makes his quills and spines, already standing on end, twitch. “Okay, that was smooth. Insinuate that I’m a knockout and make me believe that YOU believe it. You win all the points.” I drop my hand. “But still. Even if I was spectacularly gorgeomistic—”

  “You ARE.”

  “Oh please, you don’t even know what that word means. It’s made up and never going to be in your translator. Anyway, even if someone did make me an offer, I’d never take them up on because I’m not a cheater!”

  “I know that you aren’t a cheat.” His voice lowers in intensity, but his eyes retain all his feelings. “You have a sterling heart.”

  I pull back a little, touched. “Man, you are really good at this. Or really bad. Are we fighting or is this like a compliment hour? So far, sir, you are winning.”

  His thumb sweeps over my cheek, stroking. Sweet.

  “What’s the real issue here?” I search his face. “You think I’m going to toss you aside? You think I’m going to see someone else, someone better, then get gone of you, don’t you?”

  His flinch says yes.

  “Bash… there is nobody else for me. I mean it: I’m with you. We’re a done deal.”

  When he raises his head, his horns coming up slowly, he regards me so solemnly. “Isla, I vow to you, I want to believe that.”

  I sink against him, inwardly cursing the Gryfala-related events that screwed up his head. “You aren’t going to chain me in your cave all day.”

  He looks less sure about this fact than I am, so I tug the manacle from his hand and send it thunking to the floor. “What can I do to help this along? Help you believe that I—as your sexy, sexy, irresistible siren—will remain chaste and faithful to you and only you?”

  “Are you making light—”

  “No, no, never. I’m serious. What can I do to help? Break time blow jobs?”

  (I showed him what those were during the long hours of the night. Nearly choked to death on a dick, but it was worth it. He looked at me like I was a dirty, dirty angel. His angel. It gave me all the feels.)

  Bash’s ears pop to attention. “Mark this moment. It’s the first time I’ve heard of a human break where I’ve approved with all of my hearts.”

  “Bet that's not the only organ you’re feeling approval in,” I tease.

  “No, it is not,” he purrs back at me, hooking a talon in the waistband of my leggings and hauling me in close.

  I put my fingers against his lips. “Seriously. What would soothe your worries besides a chastity belt?”

  Bash slowly pulls back. But his eyes, they don't leave mine. “What is a chastity belt?”

  CHAPTER 38

  ISLA

  If leggings show panty lines, a chastity belt has no hope of hiding. Which means a wardrobe change. Which frankly I'm not too broken up about. Because do you know how hard it is to fight compression leggings up with only one hand? If we’re really about to do this, skirts and bare legs from now on it is.

  First, we hit the human compound so I can grab skirts and my belongings. We’re in and out before hardly anyone is awake.

  (Bash suggested that I wear his ceremonial blanket—which conveniently can be tied in a way that transforms it into a dress—but I didn’t want the family-tree heirloom I got mated in to get ruined, despite Bash’s assurance that it’s made sturdy enough for the rigors of quarry work and dust.)

  I settle on wearing a midi dress with a lacy bodice. No tights—but I am wearing underwear. I realize I won’t be keeping them on, but I decide it’ll feel weird to ride in a wagon without them.

  Second, we take our Narwari back to the stables where they get turned out in paddocks for the day since they spent the night on leads.

  Then we walk. It’s early—so, so goshdarn early—when we (and by ‘we,’ I really mean the Rakhii dragging me) march into the quarry and hoof it right up to the hob who mans the Blacksmith station, Cyden.

  I feel a little odd, without pants or leggings. And I’m not sure how a chastity-fitting goes, but I think Bash and I can have a lot of fun if he relaxes.

  Right now he’s glaring at his employee for daring to look upon my bared shins. This day is going to be really interesting if Bash can’t drop the territorial attitude. We can’t go around blinding his employees because I barely flashed some leg.

  “You will fashion a special belt for Isla,” Bash orders, no preamble.

  Cyden freezes with a cylindrical chunk of iron in his hand. Wings flexed open slightly, his brows develop the faintest crease.

  I say, “Hey, Cyden. Good morning.”

  “No pleasantries between you,” Bash informs him before the hob can do more than open his mouth to return the greeting.

  When Bash brusquely informs the male what he wants, and Cyden looks ultra confused, I pipe in. “It’s a belt that covers up a girl’s goodie box.” When both males throw me looks, with the hob appearing more baffled than ever, I add, “That would be the groin. It’s a belt that blocks her groin from crotch cobras.”

  Bash’s brow flattens.

  “Crotch cobras are penises,” I enunciate primly.

  “You are heretofore not allowed to tease me with your confusing terms unless we have privacy,” Bash orders.

  “Oooh. Sounds like you're threatening me with a good time.”

  “I am.”

  I wink at him. He snorts fire.

  Cyden shakes his head at us. And he mutters, “I know what a goodie box is, Isla. Are you seeking something like this?” He rummages through a pile of w
hat looks like scrap metal—until he holds up a freaking chastity belt.

  I stare at it, wide-eyed. It looks like the ones I’ve seen in movies and social studies and history class (where they taught us they were 100% real, by the way, only for everyone to be told twenty years later on Ripley’s Believe It Or Not that medieval noblewomen did not walk around with rusty crotches developing a serious aversion to locks and keys. But men don’t change. If women are still being forced to wear them in India and elsewhere today, the eccentric and egocentric did it back then, says I), with a giant metal front and decorative metal Brazilian brief butt-cheeks...

  And the crotch has teeth.

  HOLY FUCKING FRIED JIMINY CRICKETS. There’s a pussy-slit with freaking METAL TEETH on this thing!

  “That’s not an Everlast!” I cry.

  There’s even a round metal-toothed anus-protector welded below the crotch-biter section.

  “That is not an Everlast!” I repeat. I point to it, my head swiveling up to stare at the hob. “WHERE did you get this—and what happened to it?!”

  Because maybe most alarming of all? This chastity belt looks broken and it’s been scored by deep, deep slashes. Most of the grooves seem centered on the metal waistband… like something tried to claw through it.

  Rather than simply answering me, Cyden sets the belt back on the pile. “I’ll return swiftly,” he vows, glancing between Bash and I before he tugs his heavy-looking leather apron over his neck and tosses it on a bench as he walks out.

  Bash’s eyes are pure apple jade when his long arm snakes out and he hooks a claw in the contraption’s waistband, lifting it for examination.

  Then his gaze lands on me. “You will wear this for me?”

  Ever seen an Eastern screech owlet? Sure you have. There’s a thousand memes of these cute little suckers with huge-ass startled eyes. Do yourself a favor and do an image search for funny owls. That’s twenty minutes of your life gone as you scroll through pictures, but you’ll do it laughing. Because there are few things so emotive in the animal kingdom as these huge-eyed little birds of prey. Startled, suspicious, smiling, squinting, glaring, staring, and sleeping—it’s amazing what you’ll ‘see’ when you look at those big eyes.

  Right now, in the face of Bash’s question, I’m displaying the ‘WTF’ variety of owl expressions. I’m just missing the super cute eyebrow-ears.

  But what I say is, “I will totally wear a chastity belt for you.”

  Bash must hear the reassurance he’s clearly seeking, because I watch his entire body almost relax.

  His gaze flicks from me to the belt. He surprises me with a grim smile. “The idea of you being kept in this should horrify me. It should.” His eyes pan back to the belt, fixing on the gleaming metal—specifically to the toothy form of protection. The iron-clad—ha, ha… literally—guarantee that no one will be putting their dick near that kind of craziness. “But Isla?” His eyes are on me again, the gleam to them entirely alien. “It does not.” His gaze burns a brighter shade of emerald.

  I look from his face to the way he’s still holding the belt suspended by one of his huge claws. “Something tells me that we’re going to need to visit the kinky stores when your birthday rolls around.”

  Bash looks contemplative at this declaration.

  Cyden reenters the smith stall, returning with none other than Mandi’s alien cat.

  “OOOOH, the plot thickens!” I crow, clapping. My eyes must be the size of dinner plates as I point gleefully to the clawmarks on the metal contraption. “Oh, kitty cat, did YOU scratch someone out of that?”

  Jaw ticcing, the alien feline glances at the chastity belt like it has offended him. “I tried.”

  “OH MY LAND,” I exclaim, eyes rolling in bliss until they find Bash. “This is the best day ever.” I turn back to the cat. “More please—I need to know more.”

  “So do I,” the hob butts in. He raises his brows at Mandi’s cat. “What can you tell me about making one to fit Bubashuu’s Isla?”

  The alien cat’s eyes widen and he turns to us so slowly, it’s almost comical. But there is no hint of humor in his tone when he stares at Bash like he’s some sicko who can’t be trusted with so much as a basket of kittens, and as he conveys how much he thinks Bash is a menace, the cat-man asks me, “You want to be locked in this device?”

  I flop my hand, my wrist staying limp. “Pshaw, this is nothing. For one friend-with-benefits I wore a pony tail butt plug.”

  All three males stare at me for a full half a minute until Bash blows fire.

  Mandi’s cat’s eyes are slits as he observes the flames—and Cyden couldn’t tuck his wings tighter to his body if he superglued them against his back.

  “Wrong story,” I say quickly.

  Mandi’s cat growls and throws a disgusted look at Bash. “I will not aid you in fitting this evil contraption on a female.” He prowls around the tables and heads for the open face of the smith stall. Before he exits, he tells me, “Do not feel you have to agree to wear such a barbaric protector of virtue.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure him, more curious than ever about why he’s so against the idea. “Chastity’s not going to bother me.” I expect it’ll be kinda hot based on Bash’s reaction to the broken belt. “But thank you for saying so. You seem very nice.” I hesitate, but then I go for it. “I have so many questions, can I be nosy—”

  His concerned glare turns into a warning look, and then he leaves.

  “Darn.” I sniff sadly.

  Cyden stares after him before he licks his lip and glances to Bash. “I can reweld this one.” He lifts the edge of the belt at its snapped point.

  “You’d have me lock my female in a belt that another male touched?” Bash asks, his voice something just below a soft roar.

  Cyden grimaces and drags a hand over his sweat-damp face. I didn’t know hobs sweat like humans. I guess they look mostly like us, it shouldn’t surprise me. And blacksmithing is hot work. “You said you wanted her fitted quickly. She can wear this one today, or you can come back tomorrow for her custom-made piece.”

  Smoke rolls over the belt as Bash’s attention falls on it, considering. Then his gaze finds me.

  I give him a reassuring tip of my head. “I can wear that one.”

  Bash looks to Cyden. “Do what you must for her to be fitted today.” But then he adds in a snarl, “You aren’t to touch her.”

  Cyden nearly rolls his eyes. And he gives Bash a narrow-eyed glare. “You had better measure her accurately for me then.”

  ***

  That’s how I find myself standing with a chunk of my dress tucked into my panties to bare my backside as the blacksmith hob keeps his face averted from me like I’m Muslim or he’s Amish or we’re all Victorian and I flashed an indecent patch of ankle.

  Bash has the rest of my dress’s skirt gathered and clutched in his fist.

  His proprietariness is working for me. But when I glance over my shoulder at him, I see Bash has the happy expression of a thundercloud.

  “Try smiling,” I tell him. “Shouldn’t this make you thrilled?”

  Bash holds up the belt in his hand, his claw tapping the beveled edge that will sit snugly at my waist. “This is sharp.” He frowns. “I’m beginning to understand Jabari’s strong feelings.”

  My eyes bug. “Mandi’s cat’s name is Jabari?”

  “Yes.”

  “How COOL! He never talks to us when we try to stalk him for information and Mandi’s just as tight-lipped.” I’m aglow with this tidbit. “I can’t wait to tell Gracie.”

  Bash exhales smoke and ignores our ongoing fascination with Jabari and Mandi. “Luckily, as I mentioned before, Cyden is an artist with metals. I trust that he’ll make your fitting so fine that not one metal edge will furrow into your skin.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bash growls and runs his knuckles up my back.

  I shimmy the belt up my thighs and around my hips to see what needs adjusting, and Bash has to drop my skirt so he can us
e both of his hands to bend the metal waistband until it’s able to close properly. At some point, it got wrenched pretty badly, and it needs Bash to adjust it. We lower it down my calves, and he helps me step out of it.

  When the hem of my dress is riding the tops of my knees instead of inside my underwear, Bash calls to the hob, “She is clothed. Take this.” He shoves the sized belt at him. “Weld it here,” he indicates the bent spot, “and it will fit her properly.” He’s staring at the hob hard enough to gorgonize the male.

  Cyden’s exhale is so small you’d have missed it if you weren't staring avidly at the showdown. He raises a cool brow. “Bonded males are a teveking pain.”

  Clearly he’s not an easy hob to shake. And with the way he doesn’t bend under Bash’s glares, he’s proving he has nerves with the same sturdy qualities as the steel he works on.

  He makes quick work of the welding job and dips it into a quenching bucket. The hiss as it hits the water is as loud as the mushroom cloud of steam is huge.

  When it’s a skin-safe temperature—the very moment it’s reached a skin-safe temperature—Bash is kneeling in front of me, stripping me of my panties (which he pockets) and sliding the belt up my legs under my dress.

  His hand covers the toothy crotch cover that snugly hugs me. He’s cupping my new-used belt with a wicked, wicked gleam in his eyes.

  The lock for it is shaped more or less like a heart. The anatomical kind, not the swirly-girly kind. It’s still romantic as hell, especially with Bash down on his knees, seeming to savor the moment as he snaps the heart lock closed around the waistband’s fastener. During this process, his eyes are hot enough to melt me from the inside out.

  Cyden is averted, busily assembling his work station for the day, and I feel a little bad at the amount of repair projects he’s laying out. We’ve been keeping him from his regular work.

  “Will you have to stay late to catch up?” I ask his back worriedly.

  “No, but I appreciate that you care enough to be concerned,” he replies politely, careful not to face me.