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  He groans again, letting go of my other wrist as his hands dig into the bedding beneath us, bracing himself. It allows me the freedom to touch him all I want. My hand on his cheek reaches upward, delving into the silky strands of his hair, and with my other hand, I hesitantly touch the bulging muscle of his arm.

  I feel him murmur something against my lips, something in that enchanting language I don’t understand. But I don’t need words to comprehend what he wants, the need throbbing through every inch of his body.

  What I don’t understand is why he hasn’t taken it. Why he hasn’t already ravaged my body a dozen times over.

  I can’t resist him or fight my way free, any more than I could’ve fought off that Orkun warlord. Tordax could have had me as many times as he wanted. And yet he’s gently kissing me, his tongue exploring my mouth as he holds himself back, clearly forcing himself to keep from taking everything he wants from me.

  Maybe he’s stronger than me, with more self-restraint than me, because I can’t hold back from what I want.

  I slide my hand further up over the curve of his shoulder to the bunching muscles of his back, feeling the oil-slicked skin, and his hips twitch involuntarily, pushing against me. I can’t help but moan, the sound a whimper against his lips, swallowed by our kiss. But I’m impossibly wet, my body humming with desire, and my hips rock against him in return, the thin barrier between us all that prevents our flesh from touching.

  It’s maddening, but I don’t have the courage to take that last step.

  That would mean admitting that I want him, that I want this alien creature inside of me, and I can’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Part of me wants him to just take me, so that I don’t have to make the decision or admit how intensely I crave him.

  But it’s clear he’s not going to do that.

  My hand tangles more tightly in his hair near the place where one of his thick horns protrudes from his head. He shudders when my other hand slides down his back, tracing the broad muscle down the side of his spine until I reach his lower back, just above the swell of his muscular ass. He sucks my lower lip between his, his teeth teasing at it as I let my hand fall down the side of his hip.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel his skin twitch and shudder under my fingers, and I slide them over his hipbone, feeling his breathing come faster. He holds himself rigidly still, almost as though he’s afraid I might stop if he moves. But I’m curious, and I can’t keep myself from satisfying it at least a little bit any longer.

  When my hand encounters the thick cock beneath the loincloth, he feels like an ordinary man.

  No, that’s not true.

  He’s anything but ordinary, there or anywhere else. But there are no ridges or spikes or bumps on his dick like I feared, no strange growths or multiple appendages. There’s only the length of him, harder than anything I’ve ever felt and pulsing with blood, hot beneath my fingers and very, very large. He’s thicker than any man I’ve ever been with, and I wrap my hand experimentally around his shaft, squeezing slightly.

  The sound that comes from him is primal, animalistic. He breaks the kiss, throwing his head back as I slide my hand downward, his reaction sending a rush of desire through me that makes my heart pound and my breath come short.

  No man has ever reacted to me touching him like this.

  It reminds me of my own reaction to his mouth and hands last night, and the idea that I can give him pleasure to match that… it’s intoxicating.

  I feel it again, that exhilarating sense of power. My hand reaches the tip of his cock, broad and swollen, and I slide my thumb over it, gathering the little beads of liquid that seep from him before sliding my hand downward again. His hips thrust against my touch, pushing himself into my hand, and I look up at him as I begin to stroke the length of his thick cock, slowly finding a rhythm.

  He groans again, his eyes closed, his body held rigidly still except for the helpless motion of his hips. His face is intense, twisted with pleasure, and his mouth falls open, his fingers bunching the bedding up between them as he mutters something in his language.

  I’m fascinated by it, by how much he’s enjoying this. I always thought hand jobs were something men didn’t really like receiving—at least, that’s the excuse I’ve always been told by every man who begged me for a blowjob or to let him fuck me instead.

  It’s not good, they’d always say. I can do it better myself.

  But Tordax doesn’t look like he thinks that. I’ve never seen that expression on any man’s face, not even during sex, and it makes me want to keep going, to see how far I can drag this out, how long he’ll let me touch him this way without pushing me further.

  I keep waiting for him to move off of me, to shove my head down to suck him or to just force himself between my legs, but he doesn’t. He lets me explore, and as I move my hand faster and faster, his length slick now with his own arousal, he growls something deep in his throat.

  I realize he’s going to come, I can feel it in every tense muscle of his body. He says something, his brow furrowed deeply as he throws his head back, the words guttural as his hips thrust into my hand, helpless against the onslaught of the pleasure racing over him.

  My gaze devours him as his muscle convulse, his back arching deeply as he throbs in my hand. His cock pulses against my fingers, swelling and hardening more than I ever thought possible as he reaches his climax, and the sounds that spill from his mouth are more arousing than I could have ever imagined.

  I’m used to men that are silent, men that mutter one single fuck as they come, but Tordax sounds as if his soul is pouring out of his body. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. My thighs are wet with my own slick arousal, and when Tordax breathes in deeply, his body still shuddering above mine as I let go of him, I know he can tell.

  He looks down at me with an inscrutable expression, his gaze searching mine. And then he smiles, that same slow, wicked smile I’m beginning to recognize. He bends his head to kiss me again, his tongue sliding into my mouth with a slow enjoyment, as if now that he’s been sated he can truly take his time.

  He can savor this.

  I gasp as his hand slides into my hair, fingers teasing through the tangles in it as his mouth drifts from my lips to my cheek and down to my jaw, his tongue brushing against the shell of my ear and making me shiver before he bends to kiss the spot just below it.

  I moan softly, my heart racing as I realize that he’s about to return the pleasure that I’ve given him. I’m a little shocked, as embarrassing as that is. Derek never really gave a shit about whether or not I got off once he’d had his.

  But Tordax is moving his lips over my body as if he can’t get enough of me, the kisses trailing down the length of my neck and over my collarbone as he seeks out the spots that make me shiver, the ones that make me whimper, and the ones that make me moan.

  My back arches when he reaches my breast, his broad hand cupping it as he flicks his tongue over the nipple experimentally, shifting his gaze upward to see my reaction.

  His eyes are dark brown, not the black they turn when he’s angry, but the deep color of chocolate, flecked with gold. There’s satisfaction in them when I moan at the warm sensation of his tongue rasping over my sensitive flesh, my nipple hardening under his touch as he squeezes my breast gently, and he makes an appreciative sound. He kisses between the soft mounds, his full lips tracing downward over my stomach. My legs spread a little wider without my meaning to, my body already eager for a repeat of last night.

  He makes that small, appreciative sound again, deep in the back of his throat, when he slides his mouth down between my legs and finds how wet I am for him. His fingers stroke the inside of my thighs, his tongue lazily tracing between my legs, finding the places that make my hips twitch, that make me grip the sheets and gasp.

  A frustrated whimper falls from my lips as he keeps teasing me slowly.

  I want more.

  I want that blinding wave of pleasure that I felt last night,
and as my eyes open briefly, I see him glance up, a hungry gleam in his eyes.

  He knows.

  Oh, god. He knows how much he owns me in this moment.

  A shiver of embarrassment washes over me, mixing with the sparks of pleasure that shiver down my spine with every touch and lick. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, how much I want what he did before, and he’s drawing it out on purpose.

  I wriggle under his grasp, trying to urge him on, but he keeps up his own pace. He increases it by degrees, until finally he decides I’ve had enough and grips my hips, his mouth pressing against me. Then he begins to devour me in earnest, licking and sucking as he pushes me closer and closer to the edge with a forceful determination that’s arousing in and of itself.

  He slides his fingers into me, moving them in and out with a precise rhythm as his tongue lashes against my wet, heated flesh, and all I can think of is the feeling of him in my hand, the thick, hot length of him, and how that would feel if he thrust it inside of me instead of his fingers.

  His cock inside me and his broad, muscular body on top of mine…

  I nearly scream as the orgasm washes over me, the thought of him inside of me the last straw that pushes me over the edge. My hips buck up against his mouth, my hands clawing at the sheets, and that blissful feeling of coming apart consumes me.

  When it passes, my skin is still shivering with the last aftershocks of pleasure.

  Tordax collapses on the bed next to me, his eyes closed. He says nothing, and I don’t move at first, enjoying the loose-limbed, relaxed sensation that seems to fill me every time he makes me come like this.

  The sorrow that was choking my chest when Tordax first walked in has dissipated. Nothing seems as bad or as desperate as it did before.

  I know that’s all an illusion though. I can’t fix what’s happening with good sex, and what’s more, I know I need to stop letting this happen.

  Last time, it was just him touching me; this time, I’ve explored more of him. If I don’t put a stop to this, we’re going to keep inching forward until I’ve let him fuck me, and what happens then?

  Honestly, I have no idea, but I know I shouldn’t allow it.

  I should be rebuffing him, telling him to leave me alone, trying to fight him off. He’s an alien, and for all intents and purposes, my captor.

  But he doesn’t treat me like a prisoner. He… I don’t know what the word for it is, but he seems to almost care for me. Which makes no sense. He doesn’t know me. He can’t even speak to me. We haven’t had a single conversation except to exchange our names.

  Still, it’s impossible to undo the effects of the orgasm on my body. I tug the blanket up as my eyes flutter closed, and the relaxed, soothed feeling overtakes me until I give in to sleep, unable to fight it off.

  I hear Tordax snoring softly next to me, and my last thought before I fall asleep is: well, he’s like other men in one respect, at least.

  Some time later, I wake to find Tordax still deeply asleep next to me. The velvety blanket that I tugged up to cover us both has slid down around his hips, and I can’t help but take the opportunity to really look at him as he lies there, asleep and motionless.

  There are things I never noticed about him before, too shocked or afraid or aroused to really look, depending on the moment.

  The tattoos are obvious even from a distance, swirling black ink in beautiful designs. But on closer examination, I realize that his body is also covered in scars—a deep one across his chest, smaller ones at his stomach and hips, some on his arms. If I looked at his back or legs, I expect I’d find more of the same.

  It’s a barbaric body. A warrior’s body.

  The scars fit with the rest of him. His rippling muscles were forged in combat and training and outdoor labor, not in an air-conditioned gym. His bronzed skin is almost metallic, the sheen still there even without the oil that must’ve been rubbed onto it before the fight.

  I chew my lip, resting on my elbows and leaning a little closer. I want to reach out and touch him, but I also don’t want to awaken him.

  It’s my first chance to inspect him at my leisure, and I’m startled by how much I really do want to look, how attracted I am to him despite his alien appearance. The strangest thing about him are his horns—black and ridged, curving out from the top of his skull. They’re not overly long, but they’re startling to look at.

  His face is chiseled and strong, his nose long and sharp, the face of a stern warrior, but softer in sleep. He looks peaceful.

  I could look at him for hours, I realize, studying and learning his strange, alluring body. That thought makes me pull back with a start, recoiling as I also realize I have no idea how much time has passed.

  I fell asleep, but for how long? Is it morning or night? How does one even measure those things, floating out in space? How much time has passed since the fight in the arena?

  I glance toward the video monitors—still left on—and I can see people moving around the ship. It can’t be the middle of the night, then. A decent number of them are up and about. Although the exact hour is impossible to determine, it’s probably “early morning” in terms of the flow of the day on the ship.

  Slowly, without waking Tordax, I slide out of bed. I still have no idea what to do for clothing, but then I spy a small pile of fabric atop a chair by the video monitors, next to Tordax’s weapons.

  He must have found some type of clothing for me.

  A warm feeling spreads through me, much like when he kissed away the tears on my face.

  It’s still confusing, though. Why is he being so kind to me? What does he have to gain?

  Surely there must be something in it for him, in the end.

  Still, I’m glad for clothing, after what has probably been most of two days naked. The outfit is simple and not all that flattering—cargo trousers and a loose shirt that tucks into them. They probably belonged to some ship mechanic or other crew member, but at least they don’t smell like the Orkun warlord who intended to marry and breed me.

  Pushing that thought away, I run my fingers through my hair. It’s tangled and badly in need of washing, and I wish I had something to tie it up with.

  Giving up on any more personal grooming, I move quietly toward the door. I press the keypad by the door in the same way I’ve seen others do on the video feed of the ship, and this time, it doesn’t beep and turn red.

  Instead, the door slides open with a whispery hiss.

  Holding my breath, I glance back at Tordax. He’s deeply asleep; now’s my chance. I might not be able to escape, but I can at least slip out into the ship and explore a little, maybe find out more about what’s happening.

  I’m certainly not going to get that from him. We can’t communicate, and even if we could, I’m not sure we’d do much talking. The minute he’s near me, we always seem to fall into bed.

  With one last look at Tordax’s sleeping, handsome form, I slip out of the door, closing it carefully behind me.

  12

  Rose

  I wander the hallways for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the maze.

  Most of the halls lead to more rooms—other cabins for the crew, I suppose. I find the main corridor at last and slip down it, keeping my head down as I pass the control room. I don’t want to be caught out too soon and returned to Tordax before I’ve had a chance to explore and maybe learn something.

  But to my surprise, no one seems to really notice me. A few of the men catch sight of me, but I’m ignored. It’s like they don’t care, and it’s a sharp contrast to the way Tordax behaves—as if he’s loathe to let me out of his sight.

  I turn a corner and wind up in a room that looks like a mess hall or cafeteria. Along one wall are machines that I’m guessing are designed to make and dispense food. They’re all made of a gleaming material that looks like steel, with glass windows for the ones that make hot or cold dishes, and vending-style openings for the ones that dispense whole fruits, vegetables, or pre-packaged foods.
/>   It’s crazy. Like something straight out of the future.

  And although Tordax left food and drink for me this morning, all it takes is one look at the meal dispensers for me to realize I’m starving.

  I hesitantly cross the room to the machines, waiting for someone to stop me, but once again, no one really seems to care that I’m there. Maybe they’ve been told to leave the women alone?

  My stomach growls as I contemplate what to eat. I avoid any of the dishes that look like meat—I don’t have the slightest idea what sort it might be since I can’t read the descriptions, but I’d be willing to bet it isn’t chicken or beef. Instead, I settle for a picture that looks like a green salad. It’s an odd choice for breakfast, maybe, but I’ve lost all sense of time since my arrival. And at least it won’t be a strange animal.

  I also press a button for something that looks like French fries, because why the hell not? When the windows open and dispense my food, I reach for the tray and look around the room.

  Several of the Kalixian warriors are seated at a table on the other side of the room, talking amongst themselves. And to my surprise, I notice several of the women that were in the cell with me seated at another table.

  The lack of concern about my wandering around the ship makes a little more sense now—clearly the Kalixians aren’t keeping the women from earth locked up. We aren’t prisoners, and that gives me the first sense of true relief I’ve felt since the revolt in the arena. Whatever the Kalixians are planning, it doesn’t involve the same fate for us that the Orkun intended. I don’t know if they mean to take us back to earth, but it does seem that we’re as safe as we can be at the moment.