Cosmic Castaway (Cosmic Romances #3)

20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

If I thought I was attracted to him before...

His lips were soft on mine. So perfectly soft. I fought to keep my arms from wrapping around him, so as to not hurt him again and keep my sight trained on the threat, but I couldn’t stop my movement anymore than it was possible to stop the tide. I gathered him close and returned the kiss. He moaned into my mouth, fisting my hair. The threat of the other person disappeared. The humidity, the rotten smell, the ache in my side, and everything else faded besides the feel of Bartholomew.

I kissed his mouth open, and my tongue darted out, meeting the silk of his. I groaned and delved in as deep as possible and gripped his hips, yanking him flush to me. More. I needed more. He tasted so good. He felt so good.

Bartholomew returned my kiss with equal fervor, though his lips were clumsy and his tongue tentative. One of his hands was locked around my hair, while the other cupped my cheek. He pressed against me, like he was trying to get as close as possible, and his hips started to rock against my thigh, though I didn’t feel his hardness yet.

The kiss grew wet and desperate as I sucked on his tongue, then nibbled on his lips, tugging on the bottom one, which dragged a startled gasp from Bartholomew. Mine . Bartholomew was mine. I was never going to let him go. I’d fight anyone and give up everything to keep him.

A growl startled me; I remembered we had an audience, a very dangerous audience. Enclosing Bartholomew in my wings, I snarled at the threat. “My mate,” I said in Drakconese. “You cannot have him.”

Bartholomew shook in my arms, nose pressed into the crook of my neck. I stroked his back, even though I shouldn’t. He was hurt. How much? I didn’t know. I lifted the blaster and aimed it at the stranger. I did not wish to harm them or worse kill them, but I refused to allow this person to take my mate.

The four-armed person watched me for several moments before they took a single step back. I allowed them to slowly walk away. When they disappeared from view, I swept Bartholomew into my arms and ordered, “Hold on.”

I raced to the edge of the woods, ignoring the stabbing in my side. The moment we breached the trees, I spread my wings and took to the sky, racing to the shuttle. Bartholomew shivered from the cold or pain or fear—I wasn’t sure which—and I needed to get him inside, away from any threat.

Landing near the shuttle, I carried him in. I set him down and yanked the door closed. Without speaking, I picked him up again and took him to our cabin. Bartholomew made no noise the entire time. Was he hurt? How badly? Or was he angry with me?

The kiss had been a necessity to force the stranger away. The intensity had not been. He hadn’t wanted me to kiss him, and while he’d initiated it, I had pushed the intensity, overwhelmed by the feel of him. Perhaps I’d gone too far. I shouldn’t have, but I was unable to resist him.

I put him in the tent and crawled inside to join him. I wanted to press my lips against his and continue what that kiss had wrought inside me, but I didn’t. I would never hurt Bartholomew. Ever. No matter if he chose Vince over me, I would respect his boundaries, even if it killed me, which it would.

Drakcol didn’t often survive the rejection or loss of their mate, and I could not live without Bartholomew.

“Are you injured?” I asked, hands fisted on my thighs.

He stared blankly at me like he didn’t understand.

“Bartholomew?”

He did not answer. He lay on the mat, not speaking, eyes distant and muscles tense.

Gently, I nudged his cheek with the back of my finger. “Please. I need to know that you aren’t hurt.”

Bartholomew flinched, and I dragged my finger away. He said, “My shoulders.”

“Shoulders?” Had the other person scratched him?

“Back.”

That made sense. He’d been knocked to the ground. His chin was cut and flecked with red blood.

“My elbows.”

Once again, that confused me. “Can I see you?”

He didn’t answer. Was he in shock?

“Can I see?” My eyes flicked to the cut on his chin once again. I needed to lick that clean. I needed it. My instincts demanded I bathe the injury. “Flower, can I lick your chin?”

He blinked, not responding.

I had explained this to him before about the instinct to clean wounds. “Please. I need to.”

Jerkily, he nodded.

I leaned over him, my hair surrounding us like a curtain, which made this moment feel even more private like we were the only two people in the universe. Bartholomew reached up to cup my cheeks, and I had to fight the urge to place my lips on his. Until he allowed me to, I wouldn’t kiss him again. I pressed my lips against the wound on his chin, and he gasped. I licked the cut and the metallic sting of his blood played on my tongue. His kiss had tasted like this. Had he cut his tongue?

I swallowed the instinct to investigate. Instead, I focused on slowly licking his chin, dragging my tongue over the length of the cut, cleaning any grit out of the wound. Bartholomew moaned, his hold tightening. My cock twitched and began to harden at the quiet sound of my mate.

Harder, I dragged my tongue over the injury, making him cry out, “Mindy.”

“Yes?” I whispered against his chin. I licked him again. “What, my perfect Flower?”

Bartholomew didn’t respond.

I bathed the entire area, then leaned back, satisfied. The rough skin would heal in time. “Can I see the rest of you? I need to know how hurt you are.”

“A-are you going to lick me?”

Stars, I’d give anything to suck his cock and drink his seed, but that wasn’t what he meant. I answered, “I will clean all your injuries.”

His breath turned even more jagged.

“I need this, Flower.” I kept my focus on him, but I was desperate to see if he was hard like I was. Maybe this could become something else, after I secured his permissions. Though if he was too hurt to fuck, I could please him.

After a second, Bartholomew nodded.

I moved downward, letting my hair drag over him. Bartholomew shivered, and I grinned. He lay utterly still beneath me, except for his heaving chest. One glance at his groin made my soul throb. My mate was hard and pressing against his black trousers.

I rucked up the borrowed shirt he wore and carefully pulled it off. My arousal flagged. His arms had light scratches from the bushes or from falling, his elbows were raw, and I saw bruises all over his sides. I lifted one arm and began to clean it, paying particular attention to his elbows. Bartholomew winced and gasped occasionally, but I was careful to not cause him more pain.

When his arms were clean, I rolled him over and wanted to weep. His shoulders were swollen, and his back was coated in bruises that were steadily darkening. “My Flower,” I whispered, running my fingers over him, not using any pressure. My purple scales appeared even darker next to his skin, and my claws looked so dangerous in light of how delicate I’d learned he was.

“I’m okay,” he replied, voice shaky.

My fingers drifted to the band at the top of his trousers, dipping underneath. He gasped. “You are hurt here too. Can I remove them?”

“I’ll be naked.”

“Yes.” I tried to swallow the pleased groan. I needed him naked and against me, safe and warm.

He pressed his face into the blanket beneath him and nodded.

I pulled his trousers off, removing his socks and shoes on the way, leaving him bare. He was beautiful. His butt was covered in bruises, much like the rest of him, but my eyes caught on his dark hair. I brushed my fingers over one cheek, and he shuddered. I wanted to lift his hips and bury my face against him to taste his hole.

Ignoring the urge, I searched for cuts to clean. I spotted a small one beneath one of the dimples at the base of his spine. Bartholomew moaned, hips arching, but the pleasure-filled noise turned into a pained grunt.

“Don’t move,” I ordered. “I will take care of you.”

Every cut was thoroughly cleaned until Bartholomew was trembling beneath me. He was moaning, hips moving a bit. I licked his shoulder blades over the darkest bruises.

“Flower, I need you to roll over.”

He shook his head, cheeks and the tips of his ears red.

I chuckled. Bartholomew was shy about his arousal. “You don’t have to hide it,” I said. “I don’t care.” I loved it. I loved the fact that my touch was driving him to this. I bent and licked his spine, letting my hair dragged over his sensitive skin. He moaned louder, but still not loud enough for me. I licked and cleaned each bruise as his hips gently rocked.

When I reached the swell of his butt, I licked one cheek, and Bartholomew released a jagged cry of my name as his muscles tensed and his hips stuttered.

He was coming… and calling for me as he did. My cock grew even harder. It was beyond attractive that I’d made him release with such little stimulation. I licked his other cheek as Bartholomew moaned into the blanket beneath him.

He sagged, relaxing, his breath harsh.

My fingers twitched; I was burning with the urge to stroke myself off and release my seed on his back, but he was injured, and that was more important than any pleasure. “Can you roll over now that you are…” The word escaped me, or perhaps I never learned it. I’d never really discussed sex English with either of my mate-brothers. I settled with, “Satisfied?”

Bartholomew’s cheeks darkened. “N-no.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“No, Serlotminden.”

A claw ripped my gut at his angry tone. Had I messed up? Had I forced him to release when he did not wish for it?

“Can you leave for a minute?”

“What?”

“Leave, Mindy,” Bartholomew snapped, and I jerked back. He’d never talked to me like that before. Not once. Never had he gotten angry like that.

“Alright, Flower,” I said, voice barely audible, and I climbed out of the tent, my soul as cold as ice and shame filled me. I must have made a mistake again.

Embarrassment ripped through me. I’d fucking come from Mindy licking me, and not even anywhere exciting. I’d been so turned on from being naked with him, and I came. Who the fuck came from that? What was he going to think? We were friends. But who licked their friend’s ass? This had to be more.

My cum had soaked the blanket beneath me, making my raging embarrassment even worse. Carefully, I rolled over. My hips protested, and my back and butt joined in. I was a mass of bruises. My shoulders both felt stiff and swollen. I hoped to god I hadn’t ripped anything like a tendon, but I didn’t know.

Focusing, I cleaned myself with the soiled blanket, balled it up, and chucked it into the corner. Dragging on a pair of pants and a shirt, I moved to the edge of the mattress and curled up.

After several minutes, Mindy asked, “Can I come back in? You need water.”

I grunted.

Mindy crawled in, and I curled up even tighter. I fucking came in front of him with basically no touch. I hadn’t wanted our first time to be like that. Though had that even been our first time? We weren’t together.

I heard rustling before I felt the warmth of him behind me. “You need to drink water, Flower.”

I didn’t move. I was too mortified. Logically, I knew there was zero reason to be embarrassed. Premature ejaculation happened, supposedly. I’d always masturbated alone, so it hadn’t been my worry until this exact second.

When I continued to be quiet, he lay behind me and rested an arm over my waist. “Let me hold you.”

Some part of me screamed to reject his touch, but I didn’t. Instead I leaned back, and Mindy gathered me close. He nuzzled the nape of my neck. “What did I do wrong?”

I didn’t answer, because he hadn’t done anything wrong. It had been all me.

His tail coiled around my leg. “Next time, I will take care of you myself.”

Pardon? Did he mean what I thought he did?

Serlotminden didn’t continue, and I didn’t ask.