3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
W rage
Mated. I never wanted to be mated until my master put Sibyl in my bed night after night. I should have known something wasn’t right—Plenum of Trent was not a generous male. Females weren’t used as gifts, they were used as rewards.
She played me. She was beautiful and sweet and looked at me as if I hung the stars in the sky. I thought mating was my idea until the entire scheme played out, then I realized she’d dropped little hints throughout our time together.
As soon as I agreed to give up every credit on my ledger, I never heard from her again. It was all false. All a trick. Except my feelings for Sibyl.
Now that I know her love for me was a lie, I hate her. And I hate myself for allowing my own tender feelings. What bitter irony that less than three lunars later I find myself mated to a female who looks so much like her it’s uncanny.
At least I won’t fall in love with her. She’s mean as a reptile.
I look over at her and must admit, her sadness looks real. She’s just breathing into her hands, and occasionally moaning. Definitely not happy.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask.
She heaves a deep breath and finally forces herself to bring her gaze to mine.
“Last nutrition bar?” Her eyes search the sky. “A day. Last actual meal? A week, maybe longer.”
“Let’s get you fed on the way to the hotel.”
“Want to feed me before you fuck me?” she accuses, her eyes scalding in their intensity.
I wonder where she was raised. Her family obviously never taught her how to be nice.
“We have six days for that, maybe more.”
“What do you mean, maybe more?” Her voice is deep, serious, as if she senses the next disaster is about to crash down on her. “You said your ship was leaving in six days.”
“Right. The ship that took me in as a favor. I don’t know if their kindness will extend to my new mate. We might be stranded on this planet until we figure out where to go. Together. Wouldn’t want our purple dots to be separated, would we?”
“Who do you need to ask to see if I can stay?”
She looks at me, and for one swift moment, all her anger, and bluster, and bravado fade away. All I see is her fear, terror really, as her blue eyes widen and her lips pop open. Maybe all that hatred and all those snide remarks were her shield, her protection. This female’s scared.
“Let’s call a hover and get you fed. On our way I’ll comm Zar, the captain.”
Zar, I’ve met a female. She’s human. I’d like her to return to the ship with me.
I’ll have to give it thought. I have to keep everyone safe. One more mouth to feed and house is a serious request.
Just so you understand how serious, let me explain. Havaché effects Wryth'Ns differently than others. I accidentally got drunk and mated. On Paragon you mate for life or they put you in jail. We’ve been implanted with trackers and will be imprisoned if we don’t stay together. I’d understand if you can’t allow us to leave with you. I apologize for putting you in this position.
I’ll get back with you.
I have the hover driver take us to his favorite restaurant on the mainland. I think I’m rich. I was a gladiator slave all of my adult life, except the past two lunars where I’ve been with the gladiators on the Devil’s Playground and bought nothing. I don’t actually know what a credit is worth, but I have a lot of them.
“This place looks expensive,” Elyse says as I help her out of the hover.
“I think I can afford it. I guess we’ll see.”
Right after we’re seated, she goes to the restroom. When she comes back, she looks good. She’s been wearing that red dress for over a day now, but somehow she fixed her hair and cleaned herself up.
This is how she looked last night when I took an immediate dislike to her. She’s pretty and reminds me of Sibyl. I need to get beyond that. She’s not Sibyl; she’s my mate.
“You look very nice,” I tell her sincerely.
“That’s not what you said last night. You were drunk and loud and called me ugly.”
“I apologize. As you stated, I was drunk.”
“And mean.”
“Yes. I apologize again. How long do you want to hold it against me?”
She maintains my gaze for a long moment, then drops her eyes to the menu and says, “This isn’t my best day.”
“Nor mine.”
Although I figured the hover driver got a kickback for bringing us here, the food is surprisingly good. When we were eating, the animosity seemed to be buried as we talked.
Elyse
I’m having trouble seeing him as the devil when he acts like this. He keeps asking me if I like the food and seems genuinely interested in my answers. When he’s not fuming with rage, he’s kind of nice looking, in a totally alien way.
I think it was Plato who said you only get the truth from wine and children. I think I met his true self last night when he was drunk. I’m not sure why he’s schmoozing me now, but I don’t trust him—nor do I want to.
“What are those buttons on your face?” I ask. They look slightly amphibious, although he has no other amphibious traits.
“They help me smell,” he answers levelly.
“Your armpits don’t do that?” I quip.
He laughs. It’s the first belly laugh I’ve heard from him. It’s deep and hearty and masculine and makes his face light up. I feel a bolt of attraction. This will never do.
He sniffs first one pit, then to keep the laughter going, he sniffs the other.
“They’re doing a fine job,” he says, his gaze lingering a bit too long on my lips.
I snatch my gaze from his and notice the small stage to my right where two males are setting up mics. As a singer, it’s hard to ignore. One of the males invites everyone to come up and sing. As he explains the procedure, I realize it’s an intergalactic version of karaoke.
“You need to sing,” I goad. “I want to heckle you so you know how shitty it feels.”
“Call me Wrage and I’ll sing.” His voice is low and his face is suddenly serious. I lift my eyebrow in silent question and he answers, “You’re my mate and you’ve yet to say my name.”
Am I reading him right? Have I hurt his feelings?
“Wrage,” I say with zero emotion, my face blank. I want to hear him sing. I’m already mentally compiling a list of the best heckles I’ve received over the years. He’s going to get every last one of them, including the one he lobbed at me—fancy restaurant or not.
He rises and walks to the computer where he scrolls through the available songs. After giving his selection to the DJ, he stands at the mic and waits for the words to roll. Wait. This is more high tech than at home. The words don’t roll on a screen, they must come in through his translator implant, relay to his brain, and he sings it like he knows it.
His voice is deep and low and mellifluous. Oh my God, where did he learn to sing like this? The tune is good, and the lyrics are interesting, but it’s his voice. He could totally go professional. With no additional training.
And . . . look at that body. First of all, it’s perfect. He’s wearing the same clothes as all the males at his table were wearing last night—black cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt. Perhaps it slipped into my consciousness before now, but right now it slams me like a hammer. His body is large and muscular and sexy as hell.
He reminds me of the statue of David—flawless. The clothes are tight and leave nothing to the imagination. Wide shoulders, narrow waist, and trim hips are stacked on top of each other in ideal proportions.
He sings effortlessly as he glances at me too often to be accidental. And his hips? The trim ones that are masculine and as already mentioned—perfect? Those hips are swivelling. Not in a hoaky Elvis way, but in a sexy slow gyration that telegraphs to any interested party just how good they’d be in bed.
I tear my glance from him and inspect the splatters I left on the white tablecloth as I hungrily devoured my meal. I hadn’t realized how famished I was until I looked up and noticed my plate was empty and his was still half full.
I shouldn’t look at him. He’s too sexy. I’m supposed to hate him. If he hadn’t bought me we’d never be in this predicament. I should resent him, not be thinking about how good he’d be between the sheets.
He finishes to wild applause. As I glance around the room, if the females weren’t aliens, and we were on Earth instead of Paragon, I’d be expecting the women to throw their panties and room keys at him as if he was Tom Jones or Justin Timberlake.
“Elyse! Come sing this duet,” he calls from the stage. He keeps motioning me up, now to the accompaniment of applause, until I join him.
I’ve always felt confident about my singing abilities, but after hearing him, I feel like an amateur.
The tech guy touches something to the skin above my translator implant and the words play in my ear so I can easily sing along. The tune is predictable, so within a few lines I’m singing in time with Wrage and the music.
Halfway through the song, a love song ala Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers, he takes my hand. It’s the first time we’ve touched, and I feel an electric jolt zing through me. Not an electric chair kind of jolt, but a punch of energy. Sexual energy.
What have I gotten myself into? If I was back on Earth I’d wonder if I’d been roofied. My nipples are pricked and my core feels aching and empty. The beginnings of need are insistently making themselves known.
When I pull my eyes from him—no small feat—I see my hard nipples poking at the fabric of my dress.
One of the crappiest things about outer space? Most aliens can smell female arousal. Shit! Those buttons on his face that he said enhance his sense of smell? I don’t care how many cooking odors permeate this room, I’m certain he smells me.
I’ll give him credit, he carries on as if he’s been doing this for years, the consummate performer. I may look like a lovesick ingénue for all the room to see, but he’s following the old adage that the show must go on.
After the interminable song is over, there must have been a hundred verses, he gently grabs the tips of my fingers and escorts me to our table.
“I half expected you to heckle me,” he says as if nothing just happened on that stage but two people singing.
“Changed my mind. I’m not that mean.”
“I’m apologizing one more time, Elyse,” his voice is deep and warm and oh-so-sincere.
He spears me with those odd, eerie, totally beautiful alien eyes. They’re golden-green with vertical pupils. Until a few moments ago, they scared me with their intensity. Now they just beckon me with their heat.
I hate to admit to myself how much I want him right now.
“Apology finally accepted. Though no more havaché for you.”
“Agreed.”
His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips and back to my eyes. Perhaps it’s because he’s attracted, maybe it’s because we’re mated and Analac expects us to comingle our fluids in the next few days, or possibly it’s that the scent of my arousal must be blasting at him, but he’s definitely giving me the vibe that he’d get naked with me in a heartbeat.
The comm on his wrist must vibrate, because he glances at it.
“Is it from Captain Zar?” I ask anxiously. “Will he let me come with you on the ship?”
I’ve decided this is what I want. It sounds safer than being on my own with Wrage on this or any other planet. Maybe the other human women will act as a buffer.
“No, it’s not from Zar, but we should get back to our hotel. My brother gladiators reminded me we have a big day tomorrow.”
He stands and offers his hand to help me. I rise on the other side of the table. I need to keep his hands off me for as long as possible.
Two hours later, I’ve showered and am wearing a nightgown I bought on the trip home. He didn’t bitch at all about buying me the beginnings of a new wardrobe. In fact, he was generous. Something I certainly didn’t experience with my last four owners.
Perhaps ‘nightgown’ is a misnomer. It’s a voluminous flannel number dotted with little purple flowers. It’s so big and ugly it could give a sensitive person nightmares. Although it has no writing on it, it screams ‘stay the fuck away from me’ at fifty paces. It’s meant to counteract his lust, my interest, the fragrance of my pheromones, and the fact that this room is equipped with only one bed.
My brand was throbbing by the time we got back to the room, so I’ve applied the salve and the pain is gone.
He put on his pants for his hasty trip from the shower to the bed, but slips everything off before he slides under the covers.
“Commando?” I ask pointedly, my eyebrow arched in rebuke.
“Gladiator,” he replies, apropos of nothing.
He looks at his left deltoid. It must be throbbing. Feeling sorry for him, I climb out of bed, grab the salve and hand it to him.
“For your mating brand. Topical analgesic.”
He dabs it on and around the branding site, wincing with each soft touch. I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve put the painkiller on several times since the ‘ceremony’. He’s been without.
After taking a deep, relieved breath, he says, “You’ve had this? Kept it from me?”
“Sorry,” I say. The tone in my voice says, ‘not sorry’.
“We got off to a bad start.” He turns toward me.
Climbing back into bed, I swivel to look at him, leaning on my elbow so I don’t put pressure on my wound. “You could say that.”
“Hating each other is a luxury we can’t afford,” he says gravely, his gaze never leaving mine.
When he’s serious, his eyes are so gorgeous I could dive into them.
He’s right. We’re going to be together forever, unless a nuclear blast blows planet Paragon to smithereens.
“I know why I hate you , but are you saying you hate me, too?” I ask, baffled. “Why?”
He sighs. “You want to know?”
“That’s why I asked.”
“Let’s change sides of the bed so we can look at each other without pressing on our brands,” he suggests.
I get up and am at the foot of the bed when he slides out. Now’s a bad time to recall he’s sleeping commando.
I don’t know how the mind has the ability to do this, but somehow the world decelerates to slow motion. I’m less than two feet from Wrage. Naked. Naked, naked Wrage. Gorgeous, glorious, otherworldly male.
Don’t look at his cock. I command myself. Don’t look. Don’t look. Oh crap, now you’ve looked! That which has been seen cannot be unseen.
Gorgeous, huge, and with the same mottled appearance as his body. The killer feature that is making me want to fan my face as if I was Scarlett O’Hara during a heat wave? The buttons!
Although my glimpse was quick, I saw stationary buttons marching up his cock in at least two lines, maybe more. The buttons toward the base were larger than the ones near the head. As grandma used to say, ‘Lord have mercy’. What female from seventeen to seventy, if in my place, wouldn’t be imagining what those buttons would feel like during sex? No one. A dead woman couldn’t help but wonder about those damnable buttons.
I don’t know how the whole ‘smelling arousal’ thing works, but my mind imagines Wrage as a cartoon character with his dreads blasted back, his eyes wide and pupils blown.
He tips his chin, hurries to his side of the bed, and climbs in.
“This situation is ridiculous,” I mutter as I close my eyes trying to erase the picture of his cock even as I conjure it back into my mind to swoon over.
I shake my head and bring myself back to the present. The picture of his naked body hovers at the edge of my mind, tempting me and promising me many long moments of droolworthy imaginary fun, but later, after this conversation.
“Why do you hate me?” I demand through dry lips.
“You said you were Morganian. You evidently know humans and Morganians can’t be told apart without DNA testing.”
I nod.
“I was a gladiator. Snatched from home at age fifteen and forced to train and then fight. I lived in a barracks with other males, only being allowed access to females as a reward after I won a match.
“My owner tricked me, talked me into putting money in an account so I could buy myself. I never saw the credits, it was all deceit to give us hope so we wouldn’t rise up against him like other gladiator schools across the planet were doing.
“He must have changed his mind and didn’t want to owe us any credits as he’d promised, so he tricked some of us into falling in love with the women he provided. Sibyl said she loved me but was going to be sold off-planet. I offered to buy her freedom with the money I’d been saving to buy my own.
“I never heard from her after that night.”
I guess this gives him a good reason to hate women, but I don’t exactly understand why his anger arrowed in on me.
“You look so much like her it’s startling.”
Ahhh.
“Stupid question, but you know I’m not her, right?”
“Yes. I was drunk as Phager’s reen last night. It’s no excuse, but I must have been out of my head to wind up mated and branded. It should account for something.”
“Okay,” I say without conviction.
As I roll to face away from him, he grips my waist with a gentle touch to keep me from turning from him.
“I don’t hate you, Elyse. You’re handling this situation well. You have courage.” He spears me with his gaze, then adds, “And your voice is pretty.”
I wonder if his eyes have the power of hypnotism—I can’t stop myself from looking at him.
He focuses on my lips, but doesn’t move a muscle. I watch him breathe for a long moment as I inventory him: perfect cheekbones, beautiful skin, the buttons on his temples, and those amazing eyes. His expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it—it’s usually so harsh.
How in the span of twenty-four hours can I go from not knowing someone, to hating them, to desperately wanting a kiss? But I do. I wait for his eyes to flick to mine, then command myself not to flinch from his gaze.
His arm is still around my waist, warm and exerting the gentlest pressure. Arousal is coiling deep in my belly, and he hasn’t even moved a millimeter closer. Time seems to stand still as he edges toward me, our gazes locked.
I don’t have telepathy, but I know with certainty that he’s waiting for me to stop him, giving me every opportunity to push him away. I roll a bit to my right so I’m partially on my back, not to pull away but to signal my surrender.
He gets the message and pulls me hard against him. I may be wearing ugly purple flannel from neck to ankles, but he’s wearing nothing. The feel of his cock pulsing at my belly rips a surprised gasp from me which causes him to jack his hips back with a hiss.
Finally, he comes in for the kiss, but veers at the last moment, his lips a hair’s breadth from my ear. “I want to kiss you, Elyse. Just a kiss. If this isn’t what you want, tell me no.”
What I want to say no to is the ‘just a kiss’ promise. My body’s already preparing for so much more. My clit is quivering, moisture slicking my inner lips, my core clenching in desire.
Turning toward him, I say, “Just a kiss,” even as I picture that stiff blue cock with all the sexy nubbins and how they would arouse my private spaces when they plunge deep inside me.
Then this strong, powerful gladiator doesn’t pounce. No, he tips his head and glides closer, shutting his eyes at the last moment and breathing me in. He sucks in deep gusts of me through his nostrils, then nuzzles my cheek with the sensitive buttons on his temple. It’s as if he’s inhaling my essence and marking me at the same time.
“You smell like the night-blooming caralots on Wryth'N,” he breathes into my ear. “It’s said to be the most beautiful scent in the galaxy. Fresh. Clean. Full of promise.”
This male, who’s had less happiness in his life than I’ve had in mine, is waiting, holding back even though his cock is straining toward me. It speaks to his character.
The hard tip of his tongue flicks my earlobe, then traces along the line of my jaw to the point of my chin. There’s something about this slow, sexy approach, as if we have all the time in the world, that has me trembling in anticipation.
Maybe it’s that we both know our consummation is a sure thing. We have to get it accomplished within five days. He doesn’t have to own me tonight like a bad date who wants to dive into the action in case they’re not given another chance. The fact that he’s taking his time is delicious.
Instead of his tongue or mouth on my lips as I expect, the pad of his thumb brushes across them.
“I liked the sound of my name on your lips,” he says, his tone full of praise and yet a request at the same time. “You only said it once, Elyse.”
He cocks his head in anticipation, even as his thumb keeps up its rhythm, lazily stroking across my lips, that little action igniting depth charges in my belly, and below. Those golden-green eyes are quietly asking a small favor of me—his name.
“Wrage,” I say. It didn’t come out a monotone like last time. No, I imbued the one syllable with heartfelt apology for tricking him into mating me, getting him branded, and withholding the salve’s relief.
“Wrage,” I repeat. This time telling him I want more than his patient thumb grazing my lips. Hinting, perhaps, that maybe I’ll welcome his cock inside me when it’s time to do the deed.
A deep growl of approval emerges from his throat, and he sinks his lips onto my mouth. The lips that looked so hard and angry last night are soft as they nibble my bottom lip.
He doesn’t hold back his masculine groans of appreciation as he explores my lips with his tongue, sliding along the seam of my mouth. His hand cups the back of my head. Is this to keep me from pulling away? The last thing I want is to cut this kiss short. Endorphins and lust are swirling through my body and he has yet to touch his lips to mine.
“I’ve waited a lifetime to taste you, Elyse,” his tone is deep and gravelly.
His facade of control gives way as he presses into my mouth and moans at the taste of me. His hand is at my nape, pressing our mouths closer, even as he withholds his hips. If those hips were nearer, I’d writhe against his rigid cock. But no, it’s just his tongue spearing into me as if he’s never tasted anything so divine. That and his fingers trailing up and down the back of my neck like they don’t want to touch anywhere else for fear they’ll break the spell.
His tongue is dancing with mine, stroking within me, stoking my fire. A little mewl escapes me when he pulls away, then my satisfied moan rewards him when his tongue returns.
My clit is throbbing, my core is clenching, I’m sure the scent of my arousal is blasting through the room and down the hallway.
And his scent. Although it’s sweet, it’s not feminine. It’s complex and intoxicating.
My hands release the bedding where they’ve been clenched. I give them permission to explore him. I make them promise not to dip below his waist, then set them free.
Like heat-seeking missiles, they lodge on his shoulders, discovering the deep hollows and ridges of muscle underneath his beautiful blue skin.
“You’re so hard,” I tell him breathlessly when we separate for a moment.
“And you’re so soft,” he says, his knuckles stroking my cheek.
Nipping my bottom lip, he sucks it into his mouth, then releases it. He slants his head a different direction and kisses me, then changes position, as if tasting me from every angle.
And then he pulls away. His gaze still holds mine, but our kiss is officially over.
My breath hitches as something unleashes inside me. I banish all resistance and wiggle closer, managing somehow, against all odds, to grip his cock between my thighs, albeit nestled against purple flannel instead of my lust-slickened skin.
“We have to stop or you’ll be sorry,” he says, his voice rich with disappointment.
I want to tell him I don’t want to stop, what’s making me sorry is the inferno of need vibrating through me and pooling in my pelvis. But he’s right. We’ve known each other only one day. This isn’t going to be a one-night stand. We have a lot to lose if we don’t get this right. The look in his eyes tells me there’s nothing he’d like more than to plunge into my dripping channel—he’s holding back to protect me, not to withhold.
I breathe deeply, my hands still clutching his shoulders, then release my fingers. It takes long seconds more before I free him from the grasp of my needy thighs.
Less than one minute after the galaxy’s best kiss, I’m bombarded with self-doubts. Four years since I was taken from Earth and I still have the frailties of a very human female. Why am I attracted? Why did I kiss him? And does he even know who he’s kissing?
“You know I’m not Sibyl, right?”
“I know.”
“Say it, Wrage.”
“You're not Sibyl.”
“Say it again. When you kiss me I want to be Elyse.”
“You’re not Sibyl. You’re beautiful Elyse who sings like the prettiest bird.”
“Your voice is amazing,” I blurt.
“Now you’re teasing.”
“Come on, you have to know your voice is like, I don’t know, man-silk. You blew me away.”
He looks shocked, one eyebrow cocked.
“You don’t know how incredible your voice is? Why did you get up to sing?”
“To give you the opportunity to heckle me. I wanted you to get back at me so we could get beyond last night.”
My gaze drifts toward his brand, still fiery red although mine has dulled to rose. “We’re even.”
The corners of his mouth tip up, and his thumb returns to brush my lips. This time, though, I still have my sanity.
He orders the soft lighting to turn off and I hear him settling into his covers.
“I know you’re not Sibyl, Elyse,” he says into the pitch darkness “My mreen , buttons as you call them, are an evolutionary tool. I can detect people from a hundred fiertos away in the dark.”
He leans toward me and unerringly places his nose at my temple. After breathing in a deep huff of my essence, he says, “You’re Elyse. Good night.”