32. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
T hree months later . . .
Maddie
I’m so glad I’m having a good day. I’m working in the kitchen alone and enjoying a blast of creativity.
I just finished giving a class on the difference between sauté, simmer, and boil. Everyone did well and had fun. I hate when I have to cancel one of my cooking classes, and I’m glad I didn’t have to do that today.
One of the best things to come out of my enforced isolation with Stryker is that after a lifetime of insisting I needed no help, I’ve yelled uncle and decided it’s time to ask for assistance when I need it.
I like to eat, so in self-defense I figured I should teach everyone on board how to cook. Although I thought all the women would want to learn, I was pleasantly surprised to find the males were as interested as the females.
Another great thing to come out of that week was the fact that my deep, dark secret was no longer a secret. It was common knowledge. Hence, I didn’t need to hide my bad days anymore. Now, if I’m in too dark a place and am too fatigued to cook I ask for a substitute. Can’t hold class? I just postpone it.
At first, when I took to my room for a depressive moment, everyone would come to my door and enquire solicitously about my mental health. I allowed that to go on for maybe half a day, then I actually took a deep breath, asked Stryker to hold my hand, and held a meeting after dinner. I instructed everyone on how to deal with Maddie’s bad days.
I asked them to pretend I had a cold. Colds don’t require a trip to my cabin or those oh-so-serious are-you-alrights. Colds require a casual, hey, how ya doin’ when people see you again. And I asked them to just skip the ‘how ya doin’s’, which most of them are now pretty good at.
So, I have help in the kitchen for one meal every single day, and more if I ask for it. Everyone’s happy with the new schedule. Most of the couples cook together and feel it strengthens their relationship. Whether the outcome is delicious or not, so far everything has been edible.
“You sure you don’t need help tonight?” Petra asks, tossing her long shocking pink hair in that way she has that reminds me of a frisky horse on a cold morning.
“I have a project I’m working on that requires just me and my ingredients alone in the kitchen, but thanks for asking.”
I’ve combed the Intergalactic Database to find some of Stryker’s homeworld recipes. He mentioned something his mom used to make that translates to ‘paragon cake’ and I’ve been perfecting it. Tonight’s the night I want to share it with him. He’ll like it, I’m sure. He’d like it even if it tastes like ass. Not because I have depression, but because he’s Stryker. My Stryker.
I’m on Dr. Drayke’s third new medication concoction. The first two were no-gos. In fact, the first one made me so depressed I had to fight suicidal thoughts. It’s not the first time I visited that special quadrant of hell. I knew how to battle it, although I must admit, having Stryker there to lean on was a huge plus.
I also went right back to Dr. Drayke. After expressing his shock, he apologized. When I told him this was a common reaction to meds on Earth, he was appalled. I think he figured his meds would be superior to our primitive medical system. He came up with a new one immediately, but it didn't help at all.
Thank God he didn't give up on me because this third attempt is helping. I’m not back to normal. I remember what normal is, and I’m definitely not there yet. But I’m better—for now. I nurture my pessimism quietly, not sharing it with Stryker. There’s no reason for him to know my fear that the improvement won’t last.
I started on meds in my early teens. Most of the new meds brought initial relief which eventually waned and then quit working altogether. I tried everything from SSRIs to tricyclics. Always with the same disappointing end results.
I even tried all the newer treatments out there from Trans Magnetic Stimulation to Ketamine. These gave no lasting results along with the added bonus of shockingly high bills because all those things were considered experimental and weren’t covered by insurance.
So, pardon my pessimism that yet another new treatment might not be able to maintain long-term improvement.
The fact of the matter is, though, I am better. And I will cherish every minute of every day that I have even a little respite.
After frosting it, I hide the paragon cake. I’m generous and giving to a fault, but this cake is for my male and I don’t want him to have to share.
“ L et someone else clean up, Love,” Stryker says after dinner when I scurry back toward the kitchen.
“I can do it,” I say, then remind myself that’s the old Maddie talking.
“Who’s on cleanup detail?” I call to the room.
Dax and Dahlia volunteer.
See how easy? I tell myself.
I convince Stryker to wait for me in our cabin, then grab the cake from its hiding place. Every eye in the room is glued on the white-icinged confection as I carry it through the dining room.
“Once it gets Stryker’s seal of approval, I’ll make a big one for everyone to share,” I call to them in my trademarked happy voice as I sail toward our room.
After our one-week togetherness experiment, one of the changes we made was to start living together. Kind of. I still have bad days. Days so dark I can’t take a shower or spend any energy being nice. Because I don’t want to contaminate Stryker with my blackest of moods, those days are spent in my room. Alone. Without pouting or wheedling from the male who loves me more than life itself.
Although I never thought he’d understand, he does. He leaves me alone and lets me recover. He visits me twice a day, our prearranged limit, but only brings food and a kind, quiet attitude. It gives me the opportunity to ask him to stay if I want, along with no pressure from him. It doesn’t hurt his feelings because he feels confident in my love for him.
When I’m not struggling so hard, though, we live in his cabin. Even though it’s the same layout as mine, only reversed, it feels different in there. It’s full of Stryker’s bigger-than-life self. He’s collected trinkets from every planet he’s fought on since we rebelled and took over the ship. He says it reminds him of his freedom.
“I have credits now,” he said proudly. I get it, the fruits of his hard labor. He finally has something to show for it.
It smells like Stryker in there, too. I like that. It’s not a yucky, sweaty smell; it’s just him. It’s a masculine combo of pine with a hint of eucalyptus. It comforts me.
I’m about to palm the entry plate when the door whooshes open. It’s as if he knew I was coming.
When he sees the cake in my hands, his eyes widen in surprise and a smile blooms on his face.
“Paragon cake, Love,” I say, one eyebrow winging up in what I hope is a signal that I’m hoping for a second act after the cake is consumed.
We sit at our little table and I cut two slices, one human-sized, one Halckon-gladiator-sized. He takes a bite, rolls his eyes, and makes a deep, growly mmmm sound that signals there are more growly sounds in our future.
“This is delicious,” he says around a mouthful of cake, “but not good enough.” My gaze doesn’t even fly to his to see if he’s joking. He’d never say anything like this if there wasn’t something good to follow. “It would taste better if you fed it to me Mads.”
I’m out of my seat and on his lap in half a second, forking food into his mouth, my tongue wiping off little bits of icing that didn’t make it all the way.
“I love you, Stryker.” Why it took me so long to be able to say this is beyond me. It’s like breathing now. I say it every chance I get.
“I love you too, Mads. I love our life.”
He’s said this before, but I like hearing it. It’s reassuring. I guess another guy would hate that I kept my cabin to retreat to at times, but he’s the same Stryker he’s always been—indulgent and understanding.
His caramel eyes get that fiery look that tells me one appetite is slaked and now he’s hungry for something else. I swipe a finger full of frosting across his lips and lick it off with the tip of my tongue.
“Someone tastes sweet,” I say, so glad I’m having a good day and my love can be expressed effortlessly.
“Someone is sweet,” he answers as he brushes the seam of my lips with his tongue.
Even though it’s wrapped in a loincloth, his cock is already hard, pressing against my hip.
It makes sense that our lovemaking is different now that our relationship has changed. I was always so busy keeping him at an emotional distance, I never really allowed myself to open fully to him.
There’s nothing between us now. Not even me.
His fingers slide through my springy curls as he deepens our kiss. He’s giving me the full Stryker experience—all of him. The happy little grunting noises from the back of his throat, the burst of the flavor I can only describe as Stryker, the piney scent of his skin, and his cock kicking at my hip.
Before our enforced solitude, our couplings were always swift affairs as we raced to the finish line. I was in a race because I couldn’t tolerate the intimacy, he was in a race to provide me as much pleasure as possible before I hit my limit and kicked him out of my room.
Now our lovemaking is slow and sensual when we want it to be. He loves taking detours to stop and smell the roses. I’ve learned to enjoy these experiences best of all.
He pulls away and looks at me, bombarding me with love from the lambent blaze of his brown eyes.
“Have I told you lately how pretty you are?” he asks, his handsome head cocked at an angle, an almost-imperceptible smile on his face.
“It’s been ages, Love. You’ve been withholding from me again. I haven’t heard it since lunch, maybe longer.”
“I must be getting lazy. I’ll have to say it all flowery like the males in the vids you make me watch.” He cocks his head the other direction and drinks me in as if I’m a vision of loveliness. This alone causes an interesting swoop in my tummy and signals not only sexual interest but all the lovey-dovey feelings I fought against so hard for a year.
He thinks a moment longer, as if he wants to get his words just right. “I used to stay up nights, watching you sleep,” he admits bashfully.
I want to ease his mind. “I know. When I wasn’t busy pushing you away it made me feel cherished.”
This puts a huge smile on his face. “I’d stay up and try to figure out exactly what it was about you that made you the prettiest female I’d ever seen. Was it your eyes? Although they’re the deepest, most beautiful brown, a color I want to dive into, it wasn’t them. Your nose? It’s this adorable little button, but taken on its own it wasn’t that. Your mouth? Oh, Mads, your mouth is my favorite, I have to admit. It’s not only perfectly shaped, but it provides me so much pleasure.
“But none of those things taken by themselves explain the depth and breadth of your beauty. I think it’s the whole. The package. That’s what makes you so beautiful.”
I’m tearing up now, his words are just so exquisite. To his credit, he doesn’t worry for a moment that these are sad tears. He knows what he’s doing to me and that I’m touched by his magical remarks. He simply wipes my tears away with his big thumb and keeps talking, never taking his gaze from mine.
“Now I get to look at you all the time, not just in your sleep. I’ll never tire of it.”
“Nor I you, handsome male.”
A few months ago, this is what started an argument. I thought I was the queen of building walls between us, but he had a few barriers he’d erected, too. That moment in the ludus , when he let down his guard and admitted his shame about his face, brought us closer together. I can call him handsome now without worry. He allows it to sink in.
Cupping his palm to the back of my head, he pulls me forward and slants his lips over mine. Gone is the gentle brushing of a moment ago, we’re getting to one of my favorite parts. Well, I guess they’re all my favorite parts.
He lifts me and sets me on the floor next to our bed, then pulls my t-shirt over my head as if it was Cinderella’s fanciest dress. The light shining in his eyes tells me how precious I am, as his gaze flicks from my head to my toes.
He removes my bra, then leggings and panties. Now another head-to-toe inspection that brings a predatory smile to his lips. He circles his hands around my throat, pausing for a moment. I told him once how this helps me relax into our lovemaking. Having his big, strong hands on the vulnerable column of my neck sends a subliminal message to my brain that he could kill me in a second—and reminds me that he won’t.
It’s a quick, reflexive reminder that he loves me and would never hurt me, and I can loosen my tight grip on all my protective impulses. I can let go and allow him to love me just the way he wants. It even makes the snakes quit hissing for a while. Now it’s just him and me.
Just as quickly as he surrounded my throat, he releases it and slides those calloused palms around my shoulders and down my arms. He lets loose a deep rumbly sound of appreciation as he touches my midriff and waist and hips—claiming each part of me.
Then he whips off his loincloth, picks me up, and tosses me onto the bed. So much for loving porcelain-doll Maddie. Now we get to fuck. The hot, dirty sex we had before I gave my heart to him. I still love this part the best.
With one hand on each ankle, he splits my legs open and dives between them. Yeah, all the preliminaries are in the rearview mirror.
“That’s right, gladiator, take me.”
He can’t answer right now, his mouth is busy making me crazy. His tongue pierces into me as if he couldn’t wait to taste me. The deep moaning growl he releases tells me it’s true.
“So good,” he says, then gets back to work tongue-fucking me. I point my knees upward and clutch his hair, putting all of my attention on my internal edict not to pull it in my passion. When I’m certain my fingers will obey, I slide right back into my sensual cocoon and moan with pleasure.
He moves that talented tongue higher and swirls it around my pleasure button until I think maybe I’ll go crazy.
“You’re mean,” I manage to whisper through lips dry from panting. He sucks my clit into his mouth, the suction driving me insane, then hums. “So. Very. Mean,” I say, meaning none of it.
His hands get into the act now, plucking my nipples, then rolling, then plucking again. I want to scold my evil lover, but I don’t want to break his perfect rhythm.
My approaching orgasm begins swirling in my pelvis, my muscles tightening in response, getting ready for the upcoming cataclysm. He knows just what I need to let go, but he keeps me circling at DefCon 2 so I can ramp a little higher, need a little more desperately. I love him for his attention to detail and despise him in equal measure.
“Please,” I say, knowing it won’t hurry him to give me what I need. He knows one measly please means I’m not desperate enough. He just keeps attacking my clit, ramping me higher, squeezing my nipples until it’s right on the cusp between pleasure and pain.
“Please,” I say again, this time more breathy and demanding.
His response is one hard burst of suction that is so delicious my teeth clamp together as I wait for release. My hips thrust against him urging him to bring me to completion.
“Please, Stryker,” it’s a whisper now, the ultimate message that I’m beyond ready.
He releases my nipple and slides two fingers into me, pumping in the same rhythm as he sucks at my clit. My orgasm is hard and loud and immediate. I can’t control my fingers from pulling his hair as every muscle in my body spasms in pleasure.
“You’re a sex god,” I say when I can talk again, my hands clutching his thick, muscular shoulders as if he might run away.
His response? An eloquent grunt before he returns to his mission. He learned long ago to ignore my protests that I was sated, that I needed only one release. He simply returns to his task, this time flicking my already sensitized little bud with the hardened tip of his tongue.
It takes about a minute for me to find release again, my muscles squeezing rhythmicallyaround the two fingers he’s buried deep inside me until I dissolve into a delicious puddle of satisfaction.
He lies on his back and, with his hands on my hips, urges me on top of him. “Ride me,” he breathes as his lids close to half-mast.
I love this position, my knees straddled wide at his hips, my core already aching to be filled by him. I get to watch his gorgeous face change with every inch further he slides into me.
His top teeth bite his lower lip as I grab his thick red cock and swipe it between my folds, covering it with my cream. As much as I love the waiting game as he ramps me up, my male is not a fan. When he’s ready to come, he doesn’t want delays.
I slide onto him one inch at a time, though, because I love to watch his changing expressions. From his eyes popping open in delight, to shuttering in bliss as I hit bottom. Then there’s the ride as I pump from a sitting position, then lean lower, my nipples dragging across his muscled chest.
When he can’t take any more, he flips us over so I’m on my back, and pounds into me, grunting in pleasure with every hard thrust. His strong hands grip my shoulders as I clutch his hair.
I can’t watch him anymore, I’m too close to my own release. His pelvis drags against my clit, pushing me over the edge one more time. Perhaps it’s the way my muscles tighten around his cock that forces his release. His hot liquid jets into me, then he collapses on top of me, holding his weight on his forearms near my shoulders.
After a short pause as both of us drift back to the land of the living, my body happy and sated—for now—he turns on his side and traces patterns on my cheeks, forehead, and chin.
I love when he does this. It’s doubly wonderful because for so long I denied us both the pleasure of enjoying the adoring afterglow two people in love share after sex. We both like it now. I reveal all the love I feel for him through my gaze and the warmth of my palm on his handsome, scarred cheek.
“That sure was good cake, Mads.” He kisses my nose.
“Thanks.”