Chapter 12 #2
“When watching a movie, yes. What do you want to watch?” She found popcorn on the machine’s menu quickly and set it to work. “Emry is hooked on this bonkers soap opera and I have to admit it’s growing on me.”
“I have suggestions.” He pulled out a sheet of folded paper and held it out.
“Is that real paper? Who uses real paper? I thought it was all screens and gadgets in space.” Gemma took the sheet and read. “These are all Earth movies. A lot from the eighties.”
“I asked for recommendations,” he said, sounding almost bashful about it.
“Sure, but we don’t have to watch an Earth movie. We can watch a Sangrin one, but you might have to explain some stuff to me.”
He took the list back. “No. This is for your relaxation.”
“My bulwark,” she said softly, grabbing a bowl of freshly reconstructed popcorn from the machine. “How about the one at the bottom? It’s about a man who falls in love with a mermaid. I know I’ve seen it, but I don’t remember much about it.”
“I have been informed that it is filled with criminal behavior.”
“Oh, the red flags are what makes it so much fun.” She settled onto the sofa and patted the space next to her.
The movie was as fun as she remembered but filled with jokes that aged like milk, not to mention Zalis’ many, many questions.
No, mermaids were not real.
Well, that’d involve a very long explanation of sirens, manatees, optical illusions, and the crippling isolation of being at sea. Scurvy probably had something to do with it.
Yeah, that does sound similar to space madness.
No, it doesn’t make sense that there’s a water hose just hanging out on the sidewalk in the city. Don’t think about it too hard.
At one point, she caught him staring at her.
“What? Is there something on my face?” Using her sleeve cuff, she brushed the fabric against her face.
“Your hair is fluffy, like a pink cloud.”
Now she touched her hair. “I suppose.”
“I want to pet your head like a fretti.” His fingers twitched.
She scooted away, increasing the gap between them. She didn’t know what a fretti was but the translator suggested a canine creature. Mostly she didn’t want anyone grabbing her hair, not even Zalis.
“Let me pet you. I am curious,” he said, oblivious to every social norm about keeping your hands to yourself.
“Too fucking bad. You don’t go around petting people. It’s weird.”
“You may touch my horns in return,” he offered.
That got her attention. She had wondered what his horns felt like. They resembled a ram’s horns but she’d never seen a ram in real life, let alone touched one. The closest she got was a replica Viking drinking horn. So yeah, she was tempted.
Still weird, though.
And it might be therapeutic? Her nightmares always included her hair being grabbed. Maybe letting Zalis touch her hair would take the sting away. Give her control over the act. Or something. She was a baker, not a therapist, but it sounded plausible.
“Deal,” she said. “No pulling, though.”
She shifted on the sofa to face him, one leg folded under her. The other leg with the boot dangled over the edge.
Zalis reached out.
Gemma tensed.
Gently he patted the top of her head, just like she was a dog. Fretti. Whatever. The point was, nothing bad happened.
A delighted grin spread across his face as his fingers raked through the short pixie cut. “It is so fluffy.”
“Thanks. The salon worked some serious magic.”
“Is it painful to change colors? Is it due to diet? Is it environmental? Will other parts of you change colors?” His expression was earnest but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his glee.
He was asking silly questions on purpose, probably to get her to relax.
Gemma brushed his hand away. “No, to all your questions, funny guy. Don’t you have hair dye on your planet?”
“I would tell you that my mother dyes her hair, but I suspect your question was rhetorical,” he said.
Clever alien.
“My turn.”
Obediently he lowered his head, bringing it to her level. She stroked a finger from the tip down to the base. It was hard and surprisingly warm.
“Huh,” she said. “What is it made of?”
“The outer layer is keratin. The inner core is bone.”
“Can you feel that?” She stroked the other horn. The surface was ridged. Visually she could see that it had ridges but they felt very dramatic.
“At the base.”
Her finger circled the base, tangling with his hair.
His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath. The ink on his forearms glowed.
“Yes,” he breathed.
ZALIS
He trembled under her touch. This had not been his intention. From the moment he walked into their shared quarters, he wanted to ask about her colorful hair. When she woke from a fitful sleep, she often tugged at her hair, convincing him that it had been used to hurt her.
Long hair was an obvious target, easy to pull and highly painful. Warriors were encouraged to have short hair for those reasons, but many did not. Long hair was a warrior’s boastful confidence, daring anyone to get close enough to grab a handful.
His own brushed his shoulders, not for boastful reasons.
He disliked the way shorn hair left the back of his neck and base of his horns exposed.
Besides, the wisdom of short hair never made sense to him.
In battle, a warrior wore a helmet. Hair was only exposed in a sparring match, and if the opponent were close enough to grab a fistful of hair, they could easily grab the horns.
None of that mattered; it was only the babbling noise of his brain’s constant churn. What mattered was the way Gemma stared at him, her eyes fixed on his mouth. She licked her lips, leaning forward slightly as if she wanted more.
He’d happily obliged.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He moved closer. One hand went behind her head, his fingers twisting into her soft hair. With his free hand, a thumb brushed her lips. They parted, giving him a glimpse of her pink tongue. He drew her closer, lowering his face to hers.
She was soft. All of her was soft and giving.
The kiss deepened. His teeth tugged on her bottom lip, careful not to injure her with a fang. His tongue plunged into her mouth, brushing against hers. She groaned, rising to her knees and responding with hunger.
Delicious.
His lips drifted down to the curve of her neck, the place where he would leave his mate mark. The scents he associated with her—sugar, vanilla, and butter—were strongest here. His teeth grazed the skin. She shivered in response.
He admired the expanse of skin. Without long hair to hide it, his mark would be visible for all to see. More than admired—adored. He was certain the rest of her was just as captivating and he intended to find out.
“This had not been my intention, but I am not displeased about the result,” he said, stoking the curve of her neck with his thumb.
Her lips twitched. Her smiles were so hard-won that the mere suggestion of one filled him with delight.
He desired a love match above all. Gemma’s elevated heart rate, dilated eyes, and the way she physically responded to the kiss told him that she felt attraction, perhaps even a growing fondness for him.
That gave him hope because he was completely and painfully enamored.
There was no going forward without her.