THE MATING CHAMBER #2
I test the edge. I take two steps toward the door, trying to appear casual.
He doesn’t move.
I take another step, and one of his hands twitches.
I take a fourth step, and he stands there, breathing hard, a muscle jumping in his arm.
I realize with a dizzy rush that he isn’t going to force me. Not here, not now, maybe not ever. He wants me to be willing. This room is built to make my resistance melt away, to make surrender easy. This chamber is the ultimate trap. It's an invitation I'm not sure I’ll want to refuse forever.
He walks to the far end of the room, sits on some furs, and waits. He’s patient. But not at peace. He wants me, and I want him, and the only thing between us is me.
Every muscle in me is locked in fight-or-flight, but neither is an option, so I choose motion. I pick my way through the room.
I walk to a table holding curved, carved items. Some are shaped like spoons or brushes, long, short, slender, thick.
The materials are distinctly high-tech. I risk a glance at Rythar.
He swallows hard as I pick one of the objects up in my hands.
I put it down swiftly when I realize its purpose.
I never saw any sex toys on New Terra, but I heard about them.
I look at the chairs and beds. There’s a heavy, curved form shaped to cradle bodies together, and another with indents for knees and hands. I flush, but curiosity burns hot.
A memory needles me. On New Terra, sanctioned breeding attempts were often scheduled. Unsanctioned mating was attempted often, and not illegal, but it was difficult to find privacy. My first time was ten minutes on a cot. Kind. Rushed. Functional. The important thing was to try for a child.
I imagine Rythar’s hands fitting into the shapes, his body pressed into mine.
My face goes hot. I was given to Rythar as a Starfallen Bride, for the express purpose of mating with him.
Isn’t a child the entire point? So why does this place feel designed around pleasure instead of function?
I press my hands to my face, trying to straighten my confusion.
There’s a mirror on the far wall, set into the stone, near a padded couch with multiple angles. I stare at myself. My hair is wild. My cheeks are flushed, eyes dilated, lips red. I look like someone who wants. Someone ready to be wanted.
Rythar shifts. His steps are silent, but I see him in the mirror. He watches me with the hunger of the starving.
I pick up a slender wand from the table that holds bottles. At the tip, a bead of something viscous clings, blue and fragrant.
Oils. Scented. I lift the wand to my nose and inhale. The smell is extremely pleasant—flowers, warming spices, the memory of burned sugar. It lingers on my skin even after I set it back.
The smell relaxes me, and I feel the fear drain away—too fast. I inhale deeply. Rythar is suddenly there, his hand closing over mine as he takes the wand and returns it to the bottle.
“This oil removes fear,” he says. “When used carefully.”
His thumb lingers on the seal. "Used in excess, it does not make you calm. It makes you reckless." He puts the bottle back, precisely where it was. "Fear has a purpose. I would not take yours from you."
Instead, he picks up the orange bottle and uncorks it. He sniffs, then looks at me with an odd, almost amused expression.
He tips a drop on the inside of his wrist, rubs it in, then holds his wrist out. I hesitate, then lean in. The scent is dizzying, sweet, smoky and strangely familiar. My mouth waters.
"What is it?"
"It has no name in your language."
"Try."
"It is what the jungle smells like after rain. When something is about to grow."
He tips another drop onto his fingers and paints the scent over my heart. The skin tingles, warmth spreading outward in a slow pulse. My breath catches. Every nerve ending in my breasts lights up. My nipples go hard, pressing against the white dress I still wear.
He tracks the reaction, eyes hooded, lips curling in a hint of a smile. He repeats the ritual, letting loose another drop, this time trailing down my shoulder. The heat blooms along the path, straight to the pit of my stomach.
He steps back, watching, waiting for my response.
I want to fall into his arms. I want to drop to my knees and taste every inch of him.
Instead, I whisper, “That’s not fair.”
He shrugs, a slow, rolling lift of those massive shoulders. “You can get in the pool to wash it off.”
I could, but I have nothing else to wear. Getting into the pool would mean stripping naked, or wearing my white dress into the water.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
Then he crooks a finger, inviting me to approach.
I do. I’m reckless, wild, high on the oils or the room or him. I stop a hand's breadth from his body. He stands so still he could be carved from the mountain, except I can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes faster.
I reach up and touch his arm. He does not move as I trace the line of one scar, then another.