I sighed. Normally, an Atlan Warlord placed the set of mating cuffs on his own wrists and the matching pair on his female at the same time. The technology synched, created a bond that ensured the female could not run or reject the male’s claim out of hand, out of panic or fear. It gave the beast time to woo her properly.
The erotic image the beast sent to me—him holding her up against the wall and fucking her into mindless pleasure—made my cock hard and my jaw clench.
Knock it off. This is difficult enough without you tormenting me.
MINE!
Fuck. The beast had a one track mind, which meant I did as well.
I was sure if I had a mirror, I’d see steam rising from my overheated skin in this rain. Blessing and a curse, the Hive technology imbedded in my flesh. I could hear her heart beating from my perch on the neighbor’s rooftop. A quick visual scan—which I performed every few minutes—indicated her intoxication level—she was drinking something from a glass bottle that smelled of alcohol—data about her body temperature, heart and respiration rate flashed across the implanted lenses in my eyes. I knew everything I needed to know, except what was going on in my mate’s mind.
How to tell her the truth without scaring her. How to earn her trust. Her truth.
Her love. Devotion. Caring. Acceptance of my claim.
Just because I put the mating cuffs on her wrists didn’t mean she would accept me or my beast. By interstellar law, she would have thirty days to reject my claim.
I had to woo her. Seduce her. Make her fall in love with a warlord who was more monster than male. A killer with scars. A body imbedded with Hive tech.
She kissed the fucking cat on the top of his head, and I barely held back a groan of longing. Never thought I’d be envious of the fucking Prillons and their mating collars, of the telepathic link they shared with their mates. Easy to seduce a female when one knew what she truly wanted, every emotion she was feeling, before she had a chance to speak it aloud.
Thank the gods, my female liked to talk to herself. The only thing better than my Hive enhanced vision was my hearing.
Krystal
* * *
I shouldn’t still be thinking about him. Since I’d met Iven Smith, I had a new after school routine. I would find Brody as quickly as possible and then bolt to my car like a frightened mouse, afraid I’d see him again, and say or do something stupid. Embarrassing. Or worse, reckless. Something that would put us in danger. Something like throw myself at him and beg him to take care of us. Protect us.
Give me a dozen orgasms.
“Stop.” I shook my head as I chastised myself, my libido, my lack of self-control.
Dinner was done. I’d read Brody a story and tucked him into bed before grabbing a drink. Normally, I was too paranoid to indulge in alcohol, afraid I wouldn’t be fully alert to danger. But we’d been here a couple weeks now, with no signs of trouble.
Unless one enormous, sexy man counted as trouble.
He totally did.
“Mr. Smith. Iven Smith.” I buried his name under a mouthful of sweet Rumchatta. With a frown, I realized my cup was empty. I grabbed the white, glass bottle and poured more of the delicious drink over my remaining ice cubes.
“Smith.” Hmmm. Could he have a more boring name?
Of course, that wasn’t his name anymore. My brain had changed it to Mr. Yum.
Mr. I Want Some.
Mr. How Dare You Be That Sexy?
I’d been unable to tune out the rampant gossip about him running wild in the teacher’s lounge and on the playground. Everywhere I went, every single teacher, assistant, administrator…hell, even the lunch ladies were talking about him now. Small town. Small school. Big man. He was probably the talk of the entire town. Iven. Perfect name for a massive Viking with sun-kissed brown hair and hazel eyes. I imagined him in medieval gear, wolf fur draped over his shoulders, bare chest and back, a sword and shield in his hands. Maybe even a giant horned helmet on his head, which probably wasn’t even historically accurate. History wasn’t really my thing.
My vagina didn’t care. My imaginings somehow made him even hotter. And every day my obsession got worse.
Kindergarten teacher Iven was hot. Viking Iven was pure sexual fantasy. One I indulged in because I knew the reality. He would never touch me. I would never touch him. I would never kiss him. He would never be mine.
I sipped my sugary, white, alcoholic beverage and wandered the small confines of the covered back porch. The light was off. I didn’t like attracting moths. It was cool, but I preferred bare feet. Looked a bit ridiculous with the knee-length, red and black flannel shirt-dress I still had on, but I didn’t bother changing out of the dress when I got home from work. The cotton was comfy, and I didn’t want to have to do any more laundry than absolutely necessary. The Rumchatta I sipped was doing a passable job of warming me up from the inside. Although, not quite as good a job as obsessing about him.
“Why does he have to be so damn hot?” I was on my second glass, which meant I wobbled a little when I walked. And my fantasies about Iven were getting more naughty be the second. “Iven the Viking.” Sip. “He can raid my village anytime,” I whispered to the hanging fern on my left, as if it could understand me.
