Another wave hits me. Stronger this time, maybe because I can see him. Smell him on the morning air. My back arches involuntarily. My pussy clenches so hard I see white spots. A sound escapes despite my bitten arm, something between moan and whimper.
His head snaps up. Those alien eyes lock onto my position instantly.
Found.
I should run. That's the smart move. But the wave hasn't passed and my legs won't work. All I can do is ride out the clenching, the empty spasms that make my whole body shake.
Forty-two seconds.
When my vision clears, he's standing directly in front of my blind. Close enough I can see the patterns within patterns on his scales. Fractals that draw the eye in spirals.
“Watching the watcher,” he says. The translator gives the words tone that might be amusement.
“Learning patterns,” I manage, though my voice cracks.
“What have you learned?”
“You're predictable. Same time. Same gifts. Same approach.”
His head tilts at an angle that would snap a human neck. “You think so?”
The tail moves faster than my eyes can track. It wraps around my ankle, not tight but present. The scales are smooth in one direction, slightly serrated in the other. Every micro-movement sends sensation shooting up my leg.
“Three days of observation is nothing,” he continues. “You see what I chose to show.”
“Then show me something real.”
He crouches, bringing us to eye level. This close, I can smell him properly. Musk and ozone, crushed vegetation and something alien that made my body answer with a hot rush of arousal that threatened to betray my position. The tonic recognizes him as compatible. More than compatible. Ideal.
“Real?” His primary hand reaches out, one finger extending toward my face. Not touching. Just close enough I feel the heat from his skin. “Real is your body knowing what it needs despite your mind's resistance.”
“Chemistry isn't choice.”
“No. But fighting chemistry is also choice. Painful choice.”
His finger moves closer, still not touching. The anticipation is worse than contact would be. My whole body strains toward that almost-touch, seeking what it's been programmed to crave.
“Why the game?” I ask. “You could take me anytime. I'm compromised. Weakened. No real threat.”
“Taking teaches nothing. Breaking wastes potential.” His secondary arms gesture toward my trap. “You think tactically despite torture. Plan despite pain. This interests me.”
“Interest enough to just watch me suffer?”
“Interest enough to watch you evolve.”
The tail tightens slightly around my ankle. The pressure makes me gasp, hips rocking involuntarily. My pussy clenches on nothing, desperately seeking something to grip.
“Day three,” he says. “Most humans surrender by now. Beg for anything to end the emptiness. You set traps.”
“Training beats biology.”
“Does it?” His other primary hand gestures to my body. The evidence of my arousal. The wet spot spreading on my tactical pants. The way my nipples are visible through my sports bra, hard points that ache constantly. “Your training stops this?”
Heat floods my face. Anger and humiliation mixing. “My training keeps me thinking despite this.”
“For now.”
He releases my ankle and stands. A raw sound of protest tore from my throat as he pulled away.
