The expression was understood, he wanted to tell her. If only he knew what he wanted to “dish.”
“Come here,” he said, reaching for her. His voice was gruff, and he felt even more so. She was quick in the water, though, and kicked her feet in his direction, propelling her away from him.
For the first time in his lengthy service, he wanted very much to allow a creature—her, Sonya—access to their consciousness. The technology existed, and they had used it once upon a time, but it had been retired. The females who had connected to them, while generally reacting better to their brief imprisonment, proved more difficult to return. Memories were more stubborn once the biotech had reached into their minds, and trace elements of the tech were impossible to remove.
But allowing her to access the consciousness would allow her to understand his real form of communication. She didn’t seem to care much for his word choices. Rychor pondered, and not for the first time, the curious primitive communication among the humans: they did it entirely through auditory message transmission.
He watched Sonya in the water, and inside him, the very tight ball of emotion that he had kept guarded for so long sprung loose, string by string, expanding and filling the cavity of his chest.
He knew this feeling, even if he had never felt it before. It echoed in the Ryvokia consciousness, an experience shared with all by the few who had mated: it was a concentrated desire, a focus that would narrow to one, singular female.
Her.
CHAPTER11
She was relieved when he lunged for her, when he moved so quickly that she was back in his arms again, the heat of his body pushing the cool away from her skin, brushing up against her sore bottom—which, to be fair to him and his convictions about the water, was not as sore anymore.
The sob came out of her as soon as she was in his arms. She wasn’t entirely sure what game she had been playing, but she was grateful for him to have ended it. She craved his touch and felt detached and lost without him.
“Listen to me,” he said, once he had her in his arms. “I brought you here to heal you. I brought you here to tell you…”
And then, again, he broke off. A swell of fury rose up in her throat and she groaned, making a sound of animal frustration. She slapped at his arms and struggled to turn herself around, very much wanting to dig her fingers into his solid flesh and just… just…slap him.
“Just finish your stupid sentence already!” she shrieked. Tears—the real kind, born of a deep frustration—were welling up in her eyes.
But no matter how much she clawed, kicked, and screamed, Rychor just held her in the cocoon of his arms, unmoved by any of it. It was odd, then, that she returned to this thought for comfort: he was so strong, and so stoic, that she could depend on him being exactly as he was.
She collapsed against his chest, the solid muscle warm against her cheek. “Just finish your sentence,” she murmured, without really thinking.
What happened next was instinctive. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, forgetting that she was naked, not even thinking of Rychor’s sparse clothing. His hands moved to her ass, cupping her buttocks and gently massaging the soreness from her skin. Warmth traveled through her cooled muscles, chilled by the pool, and deep into her core.
For a long time they were like that in the water, Rychor holding her and massaging away the pain of his punishment, the humiliation of her public spanking dissolving into the pool and disappearing.
She would never know who started it. Things took place as they would in a choreographed dance. Her hands moved to the material covering his groin, and it felt familiar to her touch. She found the mechanism for unwrapping it as if she had done it millions of times before, and the material fell away, drifting into the water swirling in light currents around their thighs.
Her legs sensed his manhood first, brushing up against the flesh of her inner thigh. A warm, viscous liquid smeared over her skin and clung to it, sinking into her bloodstream and heating her the way a shot of hard alcohol warmed going down.
But she wanted to feel it for herself, with her fingers, and so she did, slipping her hands between their bodies, fingers outstretched to capture it. When she closed her hand around the tip, she felt a tremor travel through Rychor’s body. Someone said her name in a low voice, and nothing more.
It was heavy in her hand, rock-solid and throbbing. The thickness was intimidating, and a thought wandered through her mind: she should be afraid of it. The thought, though, wandered out of her consciousness the same way it had come in, and then it floated away, like Rychor’s fabric, and she stopped thinking about it at all.
All she knew was that she wanted him. She wasn’t close enough to him, even with her skin against his and her weight draped over his body. The touch of his hands only made her want him more, and the hunger had been building for a long time. It was only now that she recognized it for what it was.
Rychor went stiff as she explored him with her fingers, feeling out the shape of it. It was bigger than a human’s, but not much else was different about it; blood vessels wrapped around it and pulsed when she touched them, and it was long like a human male’s. The knobby end was thicker, in comparison to the shaft, than a human male’s, but the bulbous shape of it held an erotic appeal that she felt rather than thought about. Even before he entered her, she knew what it would be like to have the bulbous mass rolling against her, stretching her open for the long length of flesh he would drive deep inside her.
Which of them made the move to couple? She would never know. Rychor went stiff when she moved her hips to lift her body and give him a way to enter her, and for a brief second, she thought he was going to call an end to what was happening.
Instead, he remained stiff as the crown of his cock dragged over her thigh, leaving a sensual trail of his liquid, but as soon as his cock touched the slick flesh of her pussy, his body reacted. First a tremor, then he was in motion.
One hand went to the back of her head and palmed it as he tipped his head forward and kissed her. It was a possessive, wild kiss, primal and passionate. The fingers of his other hand worked into her pussy from behind, exploring her, then dipping inside of her and spreading to stretch her open.
And then he was helping her rise, guiding his member into her hole. The whole head of cock against her small pussy gave her a shiver of fear, but not enough to counteract her longing. She wanted him inside her.
She let her weight sink slowly onto him, and he stared into her eyes as his manhood pushed into her. She winced at first, and he gripped her hips fiercely to pause, his eyes questioning her.
She shook her head and continued to sink, letting his thickness stretch her wide and fill her. The thickness of his crown stimulated her exactly as she had expected, exactly how she had imagined it just moments before. When she couldn’t accommodate him any further, the bulbous end was pressed taut against her cervix, and she felt the mild discomfort momentarily, until it grew into a slow-burning amber.
Rychor was staring at her in disbelief when she looked him in the eyes again. His fingers tightened in her hair, and he gritted his teeth. She barely had time to think. This was it, what she had always been looking for: this kind of connection, this obvious devotion and passion from a lover. That Rychor was an alien didn’t matter to her at all; he felt right inside of her. They belonged together.
