He was a good lover, and better every time. Each time they made love, he gathered information about her responses and incorporated whatever had pleased her most into the subsequent session, so he was always better, always making her come violently, crashing down from a peak of pleasure so intense that it had scared her at first.
He found her clit with his fingers, finding exactly the right place inside her, pressing the raw, interior bundle of nerves and her clit between his fingers as he stroked her.
He moved his head down her body, parting her legs with his hands as he did so. He pushed her into a mound of waiting pillows, the bed sensing their exploits and adjusting to them, to how Rychor wanted her when he began to lick her between her legs.
He liked to look up at her, watching her reaction, as he lapped at her sweet juices and worked her clit between his lips, his tongue flicking rigorously until she shuddered and screamed in pleasure.
Only then, as she lay almost inert, panting and zapped of strength, did he rise onto his knees, peeling away the clothing that covered his groin, allowing his enormous cock to unfurl.
She gripped him by the shoulders and tried to pull him on top of her; this was what she craved, more than anything, the fullness of his cock, stretching her open, filling her already cramped abdomen, his weight on her body.
But Rychor had limits now that he had impregnated her, and they were hard limits, even for her—to whom he gave almost anything she desired.
He twisted her left leg over her right, folding her over, tugging a pillow beneath her hips to turn her bottom up at him. And then, without sinking onto her body, he entered her slowly.
She was slick and throbbing with desire, already stretched from every other session with him, so he glided easily into her body. And from there, he moved slowly and gently inside her—torturing her with the slow, gentle buildup to her next orgasm. She willed him to pound her as he had before, but he only smiled down at her, aware of her desire, but refusing to act on it. He insisted that he would do nothing but gently make love to her while she was pregnant.
She had other plans, but so far Rychor was winning the argument.
She relaxed and gave in to his way of doing things. He had promised to return to the wild, room-destroying passion of before, as soon as she was ready. For now, all she could do was let him make love to her slowly and gently, while she twisted in the agony of deprivation and overstimulation crashing into each other, sometimes for hours.
He always made her come first, and then, only as she shuddered and her eyes rolled back in her head, her body limply shaking, did he drive himself deep inside and groan with his own pleasure. She welcomed the heat of his seed, the wetness of it spreading within her flesh, filling her, completing her.
She lay, enjoying the rare few minutes that she felt satisfied completely and the hunger for Rychor had not started again, fresh and just as urgent as the time before. She wondered if she would ever feel less than wildly in love with him, if the high would ever become dull.
She hoped not. Rychor pulled her to his chest and encircled her in his arms for a long time, his warmth and the security of his muscled body giving her a sense of protection and safety like she had never known.
“What will you do today, my mate?” he asked her after a few minutes, his hand stroking her stomach. He nuzzled her ear, his breath lighting her skin on electrical fire again, stirring up a craving inside her.
“If I had my choice,” she murmured, “I’d stay in bed with you all day and night.” This was always her answer, and it was true. Rychor kissed her neck and his hands moved over her body, down low, between her thighs, stroking her damp skin in small, molten circles.
“But you cannot,” he murmured, his hands telling a different story momentarily, but at last receding from between her legs and moving up her body, to her cheek, which he stroked gently. “So what will you do instead?”
She pecked him on the cheek. He was right, of course. She couldn’t just spend all day in bed, making love with her alien mate, for the rest of her life. However much she might want to.
“I’m going to take a walk to the farming pod,” she told him, “and then go to work.”
Since she had been here in her new capacity—not as a vessel to be used and returned with no memory of her service to the Ryvokia, but as arealmate, a member of Ryvokia society with rights and responsibilities accordingly—she had discovered that the underground caves were structured like an enormous, almost endless ant colony. There were pods with domes of light glowing over crops that grew on their home planet, domes of forests and lakes, and a dome that worked like a planetarium, the ground covered in a soft moss where Ryvokia fought tooth and nail for an opportunity to spend the night there, like camping. Rychor was elite enough that she could go whenever she wished, she had only to ask.
She had an elaborate route to her job—and she had an actual job—that took her through the best domes and ultimately felt like a walk through the country back on Earth, something she hadn’t experienced since childhood.
Rychor frowned. This was always his first reaction. Even though she was very obviouslyhishuman—the only human, currently, or ever, in a Ryvokia colony—and therefore treated with such reverence by all Ryvokia that they sometimes frustrated her attempts at having a semi-normal life there, he was fiercely protective of her.
“The incline is very steep,” he said. “Why not go somewhere else?”
She kissed him on the cheek and bounced out of the bed. “I like it down there. And if I even so much as sigh too loudly, someone whisks me away.”
Let alone if she had even slightly labored breathing, which was something they’d had to work out earlier; Rychor had come barreling down to her at the planetarium pod when she had gone jogging on the soft moss, because her heart rate had been higher than what he’d expected.
“It’s good for humans to exercise while pregnant,” she reminded him. And then she added, because she knew it was coming—she could feel the thought forming in his mind, “I will stay in my limits.” She smiled.
“I will accompany you,” he said.
“That never works,” she laughed. And it didn’t. If Rychor went with her on a walk, they would end up having sex in the crops, or fooling around by a lake somewhere. “And I have a lot to do today. So do you.”
Rychor followed her to the shower she had only wished for once, musing aloud, and which he had designed and had built for her, to the amused astonishment of Afina, who had watched its operation with one eye cocked.
Ryvokia only bathed in the cave waters, and they thought she was pretty crazy taking a shower. But that hadn’t stopped them from making one for her.
