“Really.” I nod decisively.
“Earth has shops.”
“What are shops to rocks and mountains?”
“You don’t have any mountains! The surface of this planet is completely flat.”
“We have mountains. Underground.”
She rolls her eyes, which I diagnose as her second favorite expression, after the withering glare. “Under-fucking-ground. Because there’s a shit ton of wind above ground. I can’t go outside without it trying to kill me.”
“The wind provides us with endless free power.”
“It isn’t actually free, though, is it? Not when you’re constantly having to run maintenance work on the turbines.”
I wave a dismissive hand.Details.
“That’s it.” She stands again. “Time to get back to work.”
“Time for me to return to work, yes. For you?—”
“Think very carefully about what you’re about to say next.” She points a shaky finger at me. There are shadows under her eyes, and her filthy clothes are streaked with dark algae stains.
“It is nothing to take offense at. You worked yourself too hard this morning. You should rest?—”
“Yeah, nah.” She steps around the table, heading toward the door that leads back into the caves. “I’m not tired. And you don’t get to tell me what to do all the time. Sure, the others obey your demands, but I’m not like them.”
“No,” I agree. “You are not.”
She pauses, as if silently searching my words for a hidden meaning.
I step closer, under the pretense of also heading toward the door. Her fingers rest on the handle, and I casually reach for it too.
I think I hear a catch in her breathing. Or mayhaps I am imagining it. I can imagine a lot of things—like how easy it would be to step closer, eliminating the small amount of remaining space between us. I imagine that the pink flush in her face is there not because she is angry at me, but because she is pressed against my chest, her eyes dark with wanting.
It happens like this sometimes—when I am tired or distracted. Suddenly, the breath sticks in my lungs, and I swear my thoughts short-circuit. Then I am filled with what can only be described as an ache. It sits uncomfortably in my chest, an unwanted reminder of what I do not have, what I will probably never have, but what I want.
What I wantis to look at my future and see Lydia in it. But not Lydia as she is now—angry, exhausted, frightened. Battling an impossible fight, one she is never going to win. But happy, content, peaceful.
And then it hits me—what that scent is.Desire.
My mouth drops open. I am floored. Lydia…desires me?
Is that possible?
She is watching me, distracted enough by what she sees that she does not pull her hand away from mine.
I breathe deep, chasing the fast-fading smell. It is incredible. Infatuating. Exhilarating. It has my cock swelling, pushing against the confines of my slit, as my imagination presents me with a dozen different ways I could fuck Lydia. She need only wrap her legs around my waist once more.
And then another thought occurs to me. What if she really can read my expressions, as she claimed? What if she knows I am thinking about thrusting into her warm heat? Fucking heruntil she cannot remember her own name, until she cannot remember that she wishes to leave?
My desires are a betrayal of everything she is trying to achieve, and I hastily break eye contact, striding around the table to get as far from her as possible, praying she does not notice my barely contained cock.
“You’re acting weird today,” she says. “More weird than normal.”
I ran a hand down my face, scratching at my scales and trying to hide from her scrutinizing gaze. “I am distracted by the harvest,” I say, which could be true.
Grabbing my datapad, I flick aimlessly through the applications, pretending to be focused on work. When I accidentally launch InGal, it reloads the last search (29,353 direct hits for Reality Investments), sparking a cowardly idea.
