“Lydia.”
She grasps the table edge to steady herself. “I—” She clears her throat and tries again, but no sound leaves her mouth but a breathless gasp for air.
“Lydia!” I direct her onto my abandoned seat, my heart beating roughly in my chest. I have seen her like this only a few times before, when she could not catch her breath. She has a small device that delivers medication into her lungs called…I cannot remember, and it does not matter.
What does matter is that she always carries it with her, and I search the pockets of her breeches, nearly tearing the fabric in my haste, until I find it.
“Here.” I press the gray L-shaped device into Lydia’s hand, as I have seen Harlee do, and I direct her hand toward her mouth.
“Not”—a ragged breath—“asthma.” Another ragged breath and a shake of her hand as she pulls her hand free of my hold, dropping her medicine.
I fall to my knees in front of her. Her face is so pale, her pupils dilated.
“I’m”—a harsh breath, too shallow—“fine.”
“You are not scudding fine.”
Her eyes flash, fierce and angry—always so angry—and for one wild second I hope I have distracted her enough that her breathing returns to normal, but something inside of her seems to shrink down, and she sucks in another too shallow, too painful breath.
I scoop her into my arms, always so easy to carry, and sprint across to the kitchen to one of the closed doors leading from the central room of the house. Holding her in two arms, I have a free hand to turn the handle, and I stumble into the medical bay.
Inside is a single alcove set into a wall, and inside the alcove is an upright medi pallet large enough for a Ril’os to comfortably stand in. I head toward it, intending to place Lydia inside so that the computer can run diagnostic scans of her body, but she catches sight of the polyplastic case and immediately thrashes against my hold. Droplets bead her forehead, and she shoves against my chest with all the weak strength of a female who cannot draw a clear breath.
“No”—a ragged breath. “Fuck”—another ragged breath—“no!”
“It will help you.”
“No! Never—getting—in—that. Can’t—make—me!”
“You are not thinking clearly,” I argue, but it is evident my efforts to help are merely making everything worse, and I back out of the room, slamming the door closed with my booted foot.
I would not have thought there would be such advanced medical facilities on Earth…so maybe it was on John Smith’s spaceship that Lydia saw something similar.
I grit my teeth against the continuing harm he has caused.
It is only when I have returned Lydia to her chair at the kitchen table that her struggling subsides. Her breathing does not return to normal, though. I have another idea, but—scudding fek!
“You are going to hate me for this,” I tell her, partly because I cannot believe what I am about to do and partly because Iwanther to hate me. I want her to be so furious that she cannot keep panicking. I want her to be so furious that she draws a deep, strong breath into her lungs so that she can berate me with the full force of her Lydia-ness.
With great daring, I drop to my knees and kiss her.
Technically, I do not know how to kiss. It is a Human custom I have never experienced. But I have seen my brothers kiss their Mates, and I have some idea of what it is they do.
Lydia stiffens, her back rigid. A good sign?
I move my lips against hers. Nothing about this feels natural. Embarrassment creeps its way up my spine, mingling with my own worry and weakening my resolve. Mayhaps thiswasa ridiculous idea. Mayhaps?—
Lydia grabs my shoulders, pressing closer, molding herself to my chest. And then she is kissing me in return, and all my worry and self-doubt vanish.
Sothisis kissing. It is better than anything I have imagined. Her skin is soft, her body malleable. I hold her tighter for the sheer pleasure of feeling my fingers sink into her flesh. The differences between scales and skin are threatening to driveme wild. Lydia is so smooth and soft and small, everything in contrast to the size and strength of her personality.
She is in my arms, yet I am filled with a craving for…more. I am a starving male, hungry for more kissing. More touching. More skin.
I fumble with the hem of her shirt, slipping a hand underneath and learning the shape of her spine. With another hand, I card my fingers through her pink hairs, relishing the silk, and with my third hand, I grasp the back of her neck, holding her to me—and never wanting to let her go.
And then the scent of her desire peaks, flooding my senses. It is breathtaking in its intensity. My cock stirs in response, pressing against my slit, desperate for release. It would have me throw Lydia to the floor and thrust into her wet heat. I would have me tie her to my bed, to keep her from ever leaving.
“Stay.”
