His claws slice along the seam between my legs, taking advantage of the gap, then slow as they reach my crotch.
My blush deepens, and I try to ignore the odd sensation of the smooth side of his claw bumping against my mound as he cuts across my stomach and between my breasts.
“Okay, I’ve got it from here,” I say quickly, as soon as my arms are free enough to move.
He leaves the last few inches of silk, and I awkwardly pull the loops off over my head, like a too-tight sweater. At least the silk is soft and glides easily over my tangle of curly hair.
There’s not a single snag or nick in my coveralls. That’s impressive, but I’m not in the mood to give him a compliment, so I sit upright on my hammock.
The way it yields is both supportive and comfortable, like a plush, stretchy knit. It molds to my crossed legs as I lean forward, finding the taut panel of the ‘table’ easily within reach. The silk under the saucer is totally different and has no give at all.
He reaches over the ‘table’ and pulls a sugar jar out of a cubby, setting it between us.
“No cream?” I tease.
His gaze falls over me, tracing the planes of my small breasts. “I prefer it fresh.”
My cheeks burn again. “It’s better without anyway,” I mutter, taking a sip of my tea and doing my very best to not frown at the bitterness.
He chuckles, then reaches into another cubby for a matching creamer pot. He tips a splash into both cups.
I freeze. “Is that…human?”
“Would you feelbetterif it were harvested from bovines on the conservation farms, intergalactic resources used in excess to exploit a feeling life form for its lactation, all so you can enjoy the psychological distance of it coming from a different species?”
I narrow my eyes. “You are entirely too good at speaking English.”
“I read.”
“Yeah, well…” I don’t have a comeback for that. I always have a comeback. I think the human breast milk now swirling inmy cup of tea—which Ireallywant to drink becauseoh my godeven bitter it’s a taste ofhome—has zapped my wit. “Whatever.”
I take another drink. I’ve guzzled plenty of cum, eaten plenty of pussy, sucked plenty of tits. And I’m not about to suck a cow udder, so really, he’s right. It’s the less offensive of the two options.
And holy fuck, it tastes good. It’s everything I remember and so much more. It’s mornings sitting in my father’s lap, stealing sips while he ate a croissant and did the crossword puzzle. It’s afternoons visiting my mother after work, ranting about my love life while she baked cookies. It’s the three of us laughing at a stupid joke and fighting over the last scone.
I make a show of itching my nose so that when I rub my eyes, it looks casual.
“So, how does an Arachnoid develop a taste for Earth tea?”
“It’s the second-best way to consume milk.” He takes another sip, main eyes closing with pleasure. The other six don’t have lids, but they seem to go glassy and unfocused.
“What’s the best way?”
“Straight from the source.”
I stop short, then huff a sigh. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
He chuckles. “You certainly did.” Another sip. “I’m something of a polyglot. It extends to cultural interests as well.”
I tilt my head. “That’s a real answer.”
“Was it not a real question?”
“No, I—You just didn’t seem like the type to volunteer information about yourself.”
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, aren’t we? May as well be polite.”
The smug little twist in his last sentence hints that it’s a suggestion to me as well.
