He pulls back, just enough for his face to hover over mine. There’s a questioning look on his face. The first time I’ve seen him look uncertain. “You want me? Say.” His eyes flick to my mouth, waiting.
I stubbornly remain silent. The desperate need I feel wars with my pride. I hold his gaze, unyielding.
For a moment, he studies me. Then his hand slides beneath the hem of my shift, skimming the sensitive skin of my thigh. My body shivers as his fingers slowly glide higher. He pauses, eyes narrowing with satisfaction as he finds the wetness on my thighs.
“You like.”
A sudden jolt courses through me when he slides his hand up my body. Heat surges up my spine, and instinctively I arch into him, biting back a moan that would admit too much.
His body shudders in response.
I want him. But I can’t have him.What if I get rescued by humans and I’m pregnant with an alien baby? I’d be banished. Probably punished, then banished.
“Rythar,” I whisper urgently. “Stop.”
He stills instantly, then withdraws.
Propping himself up on one elbow, he stares down at me. For a long moment, he just breathes, chest rising and falling as sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat.
He sits up and swings his legs off the bed—allowing me to fully take in the sight of him, the way his cock stands rigid between his thighs, aching for release.
I sit up, pulling the blanket over my lap to keep myself from reaching for him. He’s rubbing the side of his ear, where the translator sits under his skin.
“What’s wrong with your translator?”
He doesn’t look at me. He busies himself with a pitcher of water on the bedside table.
There is a tray of simple foods, neatly sliced and arranged, next to it. He pours two glasses, hands me one, and drinks deeply from the other.
“Nothing.” He says it like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
He sets the glass down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns to face me, utterly naked and unashamed.
"You want translator fixed," he says. The look on his face says he doesn't need words for what he wants right now. But he's going to fix the translator anyway. For me.
“I want—” I start, but the words stick.
He grins again, a slow, dangerous curve of lips. “You want.”
I roll my eyes.
He stands, stretches, and his nakedness—the play of muscle under his skin—makes my mouth dry. He moves the way the serpent-panther moved, smooth and athletic. I swallow hard.
“You are thirsty?” he asks. “Drink.”
I blink, thrown off by the sudden drop from flirting to command. I drink the water.
He notices my confusion and frowns. He strides to the door and opens it with a hand motion. The hallway is empty, but he orders something in Xythean. A minute later, a slender technician appears, eyes wide as he takes in the scene—Rythar naked and radiating frustration, me standing behind him.
“Fix,” Rythar grunts, pointing at his ear. Irritated.
The technician fumbles with a kit, hands shaking. He applies a patch to Rythar’s skin, then bows and steps back, eyes never meeting mine.
The technician approaches me, device in hand.
I twist away on instinct. Rythar’s grip closes around my wrists. I strain anyway, breath coming sharp.
“No,” I say again.
