Heat (29 page)

Kane clasped his hands between his knees and smiled at her. “I’m going to take care of you,” he said. “If you ask me nicely.”

She looked at him with wet, welling eyes, a thing of misery in a never-waking nightmare.

“I know you must hurt,” he said, playing regret. “Hurts to walk, hurts to sit. Hurts just to breathe, I’ll bet.”

She shivered.

“Would you like me—” Kane leaned in and butted his head playfully against hers. “—to make you something for the pain, Raven?”

Her eyes widened with shining gratitude and then crashed in on themselves in despair. “Yes,” she whispered, clearly believing he would never do it.

“Do you?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m going to take a lot of convincing after you hit me,” he remarked.

Her face crumpled. “I can’t!” she said, fresh tears dripping down her cheeks. “I can’t, everything hurts!”

He hushed her, patting her purple hair, and she rocked and cried with her face in her shaking hands. “Raven, Raven,” he sighed, rubbing her shoulder. “Did I tell you to fuck me?”

“No,” she sniffled.

“I told you to ask me nicely.” He stood up, hooking his thumb claws through the waistband of his pants. “And I meant just that. So ask me.”

“Please,” she said. She gripped her own arms, her little claws digging crescents into her trembling flesh. “Please, Kane.”

Kane closed his eyes, savoring the sound of her begging.

“Please, it hurts. Wasn’t…wasn’t I good to you? Please, Kane, I’ve been good.” She began to cry harder, helpless and quiet little tears as opposed to her hoarse braying. “Please. Please.” She bent forward and pressed her lips to his foot, sending pleasure through him that was damned near sexual. “Please help me. It hurts. Please, Kane.”

He raised his foot, shook her off, and took his pack over to the table. While he worked, he was aware of Raven uncurling herself and opening the bag with her purchases inside. A viscous white fluid came from the pump bottle and she dabbed it onto her tattoo. The thick paste from the tube went onto each piercing. Kane watched with narrow eyes, but didn’t interrupt. He didn’t trust Earth’s medicines.

“All right,” he announced. “Come here.”

She crawled to him on her knees, her hands pressed to her sex and her shoulders shaking. She leaned her brow against his thigh and didn’t flinch at all when the dermisprayer hissed.

He rested his hand on her head, toying with her hair as he felt her relax. “Feel better?” he asked.

“Uh huh.”

“All right, let’s have a look.” Kane reached down and took a smear of paste from her breast onto his fingertip. He fed it into his analyzer and plugged it into the computer. The results came quickly, and he was looking at a basic topical antibiotic. The white fluid was nothing more than a water-based moisturizer. She was going to need better than that.

Kane got up, letting Raven fold onto her side next to his chair. He went into the bathroom for a bottle of hair soap. He dumped the contents into the sink, rinsed it clean, and brought it out to the table.

He prepared the antibodies first, a powerful compound, and put them into the empty bottle with some of the moisturizer for a base, shaking the bottle until he had achieved a uniform consistency. It was probably all she’d need but he believed in caution when it came to protective medicines.

Kane mixed up a panacea blend of immuno-boosters and nanozymes and injected it into her sleeping body. Come daylight, the swelling would be gone and the holes well on their way to healed. The rest, he’d leave to nature. It would mean staying at the hotel until she was fit to travel again, but he could live with that.

“Thank you,” she mumbled now, and he patted her back absently. “I’ll be good.”

“I know you will.”

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I forgive you,” he said generously.

She stretched out and kissed his foot. She fell asleep that way, her cheek atop his talons, and Kane leaned his head on his fist and smiled down at her from above.

G
ods, it was hot. Even with the suppressants keeping his body in check, the heat had a way of creeping in. The window was open, but there was no breeze and the air sat on Tagen’s chest, as hot and wet as if it had just come from the mouth of some invisible monster. Tagen could honestly say he would cut off a finger for just one bottle of iced
ul
. He even knew which one. Left hand, second.

He could not lie in this bed one second more. He rose naked and damp with sweat and cracked his door cautiously.

The house was still.

Tagen walked into the bathing room and stepped into the shower. The sound of the pipes working was abrasively loud, but all Tagen’s concerns for quiet ended the instant the false rain of the spray struck him. Tagen groaned as quietly as he was able, scrubbing sweat from his face and chest, massaging his tired muscles back to some semblance of life.

It was a blessed respite, but he could not shower forever. The heat was still out there, and the heat made him restless.

He left the shower with some reluctance, cloaking his naked loins with a wrapped towel in the unlikely event that he should encounter his human host. He went downstairs and navigated his way by feel to the kitchen.

The cold storage appliance released a breath of arctic air and Tagen savored it for a moment before bringing out a plate of the cold meat Daria had prepared. Chicken, she called it. It was pale and unappetizing, but the taste was agreeable and the meat was filling. He took the entire plate and a glass of iced water with him back down the hall, but not to his room.

Tagen sat on the sofa in the front room, letting his towel come unbound when he bent. He put his feet up on the low table and found the remote device in the dark.

He had left the tee-vee on the law officer program he favored, but it was not broadcasting now. Tagen ate chicken, watching several minutes of what he ultimately determined to be a very long commercial, and then began to switch channel feeds. Nothing he saw appealed to him.

The heat was relentless, smothering. He drank his water and fished out cubed ice to rub on his bare skin. He wanted to crawl inside his cup and die.

Tagen’s thumb, steadily pressing its way through the channels, suddenly paused. His expression, had he known it, never changed. His left hand continued to swirl the liquid in his glass just so that he could listen to the dull clink of ice. One talon takked thoughtfully on the surface of the low table.

On the screen before him, two humans were mating. Not merely pressing their mouths on one another or fumbling at clothing, as he had seen before in the course of the tee-vee’s programs, but mating. Right out in the open and broadcast for all the Earth to see.

It did not much resemble Jotan mating, unless, of course, the players had first partaken of some of
vey
Venekus’ mild sedative. It was slow, torturously slow, and the humans really didn’t seem to be enjoying it much. They hardly made any sound, and apart from a little light stroking of one another, were restrained enough nearly to be inanimate. And yet, it held a certain fascination for him.

Tagen’s eyes trailed slowly, almost gravely, across the female’s form. She was slender, like his Daria, and made with the same generous curves and valleys in all the same places, although this female’s breasts were larger and had not the organic bounce that Daria’s had when she moved. He wondered idly why that was so. Her pubic mound was nearly bare, but for an odd square patch of dark hair. A very, very square patch. Jotan grew no hair save on their heads. That unnatural black spot made for an obsessive focus for Tagen’s gaze. His eyes tracked slowly back and forth, up and down, back and forth.

No. Not much like regular mating, but Tagen began to feel distinctly aroused regardless and he found himself musing on the last time he’d had sex, just for comparison’s sake. He tipped his glass and drank, shutting his eyes to the scene before him but not changing the channel. He could still hear the sounds they made: her soft groans and sighs, his low grunts and mutters. It sounded like they were mating in their sleep. He felt a little sorry for them.

His last time, now…

He had been taking his ease in the recreations bay, his deep space tour nearly done (and his promotion to
sek’ta
, no doubt, already working its way towards full approval), drinking
ul
and watching two of his fellow officers throw
chiak
. He noticed the female when she entered the bay, of course, but like everyone else, he pretended not to. Not until she came and sat at his table.

“You’re Tagen Pahnee,” she’d said.

“Yes. And you’re not.” Wit had never been his greatest strength.

She’d smiled anyway. A generous soul. “We fought together at Rae-Rae,” she told him. “I haven’t seen much of you since then.”

And was she flirting with him? Yes, she was. Tagen had sipped at his
ul
, feigning interest in the
chiak
game, intensely aware of the female sitting beside him. “I’ve been busy,” he said.

“That’s a shame. Too busy, I wonder?”

“That would depend on what I was wanted for.” He risked a direct stare, and her smile broadened. She was flirting, by the gods, and she wasn’t a bit shy about it.

“Suppose someone were to ask you to catalogue the emissions readers in the load-pan bay.”

“Then I would be busy.” He returned his gaze to the game.

“And suppose someone were to do this.” She leaned forward unexpectedly and bit him on the jaw, right there, in front of half the crew.

“Well, then I might find a little time,” he’d replied, and, emboldened by the
ul
, nudged her chin up and bit her right back. He could taste her arousal, feel her pulse racing hotter in her veins.

She’d stood up without another word, her hand catching his, and led him back to her quarters.

That was mating, Tagen reflected, listening to the muffled groans and gasps on the tee-vee. Not this supine imitation, but the real thing. Thrashing, fighting, screaming, scratching, kicking, clawing,
real
sexplay. And every day after her shift was done, she’d come to fetch him and play it out again. She’d even come to see him the day his tour was up, just long enough to throw him a smile and flash a little fang. “When my number comes up, expect me to call on you,” was her parting word.

He looked forward to it, and not just for the private pride that came from knowing one had been selected to breed. She had been a fine, ferocious mate.

Tagen opened his eyes and stared meditatively at the ceiling. He listened, hearing only moans, whimpers, gasps.

The tee-vee could be deceptive, he knew. It was most often fiction, idealized for drama. Tagen had never seen humans mating in reality, but he had seen plenty of rescued breeders, and if the captives there were anything to judge by, this program that captivated his interest now was purest fiction.

But then, there was a great difference between a free human and a slave. Tagen found himself wondering what Daria might look like while she were mating.

Ah, damn this heat.

Tagen’s glass was empty. He took it and the platter of chicken bones into the kitchen and left them in the sink. They would distress Daria there, but then, they would distress her more in the front room. And as long as he was going to distress her anyway, he might as well put them in the place she’d be taking them to clean them anyway. She’d probably spend all day scrubbing those two, measly dishes.

And when she was done, she’d probably mop the floor. On her hands and knees. Her body rocking. Her breasts bobbing. Much like the female on the mating feed.

Oh, what in the
hell
was wrong with him?!

Nothing’s wrong, he told himself sourly. He was just hot and tired and restless, and the best cure for that was a sound thrash in the sheets. If he were home, he’d have only to take a walk down to Fleet Headquarters and look available. He was Tagen Pahnee, was he not? He would have a female before the hour was up.

Tagen returned to the sofa and the tee-vee. The humans had changed positions, and now the female was bent over the end of the bed, on her knees. The male was caressing her, preparing to enter. Tagen drummed his claws on the side of the sofa, waiting.

The female gasped when the male finally got around to penetrating. Just gasped. Gods. But he was riding earnestly enough, his hips slapping the female’s hocks, making them judder and ripple. Her breasts, Tagen noted, scarcely moved at all. He wondered if it were customary for humans to mate this way, like beasts. Jotan did not. Although their reproductive organs were in very near the same place, it was not quite near enough for a female to be comfortably mounted from behind. But the humans seemed to enjoy it. He wondered, would Daria—?

Why
did
his mind keep returning to her? How she mated was no concern of his. And the gods knew, she was not about to extend him an offer. Her eyes were on him always, and although she made an effort to converse with him and adjust to him, there was a fear in her, deeply-rooted. It was not the fear of rape, precisely. Tagen had had all too many occasions to see that look in the eyes of recovered slaves. It was the fear of all of him—his size, his power, his eyes, his voice, and yes, his maleness. At the same time, it was a fear that had nothing at all to do with him, one that almost certainly existed before he had ever come into her home and would continue to exist long after he left.

And what of her in his mind? Why not explore that, since she was sleeping soundly in her chamber and he was here watching humans mate. Did he think her attractive?

He didn’t know, having never thought of humans to that purpose. Humans and Jotan were alike in so many ways, and yet, this Daria Cleavon was very different from what he considered an ideal female form. All the same, for all her feminine similarities, he could not quite imagine that body beneath his. She was so small, so slender, so rounded in so many strangely arousing places.