Page 207 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

207

If Things Get Hairy

M aya

The sex was mind-blowing, as has been this whole day. As soon as the sex endorphins wear off, my lust-filled high is replaced by terror. We’ve had a little respite while we waited for the alien females’ numbers to dwindle, but there’s a war going on out there, and in a moment I’ll be joining it.

That’s not even considering the horror of what’s happened to my body. And the mechanism of the change: a Xenon male’s bodily fluids.

To think it was only yesterday, I was dreading going to work at Elizabeth Brighton’s State Farm office. What I wouldn’t give to roll back the clock to a time when that was what I dreaded more than anything in the world.

That vow he just gave me, so earnest and filled with affection, it’s clear he cares for me. Or maybe that’s just some chemical thing, too. Maybe all males of his species develop protective urges for the female who gives them sex and blood. That would certainly be a good thing from an evolutionary point of view. Who knows how much of this is real versus being biologically driven?

“Thanks, A’Dar.” It’s a paltry response to his vow to protect me to his dying breath. Sorry. Right now, it’s the best I can do.

I glance at the screen and ask, “How many females are left?”

“46,” he says without looking. When he focuses on the screen, he corrects, “44.”

I roll out of bed and scrounge for my clothes: underwear, the clothes I was transported here in, and the coveralls, which only need one roll at the cuffs.

Using my fangs, which are actually quite handy, I tear a rip in the top sheet and use the resulting strip of fabric to tie my braids into a secure knot at my nape.

“It looks like you’ve got a few minutes to give me a tutorial on…” I step into the closet and inventory the weapons. There’s the bazooka thing, what looks like a couple of laser pistols, laser rifles, and half a wall full of blades: long blades, short ones, ornamental ones, utilitarian ones. “I’ll need a tutorial on blades.”

He joins me in the closet doorway, still towering over me. He’s more imposing than ever with his armor on. There must be something terribly wrong with me because my clit gives an excited little quiver when I glance at him in all his alien glory.

All his armor looks metallic, but I lifted one of his greaves earlier to get to my panties. They weigh almost nothing. They’re all embossed with intricate fighting scenes, like something you’d see on ancient Roman walls. Except these fighters all depict Xenon males, their bodies perfect, their dreads lifted as if the males are in motion.

His greaves cover from the top of his calves to his toes. His arms are capped with shoulder spaulders that cover his arms to his wrists. He wears a metallic man-cover over his loincloth. Its long, almost snakelike piece of metal hangs to his thighs.

I saw some of those pirates through the clear plastic hoods of their cryo pods. Although none of A’Dar’s weapons work because of what sounds like an EMP the pirates set off that disabled the ship and caused it to crash, I can’t see how the pirates could make a dent in my favorite Xenon.

He grabs another man-cover and fiddles with it, using brute strength to tear off pieces of metal. When he’s done with it, he fastens the belt around my waist. It’s kind of a high-tech Old West holster now. It rides low on my hips and has a holder on each side.

“Hold this,” he says as he hands me a knife, handle first. He places a different knife in my other hand. “Which feels best?” he asks seriously.

Feels best? Clearly, it’s a trick question.

When he keeps staring, waiting for an answer, I lift my right hand and say, “This one feels smoother?”

“Stab with them, slash. Which feels more like an extension of your arm?”

Obviously, he has no idea what an administrative assistant does. I swish my arms around, but can no more give him an intelligent answer to his question than flap my arms and fly to the moon.

“Keep them both,” he says, the serious look on his face recalibrating from cautious optimism to worry. He wipes his palm across his mouth, those exterior teeth now fully exposed. “Come.”

He leads me out of the closet and into the main cabin.

He beckons with his hands as he says, “Try to cut me.”

Oh, I’m going to get a three-minute how-to-kill-an-alien-pirate tutorial? This should be effective.

I give it my best shot, lunging at him, which he easily blocks. I have to give him credit. He spends the next half hour giving me pointers, showing me the best angles and slashing movements to get the job done.

Although it’s obvious I’m hopeless, he is ceaselessly optimistic and praises all but my most ignominious attempts.

“You did an admirable job with the blue female in the kitchen,” he says. “You have skills that will come forward when most needed.”

Poor guy. I don’t know whether he’s saying this more to bolster my hope or his own. He’s clearly worried about me.

“Come,” he says, beckoning me to the door. “Press here with your fingertip.”

I do, and the door slides open. He quickly presses again, closing it.

“Every door in this vessel is now keyed to your biometrics… our biometrics. You carry my DNA now. Wherever we go, I will take point. If things get too dangerous, Maya, I want you to run. Any door you touch should open for you. Hide. Because of our blood bond, I should be able to find you again.”

He grips my shoulders and pulls me close. Leaning so we’re face to face, he asks, “I can’t convince you to stay here? Wait for me?”

“What happens when one of us gets the need , A’Dar? What if you need my vein after a fight and I’m at the other end of the ship? We have to be in close proximity. But I promise. If things get hairy, I’ll hide close by.”

“Hairy?” He dips his head and sniffs my hair. “So beautiful.”

“If things get dangerous. I’ll hide. I promise.”