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Chapter Seven

S tar

There are only so many times a girl can ignore intrusive pings on her comm before she opens her eyes in the morning. I squint at the device on my wrist using the time-honored technique I’ve developed over the years. I pretend that if I don’t open my eyes all the way I won’t wake up all the way. It’s never worked, and it’s not working today.

There’s been a flurry of communications from the females on the two ships. I keep scrolling and see dozens of comms. What it boils down to is that a group of them are going to get mani-pedis in half an hour.

A few texts are directed to me personally.

Star, say yes. We all want to spend some time getting to know you, says Anya.

This will be fun! Brianna says.

The best part is that the guys are coming with us. You absolutely MUST keep the secret that this is not something Earth guys do. We all told them it’s a couple’s thing. Bring Ar’Tok! This is from Aerie, the female who helped me negotiate this vacation.

What’s a mani-pedi? I ask.

I get a flurry of responses.

It’s da bomb.

It will be off the chain.

It will rock!

It will be the epitome of chillaxing.

None of you answered my question. Will I like it?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Will Ar’Tok like it?

Totally. Unless you tell him it’s only for females.

OK. I respond with a shrug. What do I wear?

Like you were on the Fool . No need to dress up, although Savannah recommends boots. Tell your guy to wear cargo pants and a t-shirt, I think several of our males loaned him some. Meet you in half an hour outside your room.

I smack Ar’Tok’s glorious ass which is hidden under the covers, but I know from memory it’s definitely glorious.

“Wake up. We need to be on the other side of our door in half an hour. Fun is right around the corner.”

I see his brow, bunched tight on his forehead. Shit, the poor guy is never going to find satisfaction at this rate.

As I’m brushing my teeth, I review the events that kept us from being intimate last night.

Rula, the driver who seemed ever so concerned with our comfort yesterday, did not sit around with nothing to do while Ar’Tok and I played in the ocean. He was evidently friends with the barkeep at “Paragon’s best beach,” which, I’m sure, is why we wound up there.

By the time Ar’Tok and I slogged out of the water, our digits pruned beyond recognition, Rula was hammered. Since neither Ar’Tok nor I had a clue how to fly a hover-limo, we had to wait for him to sober up.

Once he seemed lucid, Rula drove ninety minutes in the wrong direction. Ar’Tok and I dragged into our room around three this morning.

“I want to be clear-headed and awake when I sheath myself in you for the first time,” Ar’Tok had said as we arrived at our room.

By then, I was so tired his words didn’t even sound sexy, though they and the lusty look on his face should have made me want to drag him to bed and rip his clothes off. Actually, I did drag him to bed, just to sleep.

“Ar’Tok,” I call as I turn on the shower, “I think we missed a memo.” Yuck, my skin feels dry and sandy and sticky. “Even though we were in the water all day yesterday, I think we were supposed to take showers when we got home.”

“Lesson learned,” he calls through the door. “Is there a reason we’re leaving our room today? I thought we had something very important planned.” Even though I’m in the shower, I imagine his eyebrow waggling in a sexy statement.

“Fun is on the agenda. You’re going to love it. The girls promised we’d both love mani-pedi’ing. All the guys are coming, too.”

“What is it?”

“I’m clueless.”

Half an hour later, there’s a whirlwind of second introductions in the hallway because no one could expect me to remember everyone’s name. A few minutes after that, we’re in the uber fancy nail salon off a long hall from the main entrance of the Multi-Pleasure.

Mani-pedi, I’m told, is short for manicure and pedicure. A lovely female of a race I’m not familiar with, super-thin with an emerald green wig, helped me into a contraption where my feet are currently soaking. Ar’Tok is adorably ensconced next to me, his eyes bright with excitement as his hot-pink wigged attendant hunches over his feet.

We’ve overrun the ‘spa’, as I’ve been instructed to call it. The women all look at home and are laughing and joking with each other. Each male is dutifully sitting next to his female with a bemused look on his face.

Who do I vote as most out of place in this shop? I’ve narrowed it down to two. My first choice is Dax, who is huge, bearded, and not only soaking his feet, but has his face covered in ‘curative’ mud.

“It’s definitely a thing, Dax,” his mate Dahlia scolds. “She’s doing me next. It makes your skin feel fantastic. Don’t worry, she’s working around your beard.”

The runner-up, though is Zar, sitting like a king on a throne, his furred feline feet in the bubbling tub of water beneath him.

“Feels great, doesn’t it?” Anya asks, her hands being attended by not one but two royal-blue-wigged assistants. “Okay ladies, on the count of three I want you all to hold up your polish colors. I might want to change my mind.”

There is a vast array of colors, from pale pinks to corals to turquoise. I hold up the little pot of clear I found hiding at the end of a row of bright colors.

“You can’t bogart the clear, Star,” Brianna scolds. She’s ensconced between her twin mates, Axxios and Braxxus, looking comfortable and happy. “All the males will need that.”

“Why?” Humongous Dax demands. “I had my eye on that purple.”

“Yeah, why?” Shadow asks, looking as masculine as a bionic alien can look. “There’s a green over there that matches my eyes.”

Petra, his mate, giggle-snorts, clamps her hand over her mouth, and tries to squelch her amused squeal.

“What?” Shadow asks, his face serious as a heart attack.

“You want moss-colored nails, my love, you’ll get moss-colored nails. You’ll look handsome,” Petra says.

An hour later, we’re all admiring our good taste as the polish finishes drying. Most of the couples decided to each pick a color and then have every other nail painted. Ar’Tok picked Happy Skies Blue, I picked Sunshine Yellow, and we each have every other finger and toe painted blue and yellow.

Dahlia and Dax wave their fingers at us. Every other nail is purple and gold in honor of the local holiday.

“How can you not love a planet that celebrates Blessed Peace Day?” she asks as she wiggles her fingers.

My favorite couple isn’t a couple at all. Brianna and her two males picked red, white, and blue, which I’m told are the colors of the American flag. Even though three colors on ten toes isn’t symmetrical, it looks bodacious.

“Let’s get going!” Maddie, the chef, says in her unique singsong way. “We have less than an hour to get to the studio.”

“What studio?” Ar’Tok asks without giving her eye contact. He can’t drag his eyes away from his gorgeous toes.

“Have you never watched the Peripatetic Epicure show? It’s all over the Intergalactic Database. He travels the galaxy in search of the most exotic foods, then whips them into complex and delicious dishes.

“He’s here on Paragon, doing only six shows. We were lucky enough, with Star’s pull, to snag tickets to be in the audience. The tasting audience,” she adds as if we just found a winning lottery ticket. “Chop-chop. Get your asses moving.”

We climb into a chartered hover-bus and are on our way within minutes.

“What about all the new gladiators? Where are they?” Grace asks, holding her mate, Tyree’s hand.

“They’re all lodged on Fornication Island,” Zar informs us levelly.

“What?” I ask. I know they all must think I’m so unsophisticated, but really!

“There are many names for it,” he explains, “but that was the most tasteful.”

“Most tasteful?” Okay, I’ll admit, I’m scandalized.

“Yeah,” Dax informs us. “Other names for it are the bang district, bone voyage, pump province, the sex sector. Some of the lodgings are the Come Cathedral, the Hot Hotel, the Intercourse Inn, the—”

“I think we get the drift,” Zar interrupts. “The gladiators were recently released from brutal enslavement and want to have fun. They’ll meet back with us at the appointed time.”

I was told that Beast recently went back to his owner’s gladiator training center and rescued fourteen fellow gladiators. They’re all trying to adjust to their newfound freedom. Some want to return to their home planets, others are going to stay with us.

Us. That’s an interesting term. I’m not really a part of this happy bunch of escaped slaves. I belong on the Misfit as soon as the oxygenator is fixed. After sneaking a peek at Ar’Tok, I look back at my sunshine and happy skies nails and feel a pang of sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.

I’d known I was lonely on the satellite. After dad died, I cried for weeks. Then I threw myself into my work, not only completing every job that came my way, but actively searching for more. It kept me from noticing how quiet and empty the Misfit was. But now, after all these people, and the laughter, and joking, and the sweet male at my side, the quiet echoes of my home will feel desolate.

We pull up to a warehouse that looks a lot like the place I met with Ergonn.

“The camera person has been secretly paid off to blur our faces before the episode airs,” Zar announces. “Don’t worry about the Federation.”

Maddie’s smiling and laughing as she leads us off the bus. We’re all given identification lanyards that allow us into the VIP section.

Staff escort us into the cavernous room, which is tall with open rafters up above and hundreds of bleachers mounted in stepped fashion rising to the far reaches of the building. The vid set is up front, with a well-equipped kitchen located under glaring lights. There’s a rectangular wooden table, maybe twenty feet long and five feet deep, that separates the kitchen from the bleachers. Our contingent is escorted to this table.

“The tasting table,” Maddie whispers as if we’re in a cathedral. Her eyes are sparkling, and she can barely contain her wide grin.

There’s not enough room for all of us to sit comfortably and watch, so most of the females sit on their male’s lap. This is going to be fun in more ways than one.

“Females and males,” a male humanoid with opalescent skin and a thick black Mohawk announces in a deep whisper, “we’ll be starting our show in a few minimas . Jorgan, the Peripatetic Epicure, will do his best to cook for you in an entertaining way. You have a job, too.”

He waits to get everyone’s attention. “Your job is to laugh at his jokes. Not just a little smile. No, if Jorgan says something funny, I want the people all the way to Perseus IV to hear you. Let’s hear it now.”

Silence.

“Are you waiting for me to tell a joke? That’s not what they pay me for. I just want to hear you laugh.”

We all try to laugh on cue, which isn’t easy. He scolds us and makes us try three more times until he says, “I doubt they can hear you on Perseus IV, but this will have to do.”

He strides to the tasting table and says, “And for all of you at this table, your job is to let the audience know how delicious, how spectacular, how extraordinary, how out of this world Jorgan’s cooking is. Of all the people in the galaxy, you lucky folks are the only ones who will actually be able to taste the dishes Jorgan cooks today. The people at home want to hear yums and oohs and aahs. They want to see your eyes practically roll back into your head in culinary ecstasy. They want to see your utensils scraping your empty plate in search of one more morsel to shove into your mouth. Got it?”

We all nod.

“Okay.” He raises his voice to announce, “Let me introduce to you the one, the only, Jorgan from Carden II, the Peripatetic Epicure!”

We all clap, Maddie puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles so loudly it makes my ears ring. Ar’Tok dips his mouth to my ear and says, “Before this day is over she’s got to teach me how to do that.”

Really? Twenty-five years in prison and his big dream is to learn how to whistle? He’s adorable.

“Welcome, welcome,” Jorgan says. “I have a delicious menu planned today.”

He drones on, talking about foods I’m not familiar with. I glance around and notice everyone at the table has a glazed look in their eyes. All except for Maddie. She’s leaning forward, hanging on every word.

“Now,” he says, “let’s see who’s at our VIP table. I’m told you all came in together from parts unknown. Where are you from?” He sticks the microphone in my face.

“We’re from all over. Us females are all from Morgana,” Maddie says, grabbing Jorgan’s wrist and pulling the mic toward her. “Most recently we’re from Aeon II.”

Almost every single person on both ships is an escaped slave. This vid is going to play all over the galaxy for years to come. Maddie came up with a cover story. Smart female. I’m told that Morganians look just like humans. Shadow is one, and except for his bionic parts, he’d look right at home on Earth. He even forged us all official Morganian papers.

“Here on business?” Jorgan presses.

“The business of pleasure,” Maddie jokes with him. “This is a Pleasure Planet after all. And we all love your show.”

“Well thank you,” he says, stepping away. “Let’s get cooking.”

Half an hour later, the huge hangar is filled with the smells of six things simmering, baking, and roasting. We get our first tastes, and I wonder why the announcer made such a big deal out of telling us to enjoy our food.

He did not have to direct me to roll my eyes in appreciation, or to ooh and aah. In fact, I can’t hide my moan of pleasure as I enjoy the taste of the Alaman Rean that is our first appetizer.

“Now, if you can’t find any ektal at your neighborhood grocer, you can substitute . . .” he drones on.

I notice that Ar’Tok’s muscles are stiff beneath me. When I glance back at him, his eyes are blank and unfocused. After setting my plate on the table, I grab his hand and entwine our fingers. Our blue and yellow nails look so good together.

I can’t talk to him without interrupting the recording and being rude, so I turn in my seat, scoop the last bite of Alaman Rean off his plate, cup my other hand under my utensil, and fork it into Ar’Tok’s mouth.

That little moment of connection brings him back to the present, and he rewards me with an upward tilt of his lips.

“Delish?” I ask, playing to the camera that has dollied closer.

“Amazing,” he answers, the molten look in his eyes an eloquent statement that I’m far more amazing than the Alaman Rean .

As soon as we’re back on the hover, I’m going to find out what made him fade out like that.

“Someone told me we have a chef in the house,” Jorgan announces with a smile toward the end of the show. “Maddie?”

The camera pans to her and surprise lights her face, eyes wide, lips parted.

“Care to help me bake dessert?”

I’m so new to all these people I don’t know anyone well, but this makes me wish I knew them all better. Watching Maddie so excited, in her element, I can’t help but be thrilled for her.

Jorgan instructs her on the preparations and lets her bake the cake from start to finish. When we finally get a chance to eat it, I’m not lying when I blurt, “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life!”

The camera got a good shot of that, and the audience broke out in laughter at my unabashed enthusiasm.

Emboldened, I say, “I might just have to learn how to cook when we get home.” This earns me more approving laughter and a smattering of applause.

After the taping ends, Maddie wholeheartedly thanks Jorgan, and we all stand to leave. Even though we only got tastes of all today’s dishes, I’m so full I feel like someone should roll me out of the hangar.

“I have to admit,” I tell Maddie as we file toward our hover, “on our way here I was thinking there were definitely better things to do on a Pleasure Planet than watch someone cook. I was mistaken. That was uber fun.”

“Definitely one of the highlights of my life,” she says, her face beaming.

Here she is—they all are—abducted from their lives less than a year ago, stranded in space, and thrown into the crucible of hardship. And yet, they’re all making the best of it. Many are mated, most are in relationships, all of them are . . . happy.

And me? I feel so different from when I woke up this morning. I’m accepted by everyone. My spontaneous statements in front of hundreds of people, that were captured on vid and will be played across the galaxy in perpetuity? That was me. I’m figuring out who I am when I’m not locked alone on a satellite in the middle of nowhere.

I wonder if I can ever go back to that life.

When Ar’Tok and I are in our seats on the hover, I ask him what happened back in the hangar when he got so quiet and serious.

“Profound gratitude.”

“Really?” He looked sad, not grateful.

“I know I shouldn’t look back. My life wasn’t . . . good. But all my emotions welled up in me. I wasn’t being bitter. I was comparing where I was to where I am now. Look what I have.

“These people aren’t friends, but they could become them. Happy people who want to get to know me and protect me. I didn’t tell you, but Captain Zar himself wants to teach me how to spar. Not to make me into a gladiator so I can make money for the ship, but to teach me mastery. I’m part of something for the first time in my life.

“And there’s you, with your ridiculous Earth slang and your even more ridiculous nails. All of us males know you tricked us. We were having too much fun to put a stop to it.”

“You knew it wasn’t for males?”

“Do we look stupid?”

“No. You look handsome.”

I can’t pull my gaze from him. His cirr reach out and stroke my hair.

“This right here. I have this. I never thought I’d have this. I’m not certain I deserve it.” His eyes dip as if he can’t hold my gaze.

His poignant words fist my heart. I want to kiss him right here on this crowded bus, but Savannah interrupts.

“Okay, listen up.” She’s standing at the front of the hover even though we were expressly directed to stay harnessed into our seats. She was military on Earth, and I wouldn’t want to be her enemy—she can be all business.

“We’re on our way to the hiriashi facility. Dahlia got her trip to the nail salon, Maddie brought us to the Peripatetic Epicure, and I’m taking us to play paintball. They call it hiriashi here. Potato, potahto, it doesn’t matter. I’m dividing you into two teams.”

She raises her hand up and down the aisle. “Those of you on my right are the Eagles, on the left are the lions. No offense Zar.”

“Wait!” Dax interrupts. “I’m an eagle. Is my translator correct? A bird? And I’m pitted against a large feline? This doesn’t seem fair.”

“Okay. If you want to take this literally.” She looks heavenward as if she’s praying for tolerance. “On my right are the Bengal tigers, the left are lions. How’s that?” She glares pointedly at Dax who gives one swift nod of approval.

“Eventually, though, no matter what team you’re on, it will come down to the fact that only one can win. Or one couple. When we arrive, we’ll be issued padding and paintball guns. Then they’ll usher us into a large room, maybe half the size of the Epicurean set. It will have places to hide, climb, and attack from. If you get hit, you are out. Last man standing wins.”

“So the women don’t get to play?” Ar’Tok asks, his tone indignant.

“Aliens!” Savannah says, but she’s smiling. “Last person standing wins.”

Ar’Tok nods happily as if he just won an argument.

“Just so you’re all aware,” I say, “the males all know.”

“Know what?” Savannah asks, her brow furrowed in suspicion.

“That Earth males don’t wear colored nail polish.”

The women gasp in unison.

“You told?” Petra turns in her seat, her eyebrows so high in surprise they almost touch her hairline.

“We’re not stupid,” her mate Shadow pipes up. “You really thought I wanted my nails to match my eyes?”

“It does bring out the color of your eyes,” Petra says, her voice hella defensive.

“And you really didn’t want purple nails?” Dahlia asks Dax while holding her nails for all to see: purple, gold, purple, gold, and so on.

“We’re gladiators, Dahl. You didn’t suspect we were punking you?”

“No. How was I to suspect you were punking us when we were punking you ?”

As if on cue, every female on the bus punches their male’s shoulder. Some slugs look decidedly harder than others.

“I think we all look bitchin’,” I say.

Several of the guys put their hands behind their left ears to touch their subdural translators as if they malfunctioned.

“Female dogs?” Ar’Tok asks as he does that adorable head-cock that makes me want to kiss him.

“Slang!” the females all reply.

“It means good,” I explain as Savannah rises again and starts barking orders as we park at the hiriashi storefront.

The place is another warehouse, this time about half as big as the video studio where we watched the Peripatetic Epicure. How come everything we’ve done today on the Pleasure Planet is in a dump?

The jade-green business owner informs us the arena has been cleared of all players except for our party. He explains the rules and ensures we’re all wearing our protective gear properly.

Although you’d think the big bad gladiators who have risked their lives in the arena would scoff at this little game, they’re all so competitive they’re champing at the bit to play. They’re going to get a chance to not only perform in front of their main squeeze, but they get to help her too.

I ran a treadmill and lifted weights on the Misfit . If you don’t exercise on a vessel in space, you can lose muscle tone. But this aggressive game? Being raised as the only child of the only people within a parsec, I never before felt a need to compete.

“Three, two, one, go,” the owner announces.

Ar’Tok grabs my upper arm and skirts the long wall until we arrive at the back of the gaming area. The lights are dark, with strobe lights that illuminate splattered paint that glows in vivid pinks, greens, and blues adorning every wall and bunker. Participants can hide behind big, pillowy impermanent structures scattered throughout the room.

The guns are the shape of rifles and make noise when they’re shot. They shoot paint pellets that mark the participant. Savannah reiterated that the moment you’re hit you must retire to the sidelines.

“Shit!” I think that was Dahlia. I peak around the structure we’re hiding behind to see her stride toward the area in the front corner. It’s constructed out of flimsy wire and has a large sign over it that I assume proclaims ‘safe’, or ‘out’, or something like that.

Dahlia’s splattered with bright blue paint that streams down her long red hair.

“Don’t worry, Dahl,” her mate Dax calls to her. “I’ll win for us both.”

I’m pressed against a triangular structure about six-feet tall. Peeking my head around it, I see action all around. The males seem to be doing most of the fighting, although the females are getting in some shots, too. Not surprisingly, the mated pairs seem to be working together in perfect synchrony.

Although I’ve never experienced anything like it before, I know immediately when a gun muzzle presses against the nape of my neck. I freeze, my blood turning cold despite the fact that I know these weapons aren’t lethal.

“You’re at my mercy,” a growly voice whispers in my ear. “Follow every order I give you, and I’ll let you live.”

Is this Ar’Tok? I’ve never heard this deep raspy tone before.

“Lean your gun against the bunker, tip facing up.”

I do.

“Don’t speak. Don’t move.” His lips brush my ear; his cirr slide around my neck in a proclamation of ownership.

“That’s right,” his voice is gentler now. Dipping his knees, I see his rifle join mine, leaning against the bright blue bunker.

His arms surround my waist, his hard cock rocks against the small of my back.

“You’re captured, little female. Spoils of war. I own you now.” His hips press harder, staking their claim. “Nod if you understand.”

I nod, feeling every cell in my body light on fire. I read a couple romance novels that went in this direction, but never liked them. I enjoyed the sweeter ones. But here, now, his pronouncement of total control is more arousing than I would have thought possible.

He slips his booted foot between mine and kicks my feet wider, first to the right, then the left until my center of gravity is slightly off, my stance about three feet wide.

“This,” he says as he cups my sex from the front, “is mine.” To make his point, he cups it harder. “Nod if you agree.”

I nod while entertaining the odd thought that our enemies will find us hiding in this dark back corner by the smell of my arousal alone.

“Good,” he breathes as his cirr pull my head back slightly, exposing my throat. What is it about this position that is so sexy? I never would have dreamed I would love being at his mercy like this.

I whimper in protest when his hand leaves its post between my legs and slides under my t-shirt. Both his large palms cup my breasts outside my bra.

“These are mine,” he announces with whispered authority. “Correct?”

I nod.

“I’m glad you understand your situation—I’m in complete control.”

He finds my nipples through the thin material of my bra and rolls them just hard enough to make my knees weak. Impatiently, he pulls the bra up to rest on top of my breasts, then plucks my hard, sensitive buds. He starts soft, then harder until my hips roll, massaging the hard cock at my back.

Then he tugs them even harder until he pulls a gasp from me.

“That’s right. Your body knows it belongs to me,” his warm breath stirs the hair above my ear. Biting along my jawline, he nips forward to my chin, then retraces his path until he scrapes my earlobe.

It feels so good I don’t know how to handle all the input bombarding my senses. One hand is gently pulling and twisting a nipple while his other has resumed its post between my legs, the heel of his hand pressing circles on my needy clit.

My mouth is open, panting, while my mind inventories my body, noting there isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t desperate for more.

My mind knows the sound of gunfire and angry screaming is just a game, but my nervous system is on heightened red alert.

I can’t control my pout as the hand between my legs abandons its post. Is my marauding pirate leaving? But he slips it between my pants and my skin and slides it ever so slowly past my navel, over my mound, whispers around my clit, and nestles at the entrance of my core.

“Ohhh,” I sigh, so softly certainly no one could hear me over the sound of scattered gunfire.

“I told you not to make a sound,” he scolds, his cirr gently yanking my head back. It inflicts no pain, just reminds me he’s the boss.

I nod, reiterating that he’s in charge.

“Good girl,” he breathes, “I just might let you live.”

His hand is still circling, circling, stoking my fire. I squat, not-so-subtly trying to impale myself on that abusive, cruel finger that is driving me crazy. It doesn’t miss a beat, just keeps reminding me it’s right there, in complete control.

“Little civilian wants this?” he croons as he grants me an inch, maybe less, of the despicable, ungenerous digit.

I nod and, unable to stop myself, writhe against the brick-hard body lodged at my back like a second skin.

Absently, I notice there’s less shooting and shouting. It’s been a miracle no one has stumbled into this back corner.

“Come out, Dax!” Shadow yells. “It’s just you and me left.”

Despite the drama playing out in the paintball arena, Ar’Tok hasn’t let up on his physical assault. In fact, he ups his game, dipping his finger deeper into me. “I can’t bear it,” I whisper. It’s too much. Too intense. As much as I want to come, it would mortify me to do it here where I might shout my pleasure, alerting everyone to what we were doing.

He pulls out of me, drops the hand that was performing magic on my breasts, and kisses me chastely on my cheek. After dragging my bra over my breasts, he smooths my t-shirt down and takes a step away.

We both snug closer to the bunker and peek at the action.

“Are you surrendering?” Dax’s deep voice goads.

“You surrender!” Shadow calls, insulted.

“You can agree to share the win,” the owner’s voice booms over the loudspeaker.

“By Freyd’s balls, that I will not do!” Shadow says on the run as he moves toward Dax and slides behind his bunker on the floor, feet first.

We hear the concussion of a flurry of paintball hits, as well as a string of epithets that would have shocked me only a few days ago.

“By Vorhee’s left nut!” Dax’s voice is passionate. “You hit me.”

“ Dracker !” Shadow yells, “You got me.”

“Who was hit first?” the owner asks. “We might be able to determine a winner.”

“I think this is our cue,” Ar’Tok says as he straightens and rearranges his hard-on in his pants. He looks me over, tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, then pulls me into the center of the room.

“I believe we win. We agree to share the prize,” he says, then whips his head toward me. “If that’s okay with you?”

I laugh, grab his hand, and kiss it. “Sharing the win is perfect,” I tell him, my eyes alight with happiness.

“Did you plan this all along?” I whisper as we approach the exit to collect our prize.

“I didn’t give a drack about the win. I already won the moment I put my lips on you, civilian.”

Oh my, there’s something about the way that last word rolled off his tongue, so deep and powerful and sexy. I have a feeling I’ll never be able to hear that word again without feeling an urgent twinge down below.

“Ar’Tok and Star win?” Savannah’s voice is incredulous. She’s competitive; the win by two underachievers must infuriate her.

“Well played!” Shadow says as Dax slaps Ar’Tok’s back.

“Strategy is everything,” Shadow admits as he stares at Ar’Tok’s straining cock, then throws his head back in a hearty laugh.

Okay, Star , I tell myself, they all probably know what we were doing during the entire battle. And they likely all wish they’d thought of it . I hold my head proudly as the owner formally bestows us with a silver chalice—fake I’m sure.

“The day won’t be complete until you two drink blanquard from it,” the owner tells us.

Our eyes meet over the loving cup. That sounds like a lovely idea.

Back in the hover, Grace decides to lead everyone in a singalong. The paintball excursion must have emboldened her, because she’s standing near the driver, breaking the must-be-harnessed rule and teaching us ridiculous songs.

Although most of the females seem to know the words, I don’t feel bad, I’m learning them along with every male on the bus.

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,” we sing, Ar’Tok and I swaying to the music and amused at the ridiculous lyrics. Some of the males, whose native tongues pronounce things differently from American English are struggling, but everyone is laughing and poking fun at the words.

“Old MacDonald” is enjoyed by all. Perhaps the males can’t picture cows and chicks and pigs, but they’re enjoying the heck out of making animal noises.

Five stanzas into “The Ants Go Marching” song and Zar, always known for his even temper, complains that it’s boring. Then he prods Anya, his mate, to teach us something more exciting.

Three stanzas into “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” Zar roars, “Terrible!” so loud everyone on the bus stops mid-word until we realize he’s having fun. “Okay, males, let’s teach these females what a true gladiators’ song sounds like.”

They start singing a song that roughly translates to ‘Charlotte the Harlot’.

“How about a quiet ride?” Savannah interrupts. It takes her about three repetitions, but the guys eventually get the message.

By the time we arrive at the Multi-Pleasure, the sun has set and the bus is quiet.

“I made a reservation for dinner in an hour and a half. Any of you who want to join us are invited,” Anya says.

“Let’s order room service,” Ar’Tok whispers as he gives me a meaningful look, one eyebrow arched. My body’s still desperate for release from his little pirate-and-frightened-maiden routine at the paintball venue. He’s got to be one step away from crazy from our unfulfilled explorations over the last few days.

“Aww,” I pout. “I thought we could eat with everyone, then maybe dance until midnight.”

His jaw tightens, and he silently swallows but doesn’t argue—he’s too much of a gentlemale to protest.

“I’m joking,” I tell him as I give his cheek a flying kiss. “I know exactly what we’ll be doing in an hour and a half, and I hope it has nothing to do with a dining room packed with people.”

We exit the hover all talking at once, jabbering about how much fun we all had. The girls all include me in their discussions about what we might do tomorrow. A week ago I never would have dreamed I would have friends, or that they would be as nice as all these women.

My hand rubs my chest as I watch Ar’Tok get swallowed up in a crush of laughing, joking gladiators as they congratulate him on winning the paintball match. I assume everyone on the bus knows we were making out in a corner somewhere but none of them mention it. They all seem genuinely happy we won.

“Okay,” I tell the women, “I’ll check my comm and see what you all come up with for tomorrow. Thanks for including me.”

“You don’t need to thank us for including you. You’re part of our crew now, at least until you want to leave,” Anya reassures me.

Ar’Tok extricates himself from the clutch of gladiators, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the far hallway, so we won’t ride the lift with everyone else.

“I couldn’t share you with anyone else for one more modicum ,” he murmurs when we’re alone in the lift. He tips his head as he inventories me, raking me from head to toe. “Let’s order room service. I’m starving. Showers. Eat. Bed. In that order.”

“Okay.” How could I resist a male who looks at me the way he’s looking right now? If he could devour me, he would.

I kick off my boots, plop on the bed, and fall asleep while Ar’Tok comms the restaurant with our order.