Page 21 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Nothing moved in the still air of the Dome, but like before, it suddenly rang with awareness. Rosamma was awash with the feeling of being watched. Closely.

Her heartbeat picking up speed, she turned her head a fraction and saw that the folding doors were pulled aside, revealing his shape in the opening.

He made no effort to conceal himself, letting her watch him.

Her breath caught, and that terrible, sweet anticipation seized her. She had told herself a thousand times it was wrong of her to think of him in that way, immoral even, but she was helpless.

She remained where she was as he made his way toward her. The door slid closed, enclosing them in the musty darkness.

“I need you to stay in the Cargo Hold, Rosamma,”

he said softly.

“Yes, Striker.”

“You say that every time, and nothing changes.”

“I’m sorry,”

she said, contrite.

She knew he was looking at her.

“You’re hiding again. What upset you?”

How can this alien know her so well? Why did he want to?

“I went to the Command Center,”

she told him.

“You put Phex at the controls.”

He said nothing to that.

“You must trust him not to wreck this place,”

she added.

Again, nothing.

“We’ve lost Phex,”

she whispered bitterly and turned to gaze at the stars.

Fincros moved deeper inside the Dome.

“You never had him, Rosamma.”

Her head snapped around.

“That’s not true! We trusted him to help us. I trusted him…”

“He won’t hurt you,”

he said.

“That’s not the same as defending.”

Rosamma had an urge to argue, to say he was being unfair.

“He did defend us. From you,”

she pointed out.

“He kept us all alive.”

A small turn of his head gave away his annoyance.

“Stop pretending, Rosamma. You’re alive because I wished you to be. Phex had nothing to do with it.”

He now loomed over her, a huge monster with flat eyes.

She wanted to be near him, and she wanted to go home. These contradictory, mutually exclusive desires created a tumult in her soul. She wanted this nightmare to end, for herself, and Phex, and for this alien standing before her. Just go away from here. Anywhere.

“The food’s running out,”

she whispered to Fincros. It was like she had no voice left.

“It hasn’t run out yet.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. Fear makes you weak.”

She laughed suddenly.

“You sound just like Phex. I’m already weak! And I don’t care. I can’t fight it anymore.”

“You’re scared because you feel alone.”

“I am alone.”

She touched the glass behind which the stars called to her, her imaginary white friends.

“I can teach you to fuck if you want.”

The stars flared across her vision as her body jerked, and she felt herself unraveling as if every cell in her body ping-ponged around like spilled bouncy balls.

“I… Do you want it?”

she said to the window.

His voice came low and rough. “Do you?”

She closed her eyes, fighting the pull she’d felt for this man, despite what he was.

Opening them, Rosamma looked at his reflection in the window: the glitter in his eyes, the scars, the distant expression.

“You’re mocking me again, Striker.”

Her voice did crack this time.

“I’m through with mocking.”

His hoarse whisper was as chill-inducing as it was seductive.

“Try me. You may like it.”

She rose as if in a dream and stood in front of him, so vulnerable he could shatter her to pieces with a single careless word.

“I think I would like to try. With you.”

His face remained expressionless—no smirk, no self-satisfaction, just a solid wall of impenetrable male.

“Why are you shaking?”

he asked softly.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Reaching out, he skimmed his fingers over her hair.

He would, but it was her last concern at the moment.

“I’m wondering…”

she hesitated, then pushed through the acute embarrassment seizing her chest.

“For it to work… is there any more spice charm?”

He blinked then, third eyelid and all.

“Spice charm?”

“Well, yes. To help you, you know… With someone like me.”

“There’s no more spice charm,”

he said in an odd voice.

They were silent for a spell.

“Can you do it?”

she asked in a thin voice.

“I’ll manage,”

he replied with utter seriousness.

He took her into his arms, enveloping her in his vitality and strength. She felt more at ease, yet still worried. How could this virile male find satisfaction with a woman as frail and odd-looking as her?

“I don’t think…”

“Too late.”

He leaned down and kissed her.

Her fragmented memory supplied her with snippets of their kiss in the Meat Locker, but she’d been too weak and disoriented to remember every delicious detail.

She savored it now, but he broke away too soon.

Turning her, he positioned her back to him. She stared out into the vast Universe.

His hands settled heavily on her shoulders, sliding up and down her arms, possessive. Sensations assaulted her, making goosebumps march along her arms. She wanted to get it right for him. But how could she, if she knew nothing about men, much less this one?

He moved aside her braid and nuzzled her neck, kissing behind her ear and licking the sensitive skin around it.

His hands then slipped under her top and pulled it over her head along with the thin cotton tank top she wore underneath.

She swallowed, her hands reflexively covering her chest before forcing them to relax at her sides. She stilled, mortified and vulnerable, acutely aware of Fincros’ fingers tracing her shoulder blades.

She was so painfully thin. Her ribs showed under her small breasts. Her skin was too pale, with veins visible beneath. The hair on her head, and the hair that she had down there, all of it was monochrome, bland, without contrast.

His hands trailed down and encircled her waist, his fingers touching her belly button. It tickled, and she sucked in a small breath.

“Do you like it?”

he asked in her ear. The scaly material of the defender shirt abraded her back when he pressed close.

“I don’t know, Finn,”

she admitted.

“I can’t think.”

He caressed her stomach, rubbing it in lazy patterns. Then he drew her tighter against him. With the difference in their heights, Rosamma’s back fit flush with his crotch, still flat.

“Am I too strange for you?”

she whispered.

“You’re just right.”

His voice was husky.

Suddenly, he brought one hand around and put it on her inner thigh.

This time, when a flush suffused her, it wasn’t from embarrassment. Her pulse ramped up, her body stirring to life.

She’d read about what lovers do, about intimacy and pleasure. Without much hope of ever lying with a man, she’d experimented a little, pretending her hands were the hands of her lover.

Her private explorations couldn’t compare to this.

The touch of Fincros’ rough hand on her thigh ignited that vague, dark feeling she’d always felt around him into a fire in her belly.

“I like it, Finn,”

she confessed in a hurried whisper.

“I like it when you touch me,”

“Good. Because I can’t stop touching you.”

His hand nearly reached the apex of her thighs before he withdrew it. He cupped both her breasts again, and this time his touch was rougher as he squeezed them.

She arched her back in response, pressing her nipples into his palms. She wanted him to rub them until they hurt, or until they stopped hurting.

He moved to stand before her. His eyes glittered, dark as the endless night against his swarthy, marred face. She sensed his arousal even though his body didn’t show it the way a human male would.

Their mouths came together. Their tongues twined, Rosamma’s touching his serrated teeth.

The dark, electric feeling in her lower belly spread, catching her entire body in its unescapable net.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he walked her back, pushing her against the door. Kicking her legs apart, he cupped her, his fingers slipping inside her waistband, going lower until he reached her wet folds.

She moaned then, caught in the pleasure of his touch.

The pads of his fingers moved back and forth, wrenching a moan from her. He lifted his head briefly, and he gave her his heart-stopping smile.

Her heart pounded as he wrenched her pants off and lifted her, forcing her thighs apart, his weight grinding into her.

She felt him undo his belt with one hand, and when he next flexed his hips against her, felt the length of him spring free, hard, long, and also slick. She gasped when he rubbed against her.

Her inner thighs began to tingle.

Fincros’ body tensed, that enticing male energy rolling off him unchecked. He licked inside her mouth, blatantly carnal.

“Easy, don’t clench now,”

he ground out.

On the next go, he pushed in—strong and sure and all the way.

Rosamma stifled a cry, adjusting to the sensations of being so thoroughly impaled. It hurt, her first time, despite the ample wetness. She could feel him sheathed to the hilt. He pulled out and slid it back in, caressing her from the inside. It was new, and marvelous, and so intimate tears sprang to her eyes.

His shoulder muscles went rock hard, and the ropey veins popped under the skin. She traced one vein with her finger in abject wonder.

He groaned.

“Stay with me.”

Gripping her braid with his other hand, he slammed his mouth over hers. She responded, helpless in this vortex of feelings and sensations, lost in the taste of him, saturated with the musky smell that was uniquely his.

He gave a hoarse grunt as he came, and she felt him throbbing. Then he pushed in one last time, then went still.

His kiss changed, becoming gentle. The hand clenching her braid relaxed.

Rosamma felt foreign inside her skin.

There was pain and discomfort, and she wished Fincros would return her body to her. Yet, she was flushed and filled with a shivering need to continue.

Gradually, he stopped invading her mouth.

He nibbled at the corners of her lips before lifting his head. His body pulled his member out of her and tucked it inside him, like the Rix Mother Nature designed.

Rosamma unwrapped her legs from his hips and lowered them until the soles of her feet touched the metal mesh of the floor. She held on to Fincros’ shoulders for support as he re-buckled his belt.

He was now fully dressed and probably armed, flat-eyed and expressionless.

And she stood there naked, smelling of him and still feeling the phantom thrusts of his body inside.

They didn’t speak.

Gingerly, she raised her hand and touched his beautiful, silky hair.

He dipped his head to make it easier for her to reach.

The moment stretched as they stayed like this, with the remnants of the spent passion still humming between them, exposed to the view of the indifferent Universe. Tiny, insignificant beings in the cold vastness of space. Smaller than grains of sand in the desert.

“You’ve been ignoring all my orders,”

he chided her softly.

“What is it?”

She stared at him intently, his face blurring before her eyes. She felt very faint and weak as a kitten.

“You need to go back to the Meat Locker.”

She shuddered, her vision clearing abruptly.

“I can’t bear the thought.”

Without further ado, he scooped her up.

She struggled and cried.

“You’ve ruined everything!”

The crash from the intimate high was too painful. She couldn’t believe he would do that to her.

“Stop fighting me, Rosamma.”

“Then don’t! I’d rather die.”

“I’d rather you don’t.”

The blast of freezing air told her they’d entered the most hellish place in the Universe.

“It’s too cold. I’ll die from exposure anyway.”

He pushed an old rag at her that she recognized from her previous time here.

“I don’t want it!”

She flung it away in a tantrum.

“I don’t want you!”

She clawed at the collar.

He grunted and caught her hands, holding them prisoner.

She kicked at him and got her hands tied loosely at her back.

Then he left her like this, alone, in the Meat Locker.

Bastard.

Alien filth.

Lech.

So much for giving herself to him.

For one beautiful moment there, they had been each other’s world.