Page 34 of Warlord's Mate
His thumb brushed her hand again. Marcy stared at their hands. There was a strange symbol or number tattooed next to his thumb. She wondered while staring at it if maybe the reason he kept her here was because he liked her, too. That maybe in his attempt to keep her close, his feelings for her were changing like hers had. That he held her like a lover would because he wanted her, but wasn't going to force her into anything she didn't indicate she also wanted.
What would he do if she initiated contact that wasn't the norm for them? If she turned her hand over so their palms touched, would he pull away?
Long minutes ticked by before she got up the nerve to see. She turned her hand so the back of it rested against the furs, their palms laying flush. Without hesitation, his fingers slid loosely between her own. Marcy’s stomach fluttered when his grip tightened and he buried his nose into her hair and he hugged her to him.
As much as she hated to admit it, it felt damn good to be held by him. There were very few men who could dwarf a woman who was over six foot tall, but he did. And it made her feel—girly, something she’d never really thought of herself as. With nicknames like giraffe and Marcy long legs, feeling like anything other than a freak was rare but here among these aliens, where the average height was well over six and a half foot, she felt positively miniscule. And that made her want to forget about her circumstances and just—live.
There was no going home. There was only—this. This was her life now, and like it or not, she was nothing more than a possession but fate had given her an advantage. It had landed her in the bed of the warlord and maybe that was enough to make sure she, and the others, were treated right. That they weren't forced to lay down for the men in this camp against their will and come morning, she'd see that from now on, these aliens had permission before grabbing someone and hauling them off.
Chapter Twelve
She’d been confined to camp. The warlord told her the day Kr’Atek tried to take her that she wasn’t to be in the forest without a guard, but he’d changed his mind the moment she grabbed a basket and started walking toward the trees with the other women. She was no longer allowed outside camp for any reason, with or without a guard.
Foraging hadn’t been the most fun job but at least it gave her something to do besides clean up after the brutes who lived here and when the other females were taken into the forest without her, she was made to see to the needs of everyone else as if it was her job alone and after a solid week of being treated like an indentured servant, if one more of them demanded she do anything for them, she was going to lose her shit.
The basket of freshly washed clothing was finally empty. She hung the last piece she’d been forced to wash on the make-shift clothesline strung between huts. At least this was a task that benefited her as well as she’d finally been able to wash her own clothing after finding another of the warlord’s shirts in his hut. It was as big as the one she’d ruined cleaning the fire pit but rolling up the sleeves helped.
She raised an arm, swiping at her sweaty forehead with the back of one hand, pushing a stray curl from her eyes. The warlord was standing with a group of aliens near the tree line. She wasn’t sure what the pow-wow was about but it was obvious he was paying little attention to it as he’d spent the last ten minutes looking at her. His feet were spread wide, his arms crossed over that massive naked chest, those crisscrossing leather straps of his bandolier missing today. He wore no shirt as usual and she gave him an appreciative glance from head to toe. If he could stare, then she could too.
Ever since the night Krista and Dawn had been brought to camp, and he’d come to bed early when she’d stomped off mad, he’d followed her when she stood from the dais and turned in. And every night he pulled her close, his breath hot against the side of her neck, his arms like steel bands around her body but, he’d yet to touch her. Despite the hand holding and damn near snuggling with the guy, he made no attempt to touch her in any sexual way. The others had told her he never slept with the females in camp and they weren’t lying and truth be know, it was driving her crazy.
She knew he wanted her. She’d felt the evidence of it pressing against her backside too many times to count and it was hard having that much man pressed up against you and not think about sex, and boy did she think about it a lot as of late. Every time she looked at him she thought about it but he’d yet to do anything but hold her close and sleep.
The corner of his mouth tilted up on one end and if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was almost smiling at her but dismissed the notion. She'd never seen him smile. She wasn't even sure he knew how.
He appeared bigger than life to her and she knew without a doubt he was the biggest, baddest motherfucker on Prison Moon One. She’d yet to meet any other warlord, but she believed her warlord was everything her girlish heart said he was. Strong, fierce, and too damn sexy for words. She also hoped that look he was giving her meant he wanted her because damn her soul it made her pulse race. It pulsed in places it shouldn’t and she wondered, if on those nights she woke draped across him, would he push her away if she crawled on top of him and fell on his dick? Or would he push her off and tell her no? Or maybe flip her to her belly, jerk her ass into the air and fuck her into a screaming, sobbing mess.
Visions of him doing just that filled her mind’s eye and her heart was racing by the time he stomped away from the others—and headed straight to Jityria. Marcy rolled her eyes and turned her back to them, snatching her empty basket off the ground. Could a girl not even fantasize about things she shouldn’t be thinking about without havinghershow up and ruin it?
Her reprieve was short lived as Jityria approached her a few minutes later, her arms full. Looked as if laundry day wasn’t over after all.
Jityria threw the bundle at her. “You are to take this to the warlord.” The words were said through clenched teeth, the look on her face murderous. “He went to bathe.”
That last sentence was said with so much contempt, it was a wonder she didn’t feel bitch slapped with the force of it. Jityria mumbled something under her breath, gave her a look scornful enough it should have killed her where she stood, then turned on her heel and stomped away.
Marcy looked down at the things Jityria had thrown at her. She recognized one of the drying clothes and the darker material was a pair of the warlord’s pants. A large chunk of—something—lay by her feet. It was a crude-shaped ball and was green. She smelled it and recognized the scent. It clung to the warlord’s skin and the furs on his bed. She rubbed her thumb across it. The texture was rough but her finger slid across it easily. If she had to guess, she’d say it was soap of some kind. And she was supposed to take it to the warlord.
Ah … now she knew why Jityria was so pissed. The warlord was naked and wet and for some reason, Jityria wasn’t going to be the one to assist him. She was.
The thought should have pleased her for no other reason than it pissed Jityria off but all she could think about was—the warlord was naked and wet, and she was supposed to take his clothes to him.
Marcy bundled the drying cloths and pants up and headed to the path that led to the pond, ignoring Jityria and the anger etched into every line on her face as she went. Anticipation and nervousness made her limbs tremble so badly she had to stop halfway there and take a few deep breaths.
“Get a grip. It’s not like you were told to bathe him. You just have to take him clean clothes and scamper off.”
After another deep breath, she continued up the path, stopping once she was close enough to the pond to see that the warlord wasn’t there. She looked toward the cave.
The first and only time she’d been inside, she’d seen more of the warlord than she’d expected. Knowing she was about to see it again caused that traitorous pulse between her legs to start to pound.
Marcy headed across the sandy beach around the pond, taking her time about it. As before, the sound of water echoed off the walls as she stepped into the narrow cave passageway, the flickering light from the sun hitting the crystals inside the cavern dancing in erratic patterns on the walls.
She rounded the bend, her gaze darting to the waterfall. The warlord was standing beneath it, the water running down the length of his back.
His ass was a sight to behold. If she’d had a quarter, she could have probably bounced one off those tight glutes. She laid the drying cloth and his pants on one of the big boulders by the water and cleared her throat. “Here are your things.”
He turned and even though the water raining down on him obstructed some of her view, she could still see him well enough to know she hadn’t imagined the size of his cock. Even soft it hung down further than most.
His voice seemed to echo in the cavern when he said, “Bring me the cleansing bar.”