Chapter Thirteen

Nem

I can’t get him out of my head.

The sight of him—those fangs extended—

I carve through the jungle with his machete, hacking out a path for myself. I’m going faster than I thought I could. I don’t think about it. Like everything else about me that’s been changing. I focus on—

How much I hate him.

But that just has me thinking about him and that glorious gold cock hanging between his legs.

No.

I focus on—

The work of moving through the jungle.

But that just has me thinking about my body. And how it’s broiling with the desire to run back and fuck him.

I should be hot. I should be sweating. But I’m not. My blood runs cooler. Like a reptile’s.

I stop once an hour for a refill of my water bottle. I’ve drunk six liters of water already today. I’ll drink six more before nightfall. I don’t care how much I have to pee. At least that hasn’t changed.

I’m going to wash that Ssedez out of my body.

I refuse to accept that I’ve changed into another species. I’m human, damn it. It doesn’t matter that I’ve rebelled against the Ten Systems. I still want to be human. I still want to be myself.

Oten toyed with me yesterday—saying my crew might not recognize me without my armor. Because I’m female.

They really won’t recognize me now.

I’ll find some way to convince them I’m their general.

If my second and third-in-command, my lieutenant general…

My brain fails me, and I almost stumble.

I can’t remember their names. The heat raging through my veins is rampant, like it’s stealing my thoughts. I won’t let it.

I clench my teeth harder. Force myself to think.

Cut through the brush harder and…

Assur and Jens!

Those were their names. If they survived the crash, each of them know things that only I would know. Them, I’ll be able to convince I’m me.

But…I can’t remember what those things are. Something about the mission and where we were going but…where were we going?

My vision starts to blur.

I must need more water. That’s what’s wrong. The heat. I can’t think clearly. My blood is too cool. My inability to sweat is causing me exhaustion.

I refill my bottle, filter the water, and drink.

I return to the trail, my slog through the jungle. My body starts to throb with my blood pulsing heat through my veins. I’ve become so accustomed to feeling swollen between my legs, so hot, so molten. A fire burns at the apex of my thighs; it spreads through my abdomen and down my legs. My core rages and burns, painfully empty.

My crew… Where I’m going… The goal I’m trying to reach… I can’t remember. There is only endless jungle and the fire in me.

Beneath my skin, flames rage. My body is crying out for touch, for sensation, for feeling. The need swells even my brain. My thoughts morph and disappear.

The sun beats down on me, and the air thickens. A moisture fills the air, a fog clouding my vision and filling my lungs—hot, so hot.

I stop.

I need feeling, physical sensation.

I brush my hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples, and it brings a burst of relief so fierce I cry out. But in its place, I’m filled with more longing.

Need. I am it. It is me.

I run my hands over my new, reinforced skin. The intricacies of the new texture—smooth yet hard—fascinates my sense of touch, the pads of my fingers hypnotized by the new sensations.

And the way my skin feels. Being touched isn’t the same. I’m less sensitive, yet more so at the same time. Like my skin is thicker, more of a barrier from my regular nerve endings. But there are new nerve endings at the same time. A new kind of sensation.

Like cotton brushing over feathers.

I’m cool on the surface. That’s fascinating, too.

Like my skin is cooler than I am on the inside.

I realize, or don’t realize, because I don’t know what’s happening, that my weapons, my pack, my skin suit that was tied around my waist—are all on the ground.

I kicked off my boots.

I took it all off.

I don’t want anything touching me. All of it hurts or feels like too much.

I’m naked and running my hands up and down my body. I’ve stopped by the stream, and in the surface of the water, I see myself.

I can’t see my face; it’s muddled in the ripples of the stream, but I see the outline of me. I watch my hands skim my hips and thighs, watch my gold hands move over me.

That I’m seeing me is hard to believe. It’s like watching someone else. Except it’s not. This is me. It’s a surreal out-of-body experience. I’m shocked and horrified this other being is me. But I’m awed and excited at the same time.

I like it. I like this me that is both a new me and not me at all.

This armor that is me. I’m protected and yet wearing nothing.

My fingers slip between my thighs, over the curls at the juncture. I seek into the folds surrounding my clit and almost crumble to the ground. Being touched there—I am so enflamed—it’s excruciating.

But once I start touching myself there, I can’t stop.

I widen my legs and sink my fingertips into the wetness that is me.

I’m so slick and open, sliding my fingers inside is like slipping through cream. I crook my fingertips against the round spot inside, and it sends a pulse of pleasure through me. My legs weaken.

I fall to my knees on the stream bank.

I’m still visible in the water, but I’m not seeing myself anymore.

I see him.

Oten.

The gleaming immortal.

And his impressive gold cock.

My mouth falls open.

The last time I was on my knees touching myself, I had him in my mouth. The spirals of his cock brushing past my lips until the tip pealed back and revealed the soft flesh beneath.

Then there was the thickness of his come spilling onto the back of my tongue, the rich taste and the satisfying feeling as I swallowed it down my throat, and it filled my stomach.

I have to thrust my hand farther up inside me—to try and fill myself.

I lie on my back and spread my legs. The climax builds, crawling up my spine, begging to be let out.

Both my hands—rubbing across my clit—pumping inside me.

I can see him in front of me. So clearly. Like he’s really there.

He stares at me. The desire and the need in his eyes, watching me. Him desiring me, wishing he could have me, as I take care of myself.

I relish in the power. I am what he wants. And he can’t have me.

He pulls out his cock and grasps himself—stroking up and down. I stare at his hand. At the tip of his cock as it disappears and reappears in his palm. I watch for the gold ridges to peel back and reveal the velvety tip.

It does, and my mouth works, wishing with every fiber of me that he was fucking my mouth.

I come, climaxing.

I cry out but cannot close my eyes. I have to watch him.

He groans loud and long, an animal in the jungle, and I watch his orgasm stream from the tip of his cock. Bursts of come jet on the ground except…

It’s not creamy and white like I expect it to be. It’s shiny and…

Silver. It lands on the ground in gleaming bursts that twinkle in the sun.

I have to stop myself from sticking my face in the dirt and licking it up—it looks so good. Like the richness of gemstones and the consistency of the thickest sugar. As though just tasting it would be a shot of sweet ecstasy.

I moan in sadness at the waste. That should be in my mouth or between my legs.

I hunger for it. To feel it on my skin. To touch it and run my fingers through it as I paint myself with it.

My body hums with my orgasm, but I still need him.

I get on my hands and knees and crawl to him.