Chapter Sixteen

Oten

The traces of sunlight penetrate my eyes and wake me.

My head feels like it’s been pounded with an anvil, but otherwise I am fine.

Nem.

I jerk to sitting, scanning for her, but I don’t see her. “Nem!” I cry.

She moans, somewhere ahead of me.

I go to her.

She lies in the grass, her skin as pale as the day I met her. And covered in red gashes all over her body—cuts from the plants.

Her eyes are barely open, but she sees me, reaches for me.

Her voice is a whisper, but she manages. “Help…” Sweat shines on her forehead and drips between her breasts. Her legs shake, and her nipples are so hard, they look like they might break if I touch them.

She lets out a cry so full of pain it reaches inside me and begs me to do something.

“You’re burning? From the plants?” I want to help, but I have to know what kind of help she wants. If she wants an orgasm, I will give it to her. But there’s more I can offer her.

“Yes.” Her tongue does not linger over the “s,” and I catch a glimpse of the tip, rounded and thick—human. She has turned back completely. Which is why she is so affected by her wounds.

I need to address them. They have scabbed over. She’s not bleeding, but some look like they may fester without disinfectant. And I have something that can help more than any chemical she may have in the survival supplies.

I grasp her hand and raise it to my mouth, giving her ample time to refuse. My fangs are retracted, thankfully, my head pounding with too much pain to think of biting anyone. Even her.

I lick the nasty gash on the back of her hand. I slide my tongue over it from bottom to top. I press it closed, sealing the two sides of the cut back together, licking away the scab, too.

I pull back and look at my work. There is but a thin line left, which will heal before the day is over.

“Okay?” I hold her healed hand in front of her, so she sees what I’ve done.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and she whispers, “Good.”

“There is no venom in my mouth right now. It will not infect you.” She almost nods, but I need a full answer. “Will you let me close your wounds?”

She breathes, “Yes.”

I go as quickly as I can as thoroughly as I can, one cut at a time.

I start at her chest and work my way down her front. Luckily, the center of her breasts was spared; she must have subconsciously protected them. But her legs, from her thighs down, are worst.

I count thirty at least.

Her breathing is heavy and audible, her eyes closed. I lift up to turn her over, knowing there must be more on her back.

But she reaches for my head and pushes it down to the apex of her thighs. “Please,” she begs.

I salivate with relief and have to stop myself from thanking her. She cannot know that every inch of her I taste makes me want to lick between her legs more.

She helps me spread her thighs wide. I close a few cuts on the way I had missed, then lower my head between her legs.

Her cunt is as lush and pink as I remember. I stroke her with my thumb, just glorying in the sight of her. I will not rush this, or hurry mindlessly like yesterday.

I lift the hood over her clit with my thumb and stroke her beneath it.

“Oten,” she moans and lifts her hips closer to my touch.

I stare at her face a moment. Her head thrashing side to side, her eyes closed.

She can barely utter a sentence, but she calls out my name.

That more than even the sight of her ready and waiting sends a bolt of arousal to my cock. It hardens and thickens with the desire to be in her.

But I ready my tongue instead.

I hold her open with my hands and lick inside her. She tastes like female and sex, like the hottest sun and the sweetest honey, like power and strength. I feel it seeping into me as I lick between her wet folds, exploring and searching her.

I dip my tongue inside her, circling her opening then stroking in as deep as I can go. I find the round bulb inside and flick my tongue across it.

She writhes and presses harder against my face. The wetness of her covers my cheeks, my nose—the scent filling my lungs.

I give her more, brushing my tongue around the spot inside her that she likes. Back and forth, circling and sliding. I press the tip of my nose to her clit, and it rubs back and forth in time with my tongue.

Her cries are music, and she calls out my name. I give her everything she asks; the need to satisfy her—that she wants me to satisfy her—spurs me to make it as good for her as I can.

She inhales hard and starts to tighten.

I have given her a dozen orgasms in the last two days. I know she’s about to come.

So I slow down; I tune my tongue to the gasps in her breathing, drawing out her climax for as long as I can. She keens in her throat, her back arches, her body strains.

Then let’s go.

She spasms around my tongue in tight clenches. I dip my fingers in, giving her something to squeeze and more relief. Her hips roll out the orgasm, and she goes limp. Her knees fall wide, and she lies replete on the ground.

She opens her eyes, and her stare is full of gratitude. “Thank you.”

I shift my hardened cock with my hand, attempting and failing to ease it. “It is my pleasure.”

She gives a half smile. “If you say so.”

I stroke her cheek, tracing the splashes of red blooming in her complexion. “I do say.” There is no small amount of surprise at myself and how much I mean that. I want to give her everything. To satisfy her every need, to heal her and protect her and take care of her.

I am losing the fight against myself.

She is courageous and has done nothing but work with me since we were marooned here yesterday. The teamwork we used to get rid of the beast last night was seamless. I’m forced to admit, we work well together.

My ability to hate her is waning beneath the strength of my body’s unwavering Attachment to her.

She searches my face with confusion but doesn’t say anything. She does not pull away or grab my hand from her face. Her lips part like she means to ask a question but changes her mind.

“You have more cuts on your back,” I say.

She squirms in discomfort and makes to roll over. “Yeah.”

“Wait.” I grab the pack and spread out the ground cloth. “Lie on this.” I’d rather her not be entirely covered in dirt.

She does as I say and rests on her stomach on the tarp without complaint.

Her back is a mess of cuts and dirt. I have to clean it before I can heal anything.

I filter water and clean a rag from the survival supplies. It takes multiple rinsings of the rag and refills to the water bottle, but I get her clean. She’s asleep by the time I’m done, and I start closing the myriad cuts with my tongue.

I have to find some way to keep her skin protected from the undergrowth while we travel to her fallen ship. Her white skin suit, which never helped at all, is in a heap of rags on the ground.

There is extra clothing in the survival pack, but it’s thick and insulated. Meant for an emergency on an arctic planet. Even if I cut out the insulation, the material won’t breathe.

My leather pants are more breathable, and they are resistant to the leaves. They are covered in scratches but have no holes.

I take off my pants and clean them, wiping them down on the inside and outside, then fashion myself a breech cloth out of her torn skin suit. I use string from the survival pack to make a belt for myself.

I’ve managed to only bring myself to orgasm twice in the hours of the morning. I had to relieve the pressure. Without it, my mind fogs, and my reason fades.

It gives me an idea. The last two days, we have tried to avoid having sex and ended up losing our sanity, only to have massive amounts of sex anyway. I wonder if every few hours we stopped to satisfy the burn and gave into having sex, maybe we could avoid going insane by the end of the day.

Nem wakes, her eyes opening as she sits in one motion. She glances at the sky, sees the twin sun almost overhead, and shakes her head. “We have to move.”

“I agree.”

She glances over at me finally and gapes. “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

“These are for you.” I hand her my leather ones.

She looks at them skeptically. “Why?”

“We do not want this happening again. If I had a shirt, I would give it to you, too.”

“Why do you care?” She does not cower from me, she’s not afraid, but she looks at the leather as though it may bite her if she touches it. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because I am.”

“There’s a reason. What is it?”

“It is not what you thought before. It is not about the sex.”

“I noticed. You could’ve fucked me multiple times in the last few hours because I would have let you.”

I am burning already. The flames licking through my veins. The desire to touch her, to sink my cock into her, is there. But what is more present is this protective urge that I cannot ignore.

I have to give her an answer. Explaining the Attachment, which I hardly want to admit to myself is happening, is not an option. “I am not a barbarian. I would not force myself on someone when they are unconscious.”

She grasps the leather and inspects it. “And these?”

“I do not want you to hurt either. Not when I can help.”

“You could’ve just bitten me again.”

I stiffen. There is no disdain in her tone. “Is that what you want?”

She meets my eyes, and her expression is unreadable. She is masking her emotions, hiding something from me.

I almost reach for her hand. I cannot help leaning toward her. She glances at my mouth. To kiss her, to meet her mouth with mine…I want it. To stroke her jaw, to feel her tender human skin and its precious softness.

Her eyes linger over my mouth, too, and her tongue licks her lower lip.

“I don’t want you to bite me,” she whispers.

“I will not.” I have a newfound self-control when it comes to her. My fangs are retracted, and they will not come down—no matter how badly it hurts.

She leans forward and kisses me.