Page 50 of Love Galaxy

“She likes Roan?” Sorin repeats, and he still sounds confused.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Lydia thinks there’s a chance Harlee will want to stay here and not return to Earth. But I can’t say that for sure,” I quickly add. “I’m telling you what Lydia told me. I didn’t actually speak to Harlee. She wasn’t there.” And Roan hadn’t been there either, even though it was his tablet Sorin had called.

“I am pleased for my brother. He has been lonely for a long time.”

I relish the warmth radiating off him. You might think cuddling someone with scales wouldn’t be all that cozy, but it really is. Sorin is so much larger than I am that when he wrapsme in his arms, it’s as good as being wrapped in my favorite blanket—better, even.

“What about you? What do you want?” I whisper the question, and then instantly wish I’d kept my mouth shut because whatever he says is only going to make me feel worse, I know it.

“Me?” His voice is quiet, like he’s talking more to himself than to me, but my shoulders tense in anticipation, nonetheless. “I could not sleep last night, and not only because… ” Still holding my hand, he gestures downward, and I don’t have to look to know he’s talking about his dick and everything we got up to outside, away from the cameras. “I could not sleep last night because I was afraid that when I woke up this would all be a dream. That you would be a dream and that you would have disappeared?—”

He shuts his mouth, and I actually hear all his sharp teeth snapping together, like how I imagine a crocodile would sound if they suddenly got too self-conscious to finish their sentence.

I don’t press him to say more, though, not when there are three cameras spying on us. Not when I’m still too much of a coward to decide about staying—or leaving.

In the following days, we find a routine. Sorin cooks. I clean. We spend the mornings checking the farming lakes closest to Sorin’s house, him teaching me how to record algae growth. He says the latest crop will be ready to harvest in another forty days or so. Neither of us mentions how I might not be here to see that happen.

I’d never thought of myself as a farm girlie before. But maybe some of Sorin’s quiet pride in the work that he and his brothersare doing is rubbing off on me. Or maybe I’m a big enough sap that I find anything Sorin is doing to be interesting. He could watch paint dry, and I’d want to sit with him and watch too, just to spend time with him.

Maybe that’s what falling in love is—tripping over your own feet in your haste to be as close as possible to the object of your desire while low-key panicking that you don’t recognise the person you’ve become.

I’d be lying to myself if I were to pretend I never pause to think about what my and Sorin’s potential child might be like. I can’t quite imagine skin mixed with scales… but decide it isn’t important.

Sorin, bless him, hasn’t mentioned it again. Still, sometimes when I catch him watching me, I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about.

In the afternoons, we like to go swimming (swimming being an excuse to grope each other underwater where the cameras can’t see), or sometimes we’re given another task to complete.

Yesterday we spent a depressing number of hours trying to construct a kissing booth out of boxes emptied of produce from Sorin’s pantry and stacked one on top of the other only for the entire thing to fall apart before the kissing had commenced.

Then, in the evenings, we curl up in Sorin’s bed together. I’m slowly getting used to having no blankets or pillows, mainly because sleeping next to Sorin is like sleeping next to my own personal heater. Also, because I’ve woken every single morning wrapped around him like an octopus with eight tentacles. I’m practically his blanket. I swear I don’t mean to sleep on his side of the bed, usually entirely on top of Sorin; it happens when I’m unconscious, like my body’s got a mind of its own.

Not that I’m complaining. Not that Sorin’s complaining either. Although the poor man looks tired more days than not, asif he’s hardly getting any sleep, and he always, without fail, has an enormous bulge between his legs first thing in the morning.

If there weren’t cameras, I’d so be going down on him. As it is, we have to be careful about how many times we sneak outside at night for more hands-on action. Mr. Smith has definitely cottoned on to what we’re doing, and a few times now he’s dropped hints like anvils about how he’s ‘letting’ us get hot and heavy together as a reward for us giving him good content.

I hate that I’ve noticed a correlation, but two days after Sorin and I completed another one of Mr. Smith’s crappy tasks and then got handsy with each other in the swimming lake, Mr. Smith didn’t interrupt. But four days ago, when I tried ignoring his instruction to monologue more, he specifically disrupted Sorin and me kissing at the kitchen table with stupid threats of sending Chloe over to interview us.

Worst of all, his tactics are working, because I’m so desperate to spend any and all time with Sorin that I’ll do practically anything Mr. Smith demands of me so I get the reward of uninterrupted Sorin cuddles.

It still gives me the heebie-jeebies, though—following commands. And when Mr. Smith tells me to do something I was already planning on doing, oh my God, I feel like committing violent crimes! I’m gritting my teeth now, thinking about it. Full of feminine rage.

As for monologuing, I just say the first shit that comes out of my mouth. Any time I’ve got a second to myself, I’m making up lies about how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking. Whether Mr. Smith knows if I’m lying or not is another matter. I suspect he doesn’t care, so long as he gets enough footage to cut into episodes.

Today was day thirteen. I almost don’t want to go to sleep tonight because sleeping is beginning to feel like a waste of hours—well, except for the part where I wake up in Sorin’s arms.

We finished eating dinner about half an hour ago and already I’m yawning. Being active all day and not working in front of a computer means I couldn’t stay awake all night even if I tried.

I’ve almost finished cleaning the kitchen, but it’s taken twice as long as usual because every time I pass by Sorin to reach a cupboard he claims a kiss. A few times, I pretend to forget what I’m doing just so I can walk by him a few extra times for a few extra kisses.

Now, as I’m yawning and putting our shared bowl back into the near-empty cupboard, Sorin is side-stepping toward the ladder, the one that leads upstairs to the planet’s surface. He isn’t smirking because Ril’os don’t smile, but he’s looking smug, as he not-so-subtly tips his head toward the ladder, indicating I should follow.

Suddenly not nearly so tired, I scramble up after him, and then we’re both tumbling out the door. If we stay close to the house, it doesn’t usually matter what direction the wind is blowing; it’s possible to find a spot where we’re protected.

The second we’re out of sight of the cameras, Sorin is kneeling in front of me, his upper arms around my waist, his lower arms fumbling with the hem of my dress.

I yank the fabric out of his way, and he removes my G-string with all the confidence of a man who’s got one thought, and one thought only, on his mind.

“Briar,” is what I think he says, but it’s honestly hard to hear anything over the wind, even though we’re not directly in its gale.

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