Page 102 of I'm Not Your Pet

Roark snorted in amusement. “A skill that I am sure was necessary for your survival.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, weirdly touched that he understood that. “It was.”

“I remember your dances,” Roark rumbled. “Fondly.”

My belly flipped.

I seriously had not expected Roark to ever say that. In fact, I’d been under the impression that he’d been kind of offended by my performance. Only…I thought back on it—trying to remember what color his spots had been. Sure, they’d been changing a lot…but I was pretty sure in hindsight I remembered red in there somewhere.

Damn.

Before I could recover fromthat—excuse you Mr. “I am not good at flirting”—Roark gently pulled me from his body, far enough that we could speak better—wow. Wow. Roark in a tux was breathtaking. Eye-candy galore. I’d never get over it.

“I have been coming to this planet for over twenty years,” Roark explained, “and I have never attended any of these events.”

I nodded.

“I was a quiet child. I kept to my studies, always watching over the others at the orphanage rather than indulge in entertainment. There was no time for parties or games whenThe Great Calamity hit. After we discovered the cure to the illness that had plagued our people, I was even less inclined to play. I joined the military the second I was of age,” Roark continued, keeping his voice soft. “What little I know of ‘dances’ and ‘dancing’ comes from the handful of mating ceremonies I’ve attended over the years, and the videos I watched on my HoverPad in preparation for taking you out tonight.”

Oh.Oh.“So you’re saying that you don't know how to fancy dance either?”I probably shouldn’t be giddy about this.But this was the most information I’d ever learned about him, and I tucked every new tidbit away protectively inside my heart.

“No,” Roark said seriously. “I don’t.” He let that sink in for a second before continuing. “If not knowing how to ‘fancy’ dance is what makes one a loser, I hope it soothes you to learn we are on equal standing.”

“So we’ll…”

“Fail together?” He arched his brow bone and I grinned, my belly full of butterflies.

“Fail together,” I echoed, no longer feeling quite so unsettled. “I guess that’s not so bad.”

“No, little one, it’s not.” Roark huffed out a breath that ruffled my hair, looking so impossibly handsome it made my head spin. “There are far worse things in life than earnestly attempting something and looking silly.” He stroked a finger over my cheek, making me shiver all over again.

“How has no one snatched you up?” I asked, unable to help myself. I immediately regretted the question, not sure it was appropriate—but Roark laughed in response, so I figured it was fine.

“I would not allow it, even if they’d tried,” he purred again, leaning down so his long slithery tongue could snake out and tickle the place his finger had just traced. “I have no interest in anyone but you. Besides, I prefer to be the one that doesthe snatching.” And then he did just that—yanking me into his arms like I weighed nothing at all. I shivered—trying to hide how aroused I was by his easy manhandling as we headed out the door to our room, down the hallway, and into the same gold elevator I’d rode up.

I didn’t think about the unfriendly eyes.

I didn’t think about my insecurities, or my past.

I didn’t think about the human-like man I’d seen in the lobby.

Or the world I’d left behind.

And now that Roark had made his intentions clear, the labels I’d given myself disappeared. I wasn’t a slave. I wasn’t a pet. Wasn’t a loser.

I was just a dude on my first date, with someone who made my heart race.

And we were just two people who couldn’t dance, but wanted to spend the night in each other’s arms anyway.

When I was a child I often gazed at the stars. My father and I would sit on our front lawn together, feet angled toward the house, our heads tipped back. Starlight would dance across his pink surface, the same shade as my own, and his stories would fill my mind with fantasies of the future.

I asked him so many questions, I’m sure he lost count. Long before he’d succumbed to the plague, he’d been a dreamer, like I was.

How could the stars be so large, but look so small?

Where do they come from?

“What do they taste like, do you think?” I once asked. Barely six years old but already able to fully articulate my questions and feelings. Father read to me often. He shared his thoughts and aspirations. He answered my questions whenever he knew the answer. And his tutelage was part of why I’d grown so rapidly and so seriously. People often said I was his spitting image. A fact that had always filled me with pride.

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