Page 33 of Shadows of Stardust

“Stop trying to fucking devour me. Just… I don’t know. Follow my lead.”

I grumble a bit at her sass, but let her take over as her sweet, warm lips slant over mine. She nips at me, harder than would seem necessary for an expression of affection and tenderness, but I don’t mind.

I want more.

More of her sharp edges and more of her sweet spice. More of this unexpectedly erotic dance of lips and teeth and tongue.

These humans might be onto something with kissing.

Another inquiring shout echoes through the jungle as the crew gets closer, and when I slide my hand up Roslyn’s back, a new problem presents itself.

With a firm grip, I tug at the pack she’s wearing. Small and lightweight, but definitely out of place and likely to raise questions.

Roslyn grumbles another protest into the kiss, and her sass is just as sweet as her bite. “What are you—”

“Evidence,” I mutter, catching the tip of my fang on her bottom lip and not allowing myself to believe the little gasp that catches in her throat is anything but indignation. “Off. Now.”

She complies, letting me strip it from her and toss it into the thick underbrush at the edge of the clearing.

As soon as it’s dealt with, I pull her back into my arms, lower my lips to hers, and taste that sweetness again.

Fates, I understand the fascination.

I understand the splash these humans have made in the sector with their peculiar mating rituals and soft-strong bodies and gentle, otherworldly sort of beauty.

Or perhaps it’s just this human who’s my own personal fascination.

Perhaps it’s those emerald eyes of hers and the way she drives me mad with her defiance. Perhaps not all human bodies are as tempting as the soft curves pressed into me, or as undeniably delicious as the taste of sex clinging to her lips.

Through those lust-addled thoughts, the whir of a hovercam announces the end of this little charade, along with a sharp exclamation from the producer who reaches us first.

“What the fuck?”

In a few seconds, three crew members and a guard—a lazy, insolent, knock-kneed male whose name I never bothered learning—are in the clearing, all of them staring open-mouthed at Roslyn and I.

She pulls away from me, but I press a hand firmly to her lower back and keep her tucked into my side, leveling a glare at them.

For appearance’s sake, of course.

“What’s going on here?” one producer, who seems to be in charge of this crew, asks.

“What does it look like is going on here?” I shoot back, tugging Roslyn even closer.

“That isn’t—you’re not supposed to—” the producer flails helplessly for a couple of moments before looking at the guard.

The guard shakes his head. “This is way above my authority level.”

“We’re going to have to bring you to Marva,” the producer says, running a beleaguered hand through his hair.

A grumble lodges itself in my chest at the idea of beingbroughtanywhere, of being censured or ordered about by the likes of this male, but Roslyn digs her nails in a little where she has her hand resting on my back. An unmistakable command to play nice.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll speak to Marva.”

I look down at Roslyn for confirmation and she nods before unwinding her arm from around my waist and stepping back toward the path.

The crew and guard make to fall into step behind her, but it only takes a couple of strides and a small, nearly imperceptible flinch from Roslyn for me to halt their progress.

“Stop,” I command, and everyone does.

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