Page 54 of Zalis
“Is it painful to change colors? Is it due to diet? Is it environmental? Will other parts of you change colors?” His expression was earnest but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his glee.
He was asking silly questions on purpose, probably to get her to relax.
Gemma brushed his hand away. “No, to all your questions, funny guy. Don’t you have hair dye on your planet?”
“I would tell you that my mother dyes her hair, but I suspect your question was rhetorical,” he said.
Clever alien.
“My turn.”
Obediently he lowered his head, bringing it to her level. She stroked a finger from the tip down to the base. It was hard and surprisingly warm.
“Huh,” she said. “What is it made of?”
“The outer layer is keratin. The inner core is bone.”
“Can you feel that?” She stroked the other horn. The surface was ridged. Visually she could see that it had ridges but they felt very dramatic.
“At the base.”
Her finger circled the base, tangling with his hair.
His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath. The ink on his forearms glowed.
“Yes,” he breathed.
ZALIS
He trembled under her touch. This had not been his intention. From the moment he walked into their shared quarters, he wanted to ask about her colorful hair. When she woke from a fitful sleep, she often tugged at her hair, convincing him that it had been used to hurt her.
Long hair was an obvious target, easy to pull and highly painful. Warriors were encouraged to have short hair for those reasons, but many did not. Long hair was a warrior’s boastful confidence, daring anyone to get close enough to grab a handful.
His own brushed his shoulders, not for boastful reasons. He disliked the way shorn hair left the back of his neck and base of his horns exposed. Besides, the wisdom of short hair never made sense to him. In battle, a warrior wore a helmet. Hair was only exposed in a sparring match, and if the opponent were close enough to grab a fistful of hair, they could easily grab the horns.
None of that mattered; it was only the babbling noise of his brain’s constant churn. What mattered was the way Gemma stared at him, her eyes fixed on his mouth. She licked her lips, leaning forward slightly as if she wanted more.
He’d happily obliged.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He moved closer. One hand went behind her head, his fingers twisting into her soft hair. With his free hand, a thumb brushed her lips. They parted, giving him a glimpse of her pink tongue. He drew her closer, lowering his face to hers.
She was soft. All of her was soft and giving.
The kiss deepened. His teeth tugged on her bottom lip, careful not to injure her with a fang. His tongue plunged into her mouth, brushing against hers. She groaned, rising to her knees and responding with hunger.
Delicious.
His lips drifted down to the curve of her neck, the place where he would leave his mate mark. The scents he associated with her—sugar, vanilla, and butter—were strongest here. His teeth grazed the skin. She shivered in response.
He admired the expanse of skin. Without long hair to hide it, his mark would be visible for all to see. More than admired—adored. He was certain the rest of her was just as captivating and he intended to find out.
“This had not been my intention, but I am not displeased about the result,” he said, stoking the curve of her neck with his thumb.
Her lips twitched. Her smiles were so hard-won that the mere suggestion of one filled him with delight.
