Page 47 of Exiles on Earth
But I’ve seen the times when she has panicked, when she needed someone strong to help her. She relaxes around me, even talking about her dreams with me. All these facets are El-len, but I want to know all of them.
And I want her to know she can rely on me.
“Your species can’t change temperature at will. You must be uncomfortable,” I venture.
Arra-bellah points at me. “Even the alien gets it.”
El-len puts her teabags into her mug with quiet resignation. Perhaps this is a discussion they’ve had often.
“It’s not like I have the cash to pay a plumber, but I’ll get one out now,” El-len explains quietly. “That means another human will come to the farm, Ilia, so you’ll have to make yourselves scarce when he’s due to visit.”
Why hasn’t she told me about her problem earlier? Something knots in my stomach. Because I am still a stranger. She has no men to protect her, and six offworlders landed on her property, obliterating her understanding of the universe as surely as her barn. Of course she doesn’t trust me yet.
As she passes me a mug of tea, I pull my diagnostic from my pocket. “Where is it? Can I take a look?”
She blinks at me. “Sure.”
“I’m going outside, it’s warmer than in here,” Arra-bellahsays, her eyes suddenly alight as she heads toward the other side of the kitchen and the back door into the garden.
El-len winces as Arra-bellah shuts the door firmly enough to rattle the panes. “She’s probably going to come up with more design changes, I’m afraid. They’re becoming a regular occurrence.”
“And truly, I don’t mind.” There. I spoke my preference.
Shaking her head, El-len leans against her counter, sipping her hot drink with her eyes closed. The excitement of earlier enhances her scent, warm earth and wild grasses with a mild hint of salty sweat. Delicious and intoxicating, breathing it in makes my scales ripple. She’s my stimulant, more than any leaves steeped in hot water.
Once she’s finished, she puts the mug in the clear sink and leads me deeper into the house. I have to stoop through the wooden doorways, the walls and floors slightly uneven. We pass a room with low couches overfilling with countless blankets and an empty hearth still smelling of woodsmoke, and then a corridor lined with wood substrate bound volumes. A wooden staircase, worn smooth by generations of human hands, travels upstairs to where the humans sleep.
A tremor passes through me. She wants me to state my preferences and opinions. What will she say if I ask her to choose me as her mate, and ask to pleasure her? I shake my head. I can’t be sure I’ve pleased her yet, and she hasn’t asked me to take the next step.
If only humans had Mating Games. I’d enter as fast as a blaster shot and prove my worth to El-len.
The tiny human opens a door to reveal a gleaming copper barrel. Setting my diagnostic tool to systems, I hand it to her. “Would you like to use this?”
Her eyes brighten, handling it as though her small fingers could break it. “Yes, please.”
“Point it at the boiler. It’ll scan it using light, and themachine brain will determine what the functions of each part are and where the likely fault is.”
She aims, her tongue poking out on one side of her mouth. The sight nearly undoes me completely. I lean against the wall, legs seeming far away, watching the delight on her face as she views the readout.
A pipe flashes red. “Oh, it’s blocked! Here!”
I stand back as she works the valve in question, pride tingling in my chest. She heaves, twisting hard, then looks at me over her shoulder, panting beautifully. “Will you help me?”
“Always.” I reach over her to twist the offending valve. It splutters, chokes, and then the hiss of water rings into the barrel. The diagnostic beeps, screen a happy yellow.
“Score!” El-len spins around, but I still have my hand in the cupboard. Her breasts press against my chest, her stuttering breath close enough to taste.
“Oh,” she says, her air brushing across my scales. It changes them in a ripple, and her beautiful eyes fix on my pectorals as they turn blush pink to match her achingly soft-looking lips.
Slowly she tilts her head up, pupils dilated, her breathing quickening. “Seems like… you’re a little better. After you saved us. Earlier.”
“Yes.” My arms don’t ache at all, not with her so close. The rush of our breath warms the space between our bodies. I want to close the distance, but she needs to make that choice, not me.
She swallows hard. “I…I love how they change color. Can I… touch your scales again?”
A mute nod is all I could manage, staying still as her hand lifts, hesitant and unsure. I want her to stroke me, claim me. I lock myself still, securing my patience. She taught me how to express a preference; if she had one, she’d have said it by now.
Her fingertips flutter over my chest, brushing one scale, then another. My breath shortens at the storm of feeling, the ache, the need, the desire clawing me from the inside out. I am rock hardjust from a single contact and my scales take on her colors instantly, rippling out as if the brush of her fingers is a pebble dropped into the pond.
