The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection)

by Misty Provencher

  Tiddy moaned and Phuck brought up his head, hoping that she was looking down on him with forgiveness. But she was not looking down. In horror, Phuck witnessed an unprecedented second release fire out of her, right behind the first. The second, only slightly smaller ball of energy impregnated the first. The sexual concoction bobbed once before it fire-balled straight into his face, swallowed up by the central, black hole in his head.

  He sucked in a breath as Tiddy's head snapped up, searching for him on her own sight horizon. Her sight holes finally dragged her head down, to find him kneeling before her. Consumed with dread, Phuck waited for the ball of her energy to sink to the bottom of him. He pictured Tiddy's throbbing, sexual projectile softly tapping down onto the floor of his pelvis, immediately followed by a staggering detonation of hormones. His urine straw cringed in anticipation.

  Tiddy peered down at him expectantly, moving closer, bearing her tangled patch to his lips. Phuck only peered back up at her, mouth clamped shut. Moments passed. No sexual explosion rocked through him.

  "Rejection? That is what you give me?" Tiddy sparked. Phuck got to his feet gingerly.

  "I did not intend...you did enter me...it came through the hole in my face..."

  Tiddy wouldn't hear it. She reared back with a warning hiss and Phuck scrambled out of the way. It was a grave insult he paid her. Worse than not accepting the mating energy, he had accepted it, but blocked response. Except that he hadn't blocked it, so much as it hadn't detonated yet.

  He expected her to spew him with venom, spraying him until he melted off his bones. Then she'd probably spray him again, until the bones cored and melted too. She might even spray the seething, disintegrated puddle of whatever was left of him. Then once more, just to be sure.

  But instead, Tiddy howled like a human with its skin bag stuck in a trap. She rocketed away from his doorway, swooping down to retrieve her pants.

  "I did not mean..." he began again, but she howled louder than he could speak. She shot away, into the spindlings. Her miserable howl went on for a hundred beats of his heart, as if she were out there running in circles around his cabin.

  When it finally faded, Phuck couldn't move.

  He stood paralyzed, realizing that her hormonal bomb was still inside him, lodged somewhere far below his skin, volatile and ready to annihilate him at any moment. If the thing went off now, without a female nearby to quell it, the sexual blast would most likely kill him. It was a hideous caveat to the miraculous wonder of Plutian mating. He could literally go mad without an outlet for his urges, trapped by the overpowering desire to mate and left to work over his urine straw until the thing either cracked off or he went blind from utter dehydration. He was already on the threshold as it was.

  "By 1295," Phuck spat a cursing oath on the Plutian deity. He slid one foot painstakingly over the threshold of his cabin. He brushed the second along after it. Step by cautious step, he eased himself across the room to a chair, lowering himself with absolute trepidation. Although his sitting lumps were in contact with the chair seat, he could not rest or recline, as it might jostle Tiddy's sex missile and bring him to total ruin.

  He would sit and wait, if need be, for his urine straw to heal and for Tiddy to get over her anger and return. Until then, his survival depended on his ability to remain completely still.

  ***

  Diem's flight back from Hold House was mechanical. He tied his hand to the guide rope, he said Good Life to the occupants of Hold House, and he felt the wind slicing against his cheeks as Forge leapt into the sky, but his mind wasn't on the flight. All his thoughts oscillated between the plans he'd discussed with Rha Shown and Generation—quiet plans of anarchy and battle—and visions of Maeve, naked and waiting for him to arrive back at his shack. He dug his knees a little harder into Forge's neck to spur the flight back even faster.

  It was ridiculous to be thinking of a woman when the proposition of battle was being heavily considered. Especially a battle that could change the course of the Earth and possibly wipe all the human beings from it. Still, Diem couldn't keep his mind focused. He couldn't not think of Maeve. World desolation at his door, and all he could think of was how silky her skin had felt and how the sweet bud of her throbbing sex had beat beneath the pads of his fingers. His mind pressed back to what he should think of, and then, as if his thoughts were seeking comfort, he imagined himself suckling her breast. As a Rha, responsible for his House and its well-being, his drifting thoughts were disappointing and shameful to him, yet entirely irrepressible.

  He directed Forge to land softly. The dragon complied, landing like dust, the bulk of her barely disturbing the dust beneath her back feet. The idea of coming upon Maeve quietly, to possibly glimpse her through a window and watch her unaware, appealed to him. He wanted to watch her move the way she would in private, as if the act of it would give him a window into who she really was.

  But as he slipped from the dragon's back, he was frustrated by the consuming need to know anything about her at all. She was a stranger, when he had a whole House of familiar faces to look after. As strong a man as he was, he needed to make himself care less about her and felt powerless to do so.

  He crept around the edge of the shack, looking for an open shutter, and when he arrived at one, open only a finger width, his stomach jumped in anticipation. He heard the splash of water first. It was the sound of washing dishes, of cleaning floors, of preparing the pelt of a hampig...of bathing. He opened the shutter all the way and peered inside. The vision that greeted him was better than expected.

  Maeve stood naked with her back to him. She had found his towels, having spread one over the floor near the pump and bucket. She had managed to work the pump, or maybe she was using the water he'd pumped for her this morning. He knew it was the latter when she dipped a cloth into the water, wiped it down her arm, and a bed of goose bumps rose up on her skin.

  She washed herself from shoulder to fingertip, squeezing the cloth out in the bucket before starting on the opposite arm. Her hair was gathered on top of her head, but some wisps had gotten free and clung to her shoulders in wet curls. When she bent, he caught sight of the edge of her rounded breast, but only a glimpse of the hard peek at its tip. When she finished with her arms, she dipped the cloth again—this time throwing her head back to wash her neck.

  Her hair came loose and cascaded down her back. She whispered a curse, but left it down.

  He followed the trail of her spine down to the sensuous curve of her rear and back up again. Her waist flowed in below her ribs and then bloomed out again, into soft and round hips. Diem speculated at what Maeve's bottom would feel like in his palms. He memorized the spread of her bones, her body perfectly tailored to receive a man.

  She ran the wet cloth over her shoulders like a slow tongue. Rivulets of moisture slid down her spine in loose trails. Diem had the overwhelming urge to place his lips over the dimples at the heel of her back, licking away the water drops and warming her skin with the inside of his mouth. Her body began to quiver as she continued bathing, water from the pump needed to be warmed with a fire seed.

  He moved away from the window and around to the door. He was certain she'd bolted it, but pushed in on it anyway. It was a surprise when it wafted open. The light spilled in with him, casting a golden beam on her and the wall in front of her. She gasped and turned quickly, the cloth falling into the bucket with a splash.

  "What are you doing back here already?" she shrieked, curling her limbs to hide her most intimate places. As if he hadn't seen them already. As if he hadn't spent all afternoon recalling them, trying to forget them, and then finding himself thoroughly relieved when he couldn't.

  Diem turned and closed the door, bolting it behind him. He walked to the window and closed it too, bolting the shutters. When he turned back, Maeve had picked up the soggy towel off the floor and wrapped it around her. Drops fell from the edge and slid down her legs.

  She jumped as he moved past her to the counter. He pushed aside the curtain
, reached an arm in and groped blindly until he closed his fingers on what he wanted. He retrieved both a bar of soap and a fire seed in his palm. He turned toward her and she stumbled backward.

  "Go away!" Her hiss was less convincing as he came toward her.

  "The water is cold," he said. He tore the tip from the fire seed. A zap of flame shot up in his palm. He turned his hand sideways, dropping the flame into the bucket with part of the pod. The water simmered instantly, tiny bubbles breaking on the surface. Diem dipped his wrist into the bucket, testing the temperature just as his Gra had taught him to do when he was young and helped her to bathe the smaller children.

  Maeve stood frozen, still clutching the towel to her chest. He smiled to ease her.

  "Come here," he said gently, "it's warm now."

  She reached up and grabbed his last dish off the shelf overhead, hurling it at him as she shrieked, "GET OUT OF HERE!"

  Diem dodged the plate and it shattered against the wall behind him. His enchantment with her evaporated.

  He shouted, "Do you know what it takes to have those?"

  He barely dodged the mug she lifted from the shelf. It exploded, the bits hitting the back of his legs.

  Enough was enough. He strode forward as she reached for something else to throw, grabbing hold of her wrist before she could get her fingers on his dwindling crockery. She shrieked as the towel slid down, exposing the soft swell of her breast. Diem didn't hesitate.

  He was a man of good manners.

  But he was a man.

  He ripped the towel from her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hot Season Six, Year 2095

  Maeve lunged for the towel, knowing it would do no good, and it didn't. Diem held it, an arm's length away from her, and the only way she could even try to make a grab for it would be to uncover herself and leap at his outstretched arm.

  He could never guess the maddening thrill that whistled up Maeve's backbone at the thought of fighting with a man who she knew she would lose against.

  He jiggled the towel so the ends danced, teasing her. But she'd have to unfold her arms that were covering all her intimate places if she wanted to pursue it.

  His eyes swept over her, mapping her tattoos like constellations. He paused at the one that flowed over her ribs, Seize the Day, Put No Trust In Tomorrow. Maeve wished she could stand tall and sock him in the face just for looking, but she shrunk back. She still had her own body issues, just like anyone else.

  The excitement of wrestling him waned as he stared. His lengthy inspection began to grate on her. What might have been fun turned intimidating and humiliating and the need to retaliate, to make him stop, bubbled under Maeve's skin. He didn't have enough dinnerware left for all the breaking she wanted to do.

  As the shiver of standing naked raked through her bones, she knew she'd lost the battle to him yet again. The son of a bitch stepped back, his eyes still on her. He flicked the towel out leisurely across the floor.

  "Come here." He held out his hand. His voice was a consummate calm. "Your shaking and I've made the water warm now."

  God, was she fucked. She was against the wall, literally—and exposed, also literally. And he was melting her with his soft voice, his dark eyes.

  "Bite me, Junior." It was a pathetic little hiss and she knew it. His brow quirked, with what? Amusement? She was trying to decipher it as he darted forward and grabbed her, pinning her ribs to his chest. He set the balls of her feet down on top of his boots and walked her onto the towel as if their legs were connected.

  He didn't say a word as he dipped her backward, reaching down into the bucket and then bringing up the cloth. He squeezed it out in his massive palm, the water drizzling off his fingertips the same way that Maeve's determination leaked away. Her whole body molded to him, her skin pressing to the muscles in his chest. Damn, his body was built like a race horse—hard and strong and agile—and she wanted to feel what it would be like to ride such a powerful animal.

  What the fuck was she thinking? It wasn't the cold or the humiliation or even the fabric of his shirt that rubbed her nipples to hard points. It was his presence. Her whole body bloomed with goose bumps. He continued to run the wet cloth over her body.

  "I thought...we were done...fighting," he said as she planted her hands to his chest. She had to get away from him, even if it meant doing it naked. If she stood there and let him continue, he was going to see everything—or feel it—anyway. Her body was shrieking yes, yes, YES! to the idea, but Maeve wasn't easy. At least, not on any man's terms. She couldn't just go along with this when it wasn't her idea. But he was already one step ahead of her, maintaining his iron grip as if he knew she was going to bolt. He brought the cloth against her back, smoothing it down over the curve of her bottom, as if the warm kiss of water would relax her.

  It might not have relaxed her, but it did help her to get her head on straight. Maeve lifted her foot and brought it down on his instep. DAMN. The moment her heel made contact, she shrieked. A quiver of sharp arrows shot up the length of her calf. The toes of the bastard's boots were reinforced.

  Off balance, she dropped out of his arms and landed on the floor. He bent to help her up and she threw a right hook at him. He avoided it.

  "Good idea, Maeve," he said, dodging the next blow too. He dropped to his knees, straddling her, his kneecaps splashing down on the towel. "You stay down there and while you're on your back, I'll have a look at how that cut's healing."

  She fought him in earnest then, if for nothing else, than to let him know he couldn't overpower her. Men that could hold their own with her, while keeping control of themselves, were rare. Maeve fought dirty, but Diem was faster. As he ducked her blows and avoided her snapping teeth, the old cocktail of exhilaration and fear blossomed within her, a little panic adding to the mix. That shit was her shameful, sexual kryptonite. He wasn't really fighting back, but he was avoiding her every attempt to pummel him. He was a man as powerful as herself. Maybe even more so.

  She was a goner, she knew it. But he didn't need to.

  She was actually relieved when he finally pinned her, just so she could catch her breath. Her adrenaline pooled between her legs and took up a pulse. His grip was hot in more ways than one. Then, he grinned down at her with the smug satisfaction of having won another battle. She put aside the passionate excitement of their tryst and regrouped to kick his ass.

  He couldn't just wear her down to have her. He would have to prove his stamina and win her fight every single time she waged it. Maeve wanted an equal, a worthy opponent to respect and that would respect her. She sure as hell was never going to be a prize that was easy for just any man to win.

  She shrieked, shaking her head wildly, until the hair stuck to her cheeks. At the end of it, she was still stuck.

  "I can see we're both going to get wet," he said. He readjusted himself to pin her arms with his powerful thighs as he loomed over the top of her. He managed to yank off his boots first. Then he grasped the bottom edge of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it aside.

  Maeve's breath caught at the sight of his body. Diem was beyond all images of amazing that she had dreamed up in her head. His skin was a deep shade of warm sunlight, his muscles tight against the surface of his skin. She resisted the urge to fight her way loose, just to run her fingers across the broad fan of his shoulders, to feel the supple cords of his neck.

  She wanted him to lay down on top of her and she was disgusted at herself for wanting it so much. He had her naked and pinned and she was lying there beneath him like some crazy Stockholmer. She needed to be biting him and fighting him, rather than fighting the urges that had her sinking her eyeteeth into her own lips. She was disappointed with herself for wanting to give in so damn easily.

  He leaned over her, taking the moist cloth from the bucket again. His eyes on hers, he rubbed the bar of soap across the cloth with lazy strokes. The bubbles foamed up in his palm.

  "Let me up, Diem," she said, her tone flat. It did
n't come out of her mouth with any kind of authority and he ignored it. Instead, he brought the warm, soapy cloth against her skin, lifting her arm to wash her ribs. His knees stayed tight to her sides and she knew that if she struggled, it would only serve to wear her out more than she already was. Instead, she watched him as he bathed her, telling herself she was only regaining her strength as he replaced one limb and washed the other.

  His gaze flicked to hers. She knew she should fight him—damn, she should—but she couldn't drudge up the desire to do it. His fingers on her skin were strong and soothing. He wrung out the cloth and ran the rough fibers over her skin, leaving a trail of wet, upraised flesh in its wake. Then he dropped the cloth and rubbed the soap in his palms until suds ran through his fingers and fell in clusters over her breasts. She felt the suds trail down the sides of her ribs and pool beneath her. She shivered with each drop that hit her skin, breathing in the intoxicating scent of the soap. He grinned.

  Bastard.

  Maeve planted her hands on Diem's thighs and gave him a shove. It didn't budge him a millimeter.

  "You can hold me down all you want," she said. "But at some point, you'll get tired of hanging on. You'll let go, and you want to know something? I won't. I'll be just as ready to get up and kick your ass, as I am right now."

  His brow huddled slightly, his gaze intense and almost sad, as if she had just told him a miserable story. It made her uncomfortable, as if she was far more naked than she realized.

  Without comment, he placed the bar of soap against her skin, slipping it across the base of her neck first. He stroked lower and lower, until the bar crested over her breast. His finger tip trailed over the erect nipple and she pulled a sharp breath. He ignored it, although his eyes found hers. She tried to hold her breath, to smother her reaction to him, and a tiny frown flashed across his lips.