I don’t want this with you, he’d nearly shouted at Katarina.
He wanted to be with her, and not through the stupid game of predator and prey.
Well, all right, he wouldn’t mind a little predator and prey fantasy with her, but he wanted the playing to be mutual. He wanted to hunt her, and then when he caught her, have her laugh and kiss him and be happy to be caught.
He wanted it to be real.
What the fuck is the matter with me?
Calder strode to his sparsely furnished bedroom and slid back a wall panel to reveal a full-length mirror. Barely glancing at it, he began to remove his clothes.
“She’s just a woman who wanted the Beast,” he said out loud as he shucked his gloves and skintight tunic. “That’s why she came. No other reason.”
There would have been no other reason. What Calder offered was unique and dangerous and spoke to needs women didn’t want to examine too closely.
Calder didn’t ask women to examine their sexual needs. He simply offered a way to let them put aside taboos and give in. If they didn’t give in, he taught them how to. He touched primal fears and primal needs, and women flocked to him for it.
Some left terrified, others more sated then they’d ever been in their lives. But Calder had never had one complaint, never a threat of arrest or termination. No one ever talked about what happened in the lair of the Beast.
He’d never, ever stopped the game and fled, leaving a woman bewildered and calling after him.
Stupid, cock-brained asshole.
Calder pulled off his linen under tunic, his eyes on the mirror. His flat abdomen was tight with muscle, his chest massive, widening to broad, strong shoulders. A body made for power and pleasure.
The left side of Calder’s torso was a maze of scars, with a concave indentation below his ribcage covered with unnaturally smooth skin. The rest of his body was mottled with puckers of scar tissue. Beneath that lay bones that had been crushed and rebuilt molecule by molecule.
The right side of his body was not as bad as the left, but jagged scars laced his skin from collarbone to ankle.
Some of the skin grafts had come from the right side of his body, Dr. Laas desperately harvesting every bit of healthy skin. Repairing him had been a tricky business. The bones had been easiest, pinned together and left to Shareem metabolism to heal.
The organs had taken much more time and caused much more pain. Dr. Laas had rebuilt every single one, and now they functioned as they were supposed to. Calder had convalesced for a damn long time, during which he’d sometimes wished she would just let him die.
He had healed, but the scarring, despite Dr. Laas’ work, remained. He looked a damn sight better than when he’d first been rolled out of the plasma fire, and he’d always be grateful for that. But even techniques that had evolved in the twenty years since hadn’t helped. The damage was simply too extensive.
Dr. Laas had once suggested cyber replacements but Calder had snarled so viciously that she’d never brought up the subject again. He didn’t want to be a fucking cyborg—half man, half machine. It was bad enough being Shareem.
Calder pulled open the fly of his leggings and slid them off. His legs had taken the worst of the burning, both of them mangled and twisted until they’d almost disintegrated. Dr. Laas had painstakingly pieced them back together, ignoring her fellow scientists who predicted that Calder would never walk again.
Dr. Lass had fixed him so that not only could he walk, but his muscles healed and regained most of their strength. Now his legs were taut and strong, though the skin was ruined beyond repair.
A vain man would have gotten rid of the mirror. Calder kept it so he’d never take himself for granted.
What he could now offer a woman was not a body to gaze at, a handsome smile to make her wet in an instant. He offered a technique, an experience they would never forget.
Calder faced his naked body, remembering the heat of Katarina through the leather.
His already hard cock tightened. There were no scars on it, thank the gods, except a few at the very base. He’d moved his thigh over it in time when he’d fallen. The DNAmo scientists had joked that of course a Shareem would protect his greatest asset.
Now the cock rose to full erection, a standard foot long. His hand went to it as he remembered Katarina pressing her face against it. She’d kissed and explored it, begged to see it.
He imagined her beautiful lips closing over him and stifled a groan. He grabbed a tube from his bedside table, opened it, dribbled lube onto his hand.
He smoothed on the gel, biting his lip to keep himself from groaning. If it had been Katarina’s hand slathering lube all over him, her hand gripping him, he’d have come already.
He closed his hand tight and drew his fist up the length, his palm making a slapping noise as it came together at the end. He slid his hand down for a second stroke, and a third, building up speed.
His Shareem irises widened until his eyes were nothing but blue. He felt the pulsing at the base of his balls very quickly—he’d wanted to come ever since Katarina d’Arnal had walked into his house of pleasure. He’d wanted to come all over her.
Faster and faster. The sound of his hand was loud in the silent room. His hips rocked with the rhythm, his legs moving. Calder studied his ugly body in the mirror as his hand gave him as much pleasure as it could.
He thought about Katarina, how sexy she looked in that tight red dress and the high-heeled boots. How she’d put her hands on her hips and smiled at herself in the mirror. Everything about her was innocence and warmth.
His hand burned, the lube soothed, and his come squirted out of him to a waiting towel.
“Katarina!” he shouted, the word falling flat against the walls of his tiny bedroom. “Katarina,” Calder repeated softly as his frustration eased the slightest bit.
But not enough. His cock was still hard and hot, wanting more. He wiped off his hands and dribbling another dose of lube on his stubborn, needy cock.
Fuck.
*** *** ***
Katarina glared at Calder’s rusty door on Barkelo Street the next afternoon as the sun slowly roasted her. Her thumbprint wouldn’t open the door, and there was no response to her knocking.
Of course he would have changed the thumbprint code. That was probably his standard procedure.
So here she was, standing forlornly on the street like a fool, wanting—needing—to see him again. Damn.
Passersby eyed Katarina in suspicion. Her highborn robes made her stand out on this backstreet, a person who clearly didn’t belong here.
Face heating, Katarina moved away.
She turned the corner, heading back toward the clinic. She’d taken a hovercab to Calder’s street, dismissing it before she’d approached the door. But she was too restless now to hunt for another, and besides, she needed to walk.
The street held a market of tents and metal awnings, temporary structures that could quickly be pulled up in case of one of Bor Narga’s deadly sandstorms. Katarina glanced at the boxes of colorful fruits, bright cloth, piles of robot and computer parts, and tables upon tables of cheap, gaudy jewelry. Everything for sale, nothing that held her interest.
She wasn’t sure why Calder’s refusal to answer his door cut her so much. He was only a Shareem, after all.
In Bor Narga’s carefully striated culture, Shareem were persona non grata. They were less than the lowest workers, because they contributed nothing to a society that had abandoned carnality. Children were conceived outside the body by mixing DNA from carefully chosen partners. Sex was no longer needed and considered unnecessary, even gauche.
Shareem had been created in a time when sexual pleasure had been a form of entertainment, a guilty pleasure. DNAmo, a genetics company already successful at creating the perfect servants, had come up with the ultimate male for pleasuring women.
DNAmo became famous for their creations throughout the galaxy and had exported Shareem off planet before the Bor Nargan governmen
t shut down the company, deeming the Shareem a danger to the health and safety of women.
The ruling family had wanted to execute the remaining Shareem, until someone pointed out that wholesale slaughter might make Bor Narga look bad to other worlds with which they traded—some of those worlds run by non-humans. Bor Narga couldn’t afford to lose trade over a few score of Shareem.
Shareem were regulated by the Ministry of Non-Human Life Forms. All Shareem had to agree to visit approved clinics every six months to receive inoculations that would prevent sexual diseases and procreation. The penalty for not submitting was termination.
DNAmo had claimed that they’d bred all aggression out of the Shareem, making them unable to touch a woman without her permission. And so they were tamed, controlled.
In theory.
Katarina had started researching Shareem after Calder had come to the clinic, going through the Ministry of Non-Human Life Forms’ data files on them. She discovered that each Shareem was one of three levels: Level one—pure sensual pleasure. Level two—fun and games. Level three—dangerous fantasies and bondage.
The Shareem called Calder, for whom the record was sketchy, was a level three. Katarina shivered. Dangerous fantasy described him well.
The rest of Calder’s file held little, no holo pic, no mention of why or how he’d been burned. It noted where he lived and listed the dates of his six-month inoculations, including the one Katarina had done the week before.
Katarina shivered. Calder had commanded the session in the clinic, and he’d more than commanded her in his warehouse. She’d never been treated like that by anyone before. She was highborn and female. Men—and women—were deferential to her, always.
If anyone in the Ministry found out what Calder had done to Katarina yesterday, or even discovered that he’d refused the scanning process in the clinic, he’d be arrested.
Arrested, confined, and terminated. Calder, the tall, commanding male who’d made Katarina feel sexy for the first time in her life, would die.
“Lady, you gonna order or just block the way?”
Katarina jumped. She’d slowed to a halt in front of a tent that served coffee and pastries, and the woman vendor was glaring at her. The thick aroma of burned coffee and warm sugar filled the air.
“Sorry.” Katarina stepped out of the way as a man passed her to get to the tent.
She stopped in shock.
The man was Shareem. He had long black hair caught in a ponytail and wore tight black leather leggings and a short-sleeved gray tunic. A thin black chain encircled his right biceps, and his skin was bronze colored, the same as Calder’s. In fact, his resemblance to Calder, minus the scars, was uncanny.
“The usual, sweetie,” the Shareem said to the vendor, his smooth, dark voice making it sound like an invitation to bed.
The sour vendor suddenly smiled. “Hey, Braden. How’ve you been?”
“All better now that I’ve seen you.”
“Liar,” the woman said, but she looked happy.
The Shareem paid with a credit strip, reached for the pastry and the coffee the vendor held out to him, and then turned away, nearly colliding with a gaping Katarina. He skimmed his gaze in a flattering pass over Katarina’s body, then he smiled. “Hello.”
His smile could melt butter at ten paces, and his voice could sop up what was left.
“What’s your name, pretty lady?” He lifted his thumb from the pastry and licked away a drop of honey. Katarina followed the stroke of his tongue, watched the form of his lips as he sucked.
“Who are you?” she blurted.
“Call me Braden, sweetheart. Who are you?”
His eyes were the same blue as Calder’s—sheer azure blue under the shadow of the canopies.
Katarina’s heart pounded. “May I . . . May I talk to you?”
“Sure thing,” the Shareem said, still smiling. “Tell me where you live, and I’ll make arrangements to come there, no one the wiser.”
“No, I mean right now. And I truly mean talk.”
His brows rose. “A highborn woman wanting to talk to a Shareem? Will wonders never cease?”
“Please.”
“Suit yourself.”
Braden led her to a cluster of stools and tables shielded by canopies. All the tables were filled but Braden looked meaningfully at two scruffy men, who immediately vacated and scuttled away.
Braden set his pastry and coffee on the table then helped Katarina to a stool with a warm hand on her elbow. “Have some pastry. Dilla has a sharp tongue, but she’s a damned fine baker.”
Katarina declined. Braden shrugged as he sat down, then he broke off a chunk of the pastry and put it into his mouth.
He closed his eyes as he chewed, savoring slowly. He swallowed, his tongue coming out to scoop every stray crumb from his lips. A woman could slide to the floor just watching him eat.
“You never told me your name,” Braden said, opening his eyes again.
“Katarina d’Arnal.” It didn’t matter whether he knew her real name—he’d see her in the clinic sooner or later. “I met another Shareem. You look like him. Do you have a brother?”
Braden shrugged, powerful muscles rippling. “Only if he came out of Vat 23.”
Whatever that meant. “His name was Calder. Do you know him?”
Braden froze in the act of lifting another piece of pastry to his mouth. “You met Calder?”
“He came to my clinic for his inoculations.”
Braden’s smile dimmed. “Wait a minute. You’re one of those women who stick hypos into Shareem?”
“I just started. Calder was my first.”
“Yeah?” He sounded wary.
Katarina bit the inside of her mouth then continued her confession. “Yesterday, I went to Calder’s . . . place.”
That brought back his surprise. “You had an appointment with him?”
Katarina opened her mouth to say no, but the word wouldn’t form. She remembered the flood of feeling when Calder first touched her, the amazing excitement of her climax, the sting of his hand on her buttocks. Her lips numbed, and she couldn’t say a word.
“Ah.” Braden grinned, his wary look vanishing. “You couldn’t resist old Calder. I give you points for courage.”
Katarina hadn’t felt brave in the slightest. “He sent me away, and today he won’t answer the door.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? You never get a second appointment with Calder.” Braden’s look grew sinful. “But no worries, sweetheart. I’m not a onetime deal. You can talk to me whenever and wherever you want, for as long as you want, as often as you want. Calder’s loss.”
Katarina pressed her palms to the table. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to make an appointment. I only want to talk to him.”
“Calder doesn’t talk. That’s not what he’s for, sweetheart.” Braden leaned across the tiny table. “Me, I don’t mind a heart-to-heart.”
His breath on her cheek smelled of honey and Katarina wondered whether his lips tasted of it too.
She realized in the next instant he wanted her to wonder that. Shareem needed women to want them—always—because they had to keep themselves sated in order to stay alive.
“What happened to his face?” Katarina asked. “How was he burned?”
Braden sat up again. “He showed you his face? The whole thing?”
“It must have been awful for him. Couldn’t regenerative surgery help?”
Braden gave her a thoughtful look. “Honey, Calder had the best plastic and genetic surgeon in the universe work on him. You should have seen him before she started.”
Katarina flinched, not wanting to imagine it. “How was he injured?”
Braden took another bite. “I should shut up now. If Calder wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”
“How can he tell me if he won’t let me see him? I don’t want to wait until he comes back to the clinic in six months.”
Braden folded the paper over the remains of his pastry
and licked honey from his fingers. Again, the sensuality of the movement could have devastated every woman within view.
“Tell me about you,” Braden said. “You’re a medic, you say. Do you want to do experiments on Calder, try to ‘cure’ him to further scientific research? Forget it. That’s been tried.” His sensuality died away, and she felt his cool anger.
Shareem weren’t supposed to feel anger, according to the data files. Katarina wondered whether whoever had made those files had ever actually met a Shareem.
Braden went on. “We’ve had enough of scientific experiments, honey, Calder most of all. If that’s what you want, run back to your clinic and leave us the hell alone.”
Katarina shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then why do you want to see him? Oh wait, I remember, to talk.”
“Really, that’s all.”
“If you wanted a conversation, why did you make an appointment with him? You must have known he didn’t let you into his lair to get chatty.”
“I didn’t make an appointment exactly.”
Katarina blushed as she told him what she believed, that the medics at the clinic had made the request on Katarina’s behalf as a joke. None of them had betrayed any glee when she’d walked in this morning, but she was still sure it had been one of them.
When she explained she thought she’d been sent to doctor a hurt street vendor, Braden burst out laughing. Women throughout the market turned and searched longingly for the source of that incredible laugh.
“Oh gods, that’s priceless. You thought you were going to use a hypo on an ailing vendor, and then Calder . . .”
“It’s not funny.”
Braden held his brawny arms across his stomach. “Man, I wish I could have seen that.” He laughed a little longer then wiped his eyes. “Tell me more, Katarina. You interest me. Why are you, a pretty highborn lady, working in a slum clinic in Pas City?”
Katarina hesitated, but it seemed fine to open up to him, to let him draw the words out of her. She told him that she wanted to do real good with her medical degree, not simply doctor women worried about getting too many wrinkles. “I hadn’t realized I’d be inoculating Shareem, though.”
Tales of the Shareem, Volume 2 Page 4
