by Ruby Dixon
It’s just…what if his memories aren’t the only thing that’s gone? What if his love for me disappears, too? What if, now that he no longer has our memories of resonance, he doesn’t feel anything for me anymore? That this is just a sense of duty rather than affection? I’m so full of self-doubt that I can’t think straight.
I finish the quickest, unsexiest bath ever and toss my spare tunic on. I braid my wet hair tightly and bind it with a tie, trying not to watch him as he adds more snow to the pouch so he can bathe. Maybe I should go to bed and leave him to his bath. The last thing he needs is me staring at him like a creepy, sex-starved mommy. Which is what I am, but hey.
I linger around the fire because I can’t quite bring myself to get up and leave. I tuck my legs under me and pull out a pair of leggings that I’ve been sewing. The leather is thicker and tougher than usual because we haven’t had time to cure it properly, but we need more winter clothing, and thick, hard leather is still leather. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I want Pashov to have enough warm clothing to last the brutal season. He doesn’t have much in the way of gear since the cave-in, and I want him to be prepared for the weather to turn. I can’t hunt, and I’m not much of a provider, but I can cook and sew at least.
“Have you finished your bathing?” Pashov asks, dumping another scoop of snow into the pouch to melt.
I look up at him and gesture at the sewing in my hands. “I’m done. I’m just going to work on this.”
“Do you mind if I bathe?”
“Not at all.” I get to my feet. Of course he’s going to ask me to leave. Since I was weird about my own bathing, maybe he’s taking that as a cue that he needs to have privacy for his own wash.
“Wait,” he says before I can leave. “Would you…help me?”
Help him? I can feel my body tingling in response to the question. “Of course.” I’ve washed him in the past, though it usually led to sex. It feels like a bold move, and I’m both fascinated and a little nervous at him asking me to do something so intimate for him. My fingers itch to run all over his skin, to feel the heat of his body against mine.
So when he hands me his sharpening stone, I’m more than a little confused.
“Um?” I ask, frowning down at it.
Pashov gestures at his broken horn. “Can you smooth this out for me?”
Oh. Of course. I’m a little disappointed I’m obviously the only one thinking dirty thoughts. He has no mirror, so of course he needs my help to file down his broken horn. I grip the rock tight, wondering how I’m going to do this. He’s a great deal taller than me—almost two feet, really. Even as I consider this, I’m still a little shocked when he kneels in front of me, his face upturned to mine. There’s something curiously intimate about him on his knees before me.
Either that or my brain is just in the gutter. Permanently.
Also entirely possible.
From this angle, I get a good look at the stump of his horn. The edges are rough and jagged, but there’s a smooth stump of bone underneath that looks untouched. I can’t help but touch it. “Does it hurt?”
“It does not.” His voice sounds thick. When I glance over at him, his eyes are closed, his expression tight. “If you can, grind down the hard edges, please.”
“Will it help it grow back?”
“No, but I worry I will accidentally stab you or Pacy with the edges.”
“Not much of a chance of that happening,” I murmur, though it’s sweet of him to think of us. “You’re two feet taller than I am.”
“When we lie in bed together, we are the same height.”
Is he thinking about lying in bed with me, then? I feel a warm flush of pleasure. “I see.” I hold the grinding stone against the remnants of his horn and hesitate. “This won’t hurt you?”
“I will feel nothing, I promise.”
I lean in, and his hands go to my waist. He’s just steadying me, of course, but as I put the stone against his horn again, I realize that his face is level with my breasts. And now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t stop thinking about it. I rub the stone against one jagged break, and my breasts sway in response to the movements. Oh boy.
He doesn’t grab my tits, though. Nor does he even comment on the fact that they’re shaking in his face like maracas as I saw down the hard, broken points of his horn. He just kneels, utterly still, as I work on his horn. And I’m a little disappointed. Doesn’t having my breasts in his face do anything for him?
I finish smoothing down the hard edges and study my work. Now instead of all splintered, it’s smooth and a little sad-looking. “Did you say the healer could fix this for you?”
“She cannot fix it, but she can encourage it to re-grow,” he tells me as I hand him the stone. “I will not be like Raahosh forever. Does it bother you?”
I think of Raahosh, his face scarred and his horns broken and twisted. He’s not the most attractive alien. Would I still be in love with Pashov if he was as frightening-looking as the fierce Raahosh? I study him and decide that I would. It’s not the broken horn that turns me off, it’s what it represents. It reminds me that I nearly lost him, and I hate the sight of it. “It’s fine. How long will it take to grow back?”
He shrugs. “When Pacy is grown, it should return to its full size.”
Oh my goodness. That long?
I must show my surprise, because he gets to his feet and pats my shoulder. “I am sorry.”
Why is he sorry? It’s not his fault. I was the one who sent him back into the storage cave to get spices that day. If his injury is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. “Don’t apologize.”
He smiles crookedly at me. “I do not want you to have a mate that is unpleasant to look at.”
I’m shocked at this. Why would he think that?
I stare at him as he dusts the fine grains of ground-up horn off his shoulders. Then again, why wouldn’t he think that? The few times he’s touched me, I’ve cried. I’ve given him nothing to indicate that I’m attracted to him, and he doesn’t remember our past together. And the horns…maybe those are a pride thing with sa-khui men. I never thought about it before, but everyone always talks about Raahosh’s horns like they’re shockingly terrible. Maybe because I don’t have horns, I’ve never thought about it.
But I’m thinking about it now.
Pashov finishes shaking himself off and strips down to his loincloth. Once his leather leggings are off, he tosses them aside and then reaches for the washcloth I’ve left drying by the fire. He dunks it in the water and begins to scrub at his bare chest, all vigorous movements and determination.
I suddenly realize that I’ve been going about this all wrong.
I’ve been pushing my mate away and treating him like he’s a stranger. He’s the same person. He’s the same sweet, funny, flirty man I fell in love with. He’s just missing a patch of his memory. And yet I’m acting like he’s someone completely new, a stranger wearing my lover’s face.
It’s the same person.
And I’m an idiot because my actions have been pushing us further apart when I should have been working to pull us together.
“Here,” I say. “Let me help.” And I step forward and take the cloth from his hand.
Pashov looks surprised, and then delighted. His simple pleasure breaks my heart and makes me want to do more. I want to have that silly look of joy on his face all the time. To think that such a small thing—washing his chest for him—can make him so happy.
I can do a lot more than just wash his chest to bring him pleasure.
I take the berries from his hand and squeeze them over the water, making my movements slow and sensual because I know he’s watching me. I make sure to lean over, thrusting my ass out as I do so, and dip the cloth into pouch. When it’s wet and sudsy, I straighten and turn back around to him.
He’s watching me with eyes that burn like coals, and I know I’ve got his full attention. My skin prickles with awareness, and I gently drag the wet cloth over his chest. “Do you reme
mber the times I used to do this for you?”
I watch as his throat works, and he swallows hard. “No.”
I nod, because I expected that. It’s all right that he doesn’t remember. We can make new memories. I’m suddenly excited at the thought of teasing my mate. This is all new for him. For Pashov, this is the first time his mate has given him a sexy bath. He doesn’t remember all of the playful things we used to do together, and he sure doesn’t remember his first blow job. I shiver, because this is going to be fun. So fun.
But I’ll start out slow. “Is there any part of you that is particularly dirty?” I ask, my voice all innocence.
He watches me hotly for a moment, and realizes I’m waiting for an answer. “Dirty?” he echoes.
“Anything in particular you’d like for me to clean?”
That scorching look flares in his eyes again. He thrusts out an arm.
Not the answer I was expecting, but a good place to start. I smile as I rub the soapy cloth up and down his muscular arm. I’ve missed touching him. The feel of his skin against mine is wonderful, and he’s warm and sweaty-smoky-smelling, but I don’t mind that at all. I love the scent of him almost as much as I love touching him.
Pashov extends his other arm, and I obediently move to that side, dragging the cloth up one bicep and then down his forearm. I think about telling him another story of us—maybe of Pacy’s birth—but this moment feels so intense that I don’t want to distract from it. He’s silent, the only sound his harsh breathing and the flicking, distracted whisk of his tail against the floor.
And the rumble of his khui, of course. I can hear it, just as I can feel my own humming in my chest at my arousal. I slide the cloth over his shoulder and move it slowly over one pectoral. I should probably re-wet it, but I’m not all that interested in the water aspect of this bath at the moment. I’m far more interested in his reaction to my touch, because Pashov has never been very good at hiding how he feels. I don’t have to look in his eyes to know that his gaze is intent on my face. I can feel them, burning. I’m utterly aware of everything he’s doing, the little movements of his body as he shifts on his feet, the unceasing flicking of his tail, the pounding of his heart making a rhythm against the song of his khui. His hands clench at his sides, and I suspect he wants to touch me but is trying very hard not to in case he scares me off.
I’m not going anywhere.
I trail the cloth down his hard abdomen. He’s nothing but rock-hard muscle in his stomach, without an ounce of fat. I love tracing the lines between each muscle, counting the six-pack that’s so clearly defined. The thick protective plating on the center of his chest ends near his navel, and then it’s nothing but soft blue skin. I swipe my cloth there, too, because I know he’ll be able to feel it even more down here. I peek down, and his massive erection is straining hard against the breechcloth he’s sporting.
My mouth goes dry at the sight. How long has it been since we had sex? A few days at least. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t have sex with Pashov again until I was centered and I was sure I wouldn’t cry. I definitely don’t feel like crying right now. It doesn’t have to be sex, though. It can be touching, just for the pure pleasure of caressing my mate and seeing his reaction.
There’s so much I need to teach him again.
“Do you remember me touching you?” I ask him, the cloth hovering at his navel.
He groans heavily. “I wish.”
“Then you don’t remember all the times I touched you…like this?” With my free hand, I drag my hand along the length of his cock.
The breath hisses between his teeth. “Keep going. I will see if it stirs my memory.”
I chuckle, amused. My sweet Pashov. So funny and flirty, even in moments like this. I gaze up at him, and he’s watching me with hooded eyes, arousal stamped clearly on his strong face. I stroke my hand up and down his cock again, through the leather, and watch his mouth tighten imperceptibly.
His tail flicks hard against my leg.
“Shall I stop?” I ask lightly.
“Never.”
“Thought that might be the answer.” I tilt my head and pretend to study him. “Should I take off your loincloth?”
His slow, intense nod is delicious.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to teach him how to kiss again. Not right now, because I don’t want to distract from what I’m doing and the fact that tonight is going to be all about me pleasuring him. Tomorrow, I’ll show him how to kiss again—long, slow kisses and short, passionate ones and all the kisses in-between. Tomorrow, I’ll make a game of it.
Today, though, I’m in the mood to tease. And so I’m not stopping what I’m doing. I toss the wet cloth aside, all pretense of washing him gone. After I’m done with him, he can scrub himself as much as he wants. I don’t think he’s going to mind where this is going. I tug on one side of his breechcloth, and the ties come apart in my hand. The leather slides away and falls down his leg and his cock is exposed, thrusting into the open air, so thick and eager for my touch that it’s practically rubbing against his spur.
I sigh happily at the sight. I wasn’t a virgin when I landed here, and I knew my way around a guy’s junk, but I can safely say that my mate has the biggest, juiciest cock I’ve ever put my hands on. He’s thick and girthy exactly where he should be, the head prominent, and the ridges along the length of him are perfection. I wrap my fingers around him and sink to my knees in front of Pashov. “You tell me if you want me to slow down,” I whisper.
He groans. “If you go any slower, I might die.”
And here I thought I was already moving fast. Guess there’s always room for improvement. Amused, I trace his length with my fingertips, pleased with just how intensely he’s watching me. He’s waiting, his entire body practically vibrating with tension, for me to take him in my mouth.
I’d hate to disappoint him, especially after he’s been trying so hard to please me. I grip his shaft and skim my lips along the side of his cock, pressing hot kisses along his length. I can feel a tremor rock through his body at the first touch of my mouth, and his hands fist again. He’s determined not to distract me.
Which means I need to be that much more distracting. I want to see him lose his control. If he’s got no memories of our fumbling early attempts, I want to give him a memory that’ll blow his mind into next week. So I use all of my skills on him. I move to the head of his cock and lick it like it’s a melting popsicle. Great, exaggerated licks that get my lips glossy and involve dragging my tongue over the head repeatedly. He’s leaking pre-cum, and I lap it up with my tongue, making soft little noises of pleasure as I do.
“My mate,” he groans. “My sweet mate.” His hands flex at his sides, over and over again.
“You can touch me,” I say between flicks of my tongue. “I won’t break.”
He hesitates, and then his hand goes carefully to my hair. I increase the intensity, taking him deep into my mouth and sucking. He chokes on his breath, and his hand tightens in my hair. I can feel his hips jerk, as if trying to fuck my mouth, and I feel a quiver of excited pleasure.
That’s what I want. I want him to lose control. I want to make him wild. My cootie’s purring loudly in my chest, singing to him, and he groans again as I suck hard, taking him deep. He whispers my name, pumping slowly into my mouth. I make a sound of pleasure, letting him know that I want this, too, and his movements increase in their rapidity and his hand tightens on my head even more, until he’s holding me by the hair and fucking my mouth, and I love every moment of it. When he comes, it’s with an explosion, and he coats my tongue with his release, jets of cum filling my mouth. I drink it down, enjoying the choke of his breath as he struggles for control. I love that this is going to be one of his memories, this sexy wild moment we’ve stolen for ourselves.
I lick my lips clean and wrap my arms around his thigh, pressing my cheek there. His hand moves over my hair, stroking it. “My Stay-see,” he breathes, still panting hard. “You are…wondr
ous.”
“Was it good?” I ask softly, tracing my fingers up and down his inner thigh, just because I love feeling the shivers that move through him when I do so.
“I…I cannot…” He stumbles over his words.
I glance up at him. “You cannot what?”
Pashov rubs a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I have forgotten that.”
His tone of horrified wonder makes me burst into giggles.
PASHOV
I wake from sleep in a cold sweat, vague flashes running through my mind of rocks falling and the sensation of being crushed. It takes me several moments to realize that I am safe, that my mate is safe, that our kit sleeps peacefully in his basket.
After that, however, I do not sleep. I stare at the ceiling of the cave, my mind filled with visions of it collapsing on top of me.
Even though it is early, I decide to start the day’s work. There is always more to be done, and with just me and Stay-see here, never enough hands to do it all. I rouse from my bed, and dress, stoking the coals of the fire. In the next chamber, Stay-see sleeps peacefully, and Pacy is quiet in his basket. I can put on tea, then, and heat up some of the stew from yesterday before she wakes up. I picture her smile widening at the sight of a meal ready as she wakes up, and am pleased. I want to make her happy. I want to see her smile.
I want her mouth on me again.
I am wrapped up in thoughts of Stay-see as I move the privacy screen aside and step out into the snow to relieve myself. No new snow has fallen overnight, and trails of footprints lead to the front of the cave and then away again. I frown to myself, squatting by one. It is a smaller foot than my own. Did Stay-see leave the cave yesterday and I was not aware of it? I try to recall, but my mind is fixed on the image of Stay-see kneeling before me, her tongue flicking over my cock.
I am easily distracted this day, it seems.
Perhaps my memory is messed up again. I decide to follow the tracks for a bit, checking for spoor. It is entirely possible that a creature wandered near our cave and the snow melted just enough for the tracks to look human-sized. I follow the trail for a time, but when they eventually disappear, I have seen nothing to alarm me, and I am getting far from the cave and my mate. I am just uneasy, it seems. Time to go back before the fire dies down.
