Alien Romance: Rusneon Mates Boxed Set: A Scifi Alien Abduction Romance (Alien Romance, Alien Invasion Romance, BBW)

by Ashley Hunter

  This was what he wanted?

  Cynthia finished up her shower, and endured the experience of the air-dry station. She slipped into the dress, and let out a yelp as it reshaped itself around her. It pushed her up and in and pressed and pulled and pinched just a little too sharply on her legs. She smoothed a hand down over her hips, and felt the fabric move at her touch. The pressure eased, and she spun and grinned at how it felt almost weightless upon her.

  She wondered what he would think of it.

  He said nothing about the dress. In fact, he said very little at all.

  They sat at either end of a long, narrow table and ate in near-silence, scraping utensils across plates and masticating away. To Cynthia’s surprise, the food was actually quite delicious, if entirely unidentifiable. She popped a green oval into her mouth, expecting it to taste vaguely of broccoli or something, and was instead vaguely reminded of some mild Indian dish instead. She smiled, and continued eating, unaware until just this moment how hungry she was.

  The food was good – or, at least, it tasted amazing, which meant it was probably not even remotely good for her – but it was not even close to the most interesting thing in the room right now. Cynthia tried not to let on, but she couldn’t resist looking at her captor.

  He’d put Adonis to shame, Cynthia thought. He was wearing form-fitting clothes made of the same material as her dress, although she suspected there was absolutely no need for support in his case: his body looked like it had been carved from stone by some ancient Greek artist, it was so perfect. If it hadn’t been for his muscles bunching and shifting as he ate – even that small movement sent a ripple across his entire body – Cynthia would have been able to convince herself he was, in fact, a statue. He was certainly a work of art.

  And his face was much the same. A strong jaw, full lips, a perfect nose, and eyes so dark they reminded Cynthia that she was aboard a spaceship.

  His eyes. They were on her right now.

  He was watching her eat.

  Cynthia slowed down, suddenly self-conscious, and made an effort to take smaller bites. He frowned – the first emotion she’d seen him show at all.

  “The food is not to your liking?” he scowled, and she hastened to assure him all was well. Even as she stammered her way through a half-formed and fumbling compliment, she wondered at herself. He was as cold to her as the jackals that had chased her through the woods – so why was she so eager to please him?

  Her words ran out and, with nothing else to do with her mouth, she took another morsel of food. She smiled around the mouthful and made an optimistic noise, intending to show just how much she was enjoying the meal.

  Rushael did not react, and Cynthia’s spirits dropped.

  He coughed, and then made an elaborate show of dividing one of his portions in half, then half again. He took one of the quarter-portions and popped it into his mouth, then chewed it very slowly and thoughtfully. Their eyes met down the length of the table, and he nodded.

  Cynthia may have been fooling herself, but she could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched just a little.

  They continued the meal in silence. Sometime later – just as Cynthia was scraping up the last morsel and wondering if she could find an excuse to linger after she’d finished it – Rushael coughed and laid his utensils down. He laid his hands down on either side of his plate and spent a moment looking at his food. Cynthia hesitated a moment before imitating his gesture. The only difference was that she kept her head raised, and even tilted it to one side.

  Rushael took a breath, then raised his own head.

  “I intend to present you to my people,” he said, and something opened up inside Cynthia. She couldn’t identify it, but it roiled and churned through her – a mix of fear, lust, and something else. Even as calm as he was, there was something in the flawless perfection of his face that made her body open up.

  And he was … presenting her?

  “You mean … you mean you’re going to show me off?” she asked.

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “No.” He paused, and turned his head away as he thought. When he turned back to her, something had softened in his face. There wasn’t quite the same callous disregard there any more.

  Cynthia wondered if he even realised how he was looking at her.

  He spoke again.

  “You are … a spoil. I have claimed you as my own –”

  Cynthia let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh, and Rushael’s mouth snapped shut.

  “I stumbled in here by mistake –” Cynthia began. He didn’t let her finish.

  “You offered yourself to me!” His voice was like a whip crack, and Cynthia found herself shrinking back in her seat. He saw her reaction, and made a visible effort to pull himself back – sliding his hands back toward his lap, drawing in a deep breath, and dropping his shoulders.

  “Is there no Earth equivalent to this?” he asked. “When you cross the threshold of another’s domain – if you are unarmed – you are declaring yourself theirs. Surely you have something like this?”

  Cynthia shook her head, then realised that wasn’t really enough.

  “We … we knock on the door to let someone know we’re there,” she said. Rushael opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again.

  “I see,” he sighed. “Well, under Rusneon custom, you are mine, and once we arrive home I intend to present you to the Assembly and declare you my trophy.”

  Trophy. He saw her as a prize. That thought sent a flash of heat through Cynthia’s body that over-rode her outrage at the other connotations – albeit only for a moment. She glared at him and starting hunting for some challenge to offer. A denial, perhaps, or even a demand to be returned home.

  But it was too late. He was already standing and gathering up the cutlery. The meal was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He cleaned up around her. She went to gather her own cutlery, and he made a sound of annoyance and brushed her hands back.

  “This is my ship,” he said. “I will take care of this.”

  Cynthia nodded and folded her hands back into her lap. There was a spark of resistance deep in her chest, but it was being drowned by the wet heat that rose once again from between her thighs. He was standing right over her, close enough that his scent filled her head and left her dizzy and swooning. It was rich and heavy and earthy.

  Cynthia giggled, then clapped her hand to her mouth. Rushael paused, the cutlery still gathered in his hands, and Cynthia wished she could turn back time and take back that sound.

  But she had to admit, the idea of an alien from another planet smelling earthy was still pretty funny.

  He turned and placed the cutlery on a low bench behind him. There was a hum and the plates and utensils sank away out of sight, but then Rushael was kneeling next to her and Cynthia was suddenly focused on something else entirely.

  His eyes really were dark, she thought. Almost entirely black, but somehow that wasn’t actually terrifying.

  “What is wrong?” he asked. He raised a hand, and a bolt of electricity shivered through Cynthia’s body. Was he about to touch her?

  But he caught himself. The hand lowered back to his side, and Cynthia dropped her shoulders just a little.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  “I – I’m just a little light-headed,” Cynthia said. And it was true – his musk was overwhelming her again, and her body was betraying her as well. The room was, in fact, gently swirling about her.

  He frowned.

  “Have you been injured? Was there something wrong with the food?”

  Cynthia shook her head – a mistake. The room began to spin just that much faster.

  “No …” she began, but her voice was slurring. “I’m … I’m just a little frightened …”

  But he wasn’t looking at her face. Not any more. He was, in fact, staring at –

  No. Not her chest. He was looking at her leg.

  “You’re bleeding
,” he said. Cynthia frowned. Was she?

  “Am I?” she asked. She felt drunk, and she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the food, Rushael’s musk, or something else.

  But she followed his gaze, and was surprised to see a smear of red on the dress. Where had that come from? And why hadn’t she seen it in the shower?

  He was lifting the dress up. Cynthia let out a laugh and tried to bat away his hands – a giddy, slurred movement, confused and half-hearted at that. Rushael stopped, but did not draw his hands away.

  “I need to see the injury,” he said, and his eyes flicked away from hers for just a moment.

  No, he doesn’t, though Cynthia. But he wants to.

  And, if she had to be perfectly honest, she wanted him to as well. She settled her hands in her lap, gave a little cough, and tried not to shiver when he continued to slide his hand up under her dress.

  He lifted it smoothly and swiftly. His hand was at her knee, and then on her thigh, before Cynthia even had a chance to breathe in. She felt her face grow hot, and then realised with a sudden panic that if he lifted the dress any further he would know exactly how turned on she was –

  She pressed her thighs together. Perhaps that would help – but then, why was she trying to hide this from him? Maybe if she let him know, he’d look into her eyes again. Maybe she’d see more than just cold blackness there –

  There was a sting of pain, and Cynthia let out a yelp. Rushael didn’t even raise his head – he was busy looking at a long, thin cut along the length of Cynthia’s thigh.

  “Hm,” he murmured. “The fabric must have opened your hide as it readjusted.” He brushed a finger along the length of the injury, and Cynthia shivered in anticipation of pain that never came.

  “Human women are much more fragile than Rusnean ones,” Rushael mused, and Cynthia flushed hot again.

  Rushael tugged at the hem of Cynthia’s dress, and for a wild, pulsing moment Cynthia was convinced he was going to lift it higher for some reason.

  But he pulled it downward, then stood and offered Cynthia one of his hands. She stared at it for a moment, and then placed her own in his.

  The size difference was ridiculous. She almost felt childlike.

  “We should get you to the sickbay,” Rushael said, and it was the first time he’d said anything even remotely tender and Cynthia almost felt like crying.

  Instead, she pressed her lips together and rose to her feet.

  And then whimpered and sat back down.

  “I … it hurts too much to stand on,” she said, and she was amazed that she managed to say that without her voice shaking. It wasn’t the pain of the injury that was making it difficult to stand; the smell of him and the feel of him in such close proximity was more than her legs could bear, it seemed.

  Rushael looked at her for a moment. Then, with a single smooth movement, he scooped her up in his arms. Cynthia almost protested, but realised before the words had even formed that he wasn’t going to hear a thing she said.

  He swept out of the dining room and turned left without hesitation. He knew exactly where he was going, and the way he moved it was as if Cynthia weighed nothing at all.

  She let herself be carried along, one arm slung around his neck, the other resting on her belly as she tried to keep her breathing as even as possible. After a few steps, she let herself rest her head on his shoulder.

  Aside from everything else, this was actually rather nice.

  He tended to the cut on her thigh with a clinical and detached air. Cynthia, for her part, fought to maintain at least some of her dignity. Her skin goosebumped like mad at his touch, and she told him it was because the room was too cold. He waved his hand at a wall without a word, and the temperature in the room increased to almost uncomfortable levels.

  Cynthia stayed silent after that, even as she found herself wondering if the heat would make her captor want to disrobe at all. After all, she was lying there on another bench with her dress hiked up around her waist, a mere fragile scrap of cloth protecting her modesty –

  She let out a shaky breath, and Rushael drew his hands back. His eyes met hers, and she was surprised to see something in them she hadn’t seen before. He was frowning, but there was a gentleness there in the touch of his eyes upon her face.

  He was concerned.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Cynthia laughed – then bit her lip. Quite the opposite. Even his hand brushing the outside of her thigh sent shivers of electricity running through her body. But she didn’t want to admit that to him; some part of her mind still held stubbornly on and refused to admit just what was going on.

  “No,” she said. “Not at all. Your hands are …” she trailed off, and blushed.

  Rushael continued to look at her. Whether he was waiting for her to finish her sentence or something else, Cynthia couldn’t quite tell – but she couldn’t bring herself to say another word. Her voice was shaking, her body was on fire with a heavy wet heat, and his eyes were drawing her in with an inexorable gravitational pull.

  He exhaled, and Cynthia let out her own breath. He returned his attention to her leg, and with his eyes no longer on her Cynthia allowed herself to bite her bottom lip. She wanted to arch her back, to grab his hands and guide them up her body, but she didn’t dare –

  “We are done,” Rushael said. He started to pull the hem of her dress back down, but Cynthia sat up and took the fabric away from him. He straightened, threw his shoulders back, and glared at her. She froze.

  The two of them stayed like that for a long, interminable moment – Cynthia sitting on the low shelf, Rushael standing over her – and then Cynthia began pulling her dress down over her legs. They held each other’s eyes the entire time, and as the dress came down over Cynthia’s knees she lifted her chin. Rushael responded by lifting his hand, and for a moment Cynthia was sure he was simply going to grab her and push her back down on the operating table.

  She wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him to.

  But he did not. He let his hand hover in the air for a moment, and then dropped it to his side with a sharp exhalation of air. Cynthia, disappointed, returned her modesty all the way and pulled the dress down to her ankles.

  “Can you walk now?” Rushael asked. There was a rough edge to his voice, a hunger that he struggled to hide from her. Cynthia glanced downward, and marveled at his self control. He wanted her, she could see and hear and smell that, oh god his musk, and yet nothing showed in the form-fitting clothes he was wearing.

  He was waiting for her to answer. She looked up at him and stammered out an answer.

  “I – I think … I’m not sure.”

  She held out her hands, and for the first time Cynthia caught a glimpse of the man behind the self control.

  He tilted his head to one side. It was a fraction of an inch of movement, but it was undeniable.

  His head straightened, and he bent his knees and looped his own arms around Cynthia’s waist and under her knees. She pressed herself against him, and he carried her out of the medical bay. As he walked, he kept his eyes firmly ahead.

  “There’s a library onboard,” he said. “I go there when – when I have nothing else to do.”

  He looked down at her. He didn’t say anything – he didn’t even raise an eyebrow – but Cynthia nodded all the same.

  “That sounds amazing,” she said.

  He left her in there alone, which was quite possibly a mistake.

  It was a tiny room, barely big enough for the computer screen and a reclining couch in front of it. He showed her how to use the screen, set the language to English for her after she stared at the slowly moving glyphs and logograms in confusion, and then excused himself to tend to something involving stars.

  Cynthia was burning with curiosity – and something else, besides. She had to know.

  She waited until she was sure Rushael wasn’t coming back, distracting herself with some desultory reading about space travel and Rusnean medicine, then she swiped across the
screen to bring up the keyboard.

  She hesitated, glanced at the wall where the door would appear, and then typed in her search string.

  Rusneon mating practices.

  The results came back instantly.

  Cynthia started reading, and then read some more. The onboard library was … well. It was very detailed.

  Cynthia was more than a little surprised about how similar Rusneans and humans were. There were some superficial differences, going by the pictures, but at that point she wasn’t really paying attention any more.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him – about Rushael. About the way he looked at her, about the way she felt in his arms. She was worried that there’d been something else behind the way he looked at her, but from what she’d been reading Rusnean men had far more control over their own bodies than humans did.

  Which meant that if he ever got hard around her, she’d know it was because he wanted to.

  Cynthia glanced at the wall-door again, and bit her bottom lip. She was still incredibly turned on, and all the things she’d just been reading didn’t help her at all.

  She traced her hand across her collarbone as she waved her way through some more pages. There were … traditions … to the mating process, it seemed. The male would declare his intentions, and then the female would submit to his desires.

  Cynthia let her hand drift lower. She pushed it under her dress and imagined it was Rushael’s hand – far larger than hers, but just as gentle. She brushed her nipple, and bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from making any noise –

  The wall-door slid open. Cynthia jumped and snatched her hand away at the same time as she swabbed the computer screen with her other arm.

  Rushael stood in the doorway. He showed no reaction to Cynthia’s embarrassment, and she turned to face him and pressed her knees together.

  “We’ve arrived,” Rushael said, and Cynthia blinked.

  “We … sorry?” she managed.

  Rushael let out an impatient puff of air. “We have arrived on Rusneon,” he said. “It’s time. I will present you to my people as my trophy.”