Taste of Passion

by Renae Jones

  “And are you in the civilian service?”

  “Yes. I went to university that way, and my mother went too. Now I’m working on the bill.”

  Fedni nodded.

  The off-worlders were like that—a ravening horde of nice people making sacrifices for the families or worlds they valued. It was a bit anticlimactic.

  When the off-worlders first arrived, she’d seen Xanians cross the street to snub their proximity. She’d even seen someone spit at a woman’s feet—a despicable act, completely uncalled for.

  The occupation bureau, though, the solders in uniform and tall polished women in severe black pantsuits, were the Federation personified. They worked directly for the Federation government, pulling pay from how efficiently Xana adjusted to the new “humane and scientifically sound” transition laws. They could all die alone in the cold and dirt, if she had the last shelter on Xana.

  “They’ve started accepting civilian service contracts from Xanians, you know.”

  Fedni shuddered.

  Yes, she knew. An opportunity for the lowest of the low to get a full education in a field once reserved for the most refined castes. The tests were harsh, though, crushing dreams and ruining reputations when word inevitably leaked that someone had taken one. Like that, the world knew they were looking to violate tradition and the pacts of society, setting themselves up as better than their own neighbors.

  “And leave Xana for so long?” she mused demurely.

  Rasmus shrugged. “I suppose homesickness is inevitable. I’ve been feeling its touch myself.”

  He hesitated, then pulled out a chair at his small kitchen table. “Would you care to sit?”

  She nodded, and distracted herself by stepping right up against him when she sank into the chair. He drew a breath, surprised by her nearness, and she rated her ploy successful.

  This meeting was full of cheap tricks, wasn’t it? Borrowing some sweetener, overdressing, gratuitous licking, stepping too close. Her instructors back at the temple would have been horrified.

  Rasmus moved into his kitchen, preparing barbarian-style coffee for himself though it wasn’t even afternoon. She hid her grimace. The man must have no taste buds left.

  “I’m sorry to hear that you miss your home. Xana is wonderful, but yes, if it’s not home...” She shrugged. “I know how homesick feels. I know it well.”

  His expression was surprised.

  “Well, we are a small world, but not that small. I miss the temple where I grew, the dormitories, my mother. I do not visit her so much lately.”

  “Ah, your budget has tightened,” he said sympathetically, toting out the polite phrase used on the conquered world to refer to the disruptions in daily life―the energy rationing, the fluctuating wages, the government sustenance checks stretched thin despite an influx of Federation funds.

  She hated that phrase. Her budget hadn’t tightened―it’d been ripped away. Her profession was illegal, her temple was labeled whores. Her options were to scrounge for laborer jobs or live precariously on the funds of a painfully early retirement.

  She nodded, though. He didn’t dismiss the economic problems of the Xana population like so many foreigners seemed to, and that she appreciated.

  “And you? Will you be able to visit your home?”

  “Probably not. The expense... I could find the money, but the distance is too great. I couldn’t take two months off to make it home for a proper visit. My contract here is only two years, though.”

  “Oh. You have a year and a half still.”

  In the wake of her words, she tasted bitter hurt and chalky longing, like lemon peel grated over an under-ripe banana fruit. The man was indeed homesick.

  “Yes.”

  He returned to the table to sit across from her, but an issue quickly became obvious. His table was tiny, surrounded by two chairs but meant for one person, and Rasmus’s legs were very long. When he tried to fold himself into the space left, his knees were pressed against hers. His bare foot briefly brushed her ankle.

  She shivered. From another person, that would constitute a horribly rude invasion of personal space. Every time his skin touched hers, his need made itself known.

  Instead of inspiring objections, his touch stoked the answering desire in her body. He was very handsome, and so sweet―a “nice boy.” The type of man to make you soup when you were ill. Such men were like candy to her.

  But this man didn’t taste nice. Not while looking at her like he wanted to devour her.

  A spicy, thick syrup of his arousal danced beneath strong pepper jolts. He wanted her. He wanted to have her, fast and hard. He wanted to master her body beneath his, to satisfy a need that left no room for nice.

  He drew away, an apology on his lips.

  “It is fine. It is fine to touch me,” she allowed.

  He paused, his legs still against hers. “I do not mean to be rude.”

  Her mouth opened, and she nearly said something stupid. She nearly pointed out that she owed him for the sugar. But what would that mean? First, such bargaining would be illegal, in this weird new world where the Federation imposed laws and sucked her planet dry of its culture. Perhaps he would report such a slip of the tongue, creating grave consequences for her. But worse than that, she’d nearly proclaimed her services to be worth one spoon of sugar.

  One spoon? Five years ago, long before reeducation, she could have commanded a small plantation for such favors. Now, was she so desperate for a man’s needful touch she would use a spoon of sugar as an excuse to throw herself at him? Would that really be better than just admitting she was attracted to his calm eyes and devilish facial hair?

  He drew away completely. “Are you well?”

  “I am fine,” she sighed. “Suddenly I am reminded again how homesickness feels.”

  He nodded, and a rueful smile sparked on his face. When he took her hand, his desire was there, but dampened. He was concerned for her, and would tamp down his attraction while comforting her little sadness.

  The world did not properly appreciate kindness, but she always had. His polite consideration sparked a warm glow in her.

  And so, she decided to seduce him.

  It was a momentous decision. Of course she had seduced a hundred people before him, clients and not, but it was always for money or prestige. This time she acted the seducer for her own enjoyment. A touch of excitement tickled at her nerves.

  It was also a startling decision. He was a barbarian. Gossip insisted off-worlders were half scared of sex, blushing at nudity and turning down even the most enticing offers. Fedni didn’t believe that—they were still human, after all—but the possibility of rejection scared her, just a little. The virtual shunning of her former admirers had hit her harder than even she had realized.

  “I am fine,” she insisted. “Life has burdens, and we know ours.”

  Rasmus’s mouth quirked in a grin, then he raised his glass in the Xanian way. “To our burdens.”

  She smiled back, then kissed her glass to his—a toast to burdens, made with chai. How ridiculous.

  Her mind was working double time, hatching seduction plans, then discarding half of them. Her temple had taught her seduction, of course, but even Xanians who were not (yet) her client were always eager to be seduced. And then there was a culture barrier. If she complimented the shape of his lips, would he even recognize it as the brazen come-on it was?

  This was a true challenge.

  “How have you liked Xana? It must be very different.”

  Rasmus seemed surprised by the question.

  “It is very different, and never boring. Your world has so much entertainment, performances. And there is so much color.”

  “And the people?” Fedni shifted, letting her ankle brush against the soft prickle of Rasmus’s leg. “Have we been
nice to you?”

  Rasmus breathed just a little more deeply. “Yes. Everyone has been very polite to me.”

  “Good.” Fedni used her best dazzling smile. “I would hate to think anyone had been unkind to you. You have been such a good neighbor.”

  She stood as if restless, carrying her cup. Her skirt had ridden up, not far at all, but this skirt, this man—he would notice. She didn’t fix it, walking straight to the window. Instead of working the shade, she craned, rising on her tiptoes to see between the upper and lower panels. Her back was arched, she was leaning just a bit; if she got any more obvious, sultry music would start to play out of thin air as if this were a sex show.

  Her view into the backyard revealed more clover, and one forlorn flower bush.

  She looked flirtatiously back over her shoulder, only to find her red-flushed neighbor staring politely at the wall off to her left.

  Ridiculously, while he was bashful, she could taste his attraction. She didn’t even have to concentrate. Her tongue felt seared by a heady mix of longing just a little too sweet, and rough need like a fresh pepper exploding in her mouth.

  His decorum might break them both.

  Maybe she should go home and leave her polite neighbor in peace; so far, this was more torture than seduction. But that idea felt like failure. She had never been a person to give up on what she wanted.

  She walked back to her chair, only the table separating them, and he finally looked back at her. His face was red, but his eyes were hard. He thought she was teasing him, poking fun at him.

  To want that hard, but not expect anything from it—all passion, no satisfaction—was a weird thing. If he’d made her feel like that, she’d have shown him out of her house.

  “I’m trying to be nice to you,” she explained, stopping to stand in front of him.

  He was still confused. She slowly reached out, giving her skittish conquest time to pull away. She brushed her finger across his lower lip, thick and red from being bitten. “I like the shape of your lips, very much.”

  His exhale shuddered across her hand.

  That was too blatant for even him to ignore. For a moment, he considered, and her heart tried to stop.

  Then he raised his hand slowly, resting it against her cheek, looking into her eyes. She gazed back, savoring the budding warmth of her own desire. Her body was so long neglected, it felt like a stranger’s.

  “You have been very nice to me. Would you... I could escort you to the theater or on an outing, if you like.”

  Somehow, she managed not to laugh at him.

  “I would very much like it if you would touch me.”

  He swallowed deeply. He seemed to need a moment to catch up to the new game they played. Then he moved his hand, drawing a thumb along her lips, mirroring her own actions. “Like this? Do you like me to touch you like this?”

  She nodded, still gazing into his eyes, as nervous as he was.

  He laughed awkwardly. “You’re not married, are you?”

  She laughed too. Off-worlders were monogamous, most of them, or so she’d heard. The Xanian concept of defining boundaries in the marriage contract confused off-worlders; the idea that about forty percent of marriages did not require monogamy confused them further.

  “No, I am not married. I am not stealing. Or am I being stolen?” Really, she had no idea how that worked, just that it was supposedly immoral. The Federation boasted a more advanced society by standard measures―spacecraft technology and medicines and crime rates―and yet, there were reasons she called them barbarians.

  He leaned his long frame across the table as if nothing separated them, and kissed her softly.

  She could feel the soft rasp of his facial hair, the gentle ridges of his lips. His touch sparked an electric reaction in her body, trailing lower, deeper. She made a small noise of encouragement, and parted her lips.

  He tasted her tongue with his; a soft touch and slide.

  Then his kiss turned hungry, and she finally saw the storm of passion she had been tasting. He devoured her, stealing the spicy cinnamon of her lip color. His kiss was rough and needy and demanding.

  And she returned the favor. She sucked his lip into her mouth, hard, and he grunted.

  He stood and she wasn’t tall enough to meet him. He nudged the table out of the way with his hip, never breaking their kiss, and gathered her into his arms.

  It was befuddling. He tasted like drowning, like she was falling into syrup, a dark ambrosia. She could barely process and he was moving, functioning. How large was he? How could he lean, and envelop her, and just keep kissing her?

  His sweet taste, the shallow thrill of conquering a big proper barbarian, her need, his need, all came together in a rush of sensation. Her deepest fire spread, reckless to be quenched.

  She fumbled free of her chair, tripping on her shoes, but he caught her effortlessly with a bump against the wall. There was no pain, but a jolt of hot mustard alarm filled her mouth. He broke the kiss. “Are you okay? Did...”

  She grabbed his tunic into a fist. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

  He did, savagely. The back of her head pressed into the controlling grasp of his huge hand. His kiss was a stern demand.

  And she tasted the cloying miasma of his shame. Why shame in a moment like this? This wasn’t shame. This was amazing.

  While his tongue twined with hers, she moved her hands lower. Too soon, perhaps, except to her empathy he tasted more than ready. Today, foreplay would be wasted. She intended to indulge before the moment faded.

  Fedni’s hand found his cock. It was hard and long between them, and she squeezed through thick layers of cotton.

  “That?” he groaned. “You want that?”

  Oh, Sky Lords, he said the right things. “Yes, I want that. I want you.”

  He pushed her body into the wall, grinding his hips into the cradle of her body.

  She moaned, lost again. Her talents were a gift, letting her understand her partner and find completion through his rapture. But in some couplings, they were nearly a curse. He wanted her so desperately, and she wanted him so badly, and the world was beginning to blur.

  His hand slipped under her skirt, finding the silk of her panties. He ran a thumb along her slit, feeling her wetness in the fabric.

  “Jesus, you do want it,” he muttered.

  He slid a hand across the back of her dress, looking for a clasp but finding just silk. She reached back as well, catching his hand. “No, it’s not...it slips.”

  She pulled at a hidden tie over one shoulder, but her ardor was in danger. It was crass, but she was painfully aware of how much this dress had cost her. There would be no temple recompense for a frock torn in the heat of passion.

  She pushed his hands away, pulling to remove his tunic over his head. He helped, tangling for a minute, and when he was free she ran her hand up his abdomen and a thumb across one of his nipples. He drew breath sharply, sensitive there, and she took note. But she wasn’t distracted from her goal.

  He freed the clasps on his pants himself, and she moved her hand to take a firm grip on his cock again, working his foreskin in her hand, this time without impediment. He was warm, so very warm, and hard. As she’d feared, the crown was shaded a ruddy purple, overstimulated, likely near to aching.

  His hand moved to the silk of her dress again, and a small frown formed on his face. The hidden fasteners in formal clothing could be a puzzle to anyone, but it must especially be so for off-worlders.

  She licked a delicate line up the side of his neck, and whispered in his ear, “No, here, like this.”

  She turned and stepped away from him, spread her legs and crudely bent over the tiny wrought-iron table. Her ass was presented to him, the thick material of her tight dress covering her but hiding nothing.

  She was almost
sure he would like that view. Almost. A shiver of nervous anticipation touched her spine.

  His breathing deepened to ragged gasps, and it was music to her ears.

  She loved the power of sex, the promise of pleasure she could hold over a man, and she loved when they let their desire show. A man willing to look an idiot for you was a man willing to let you do anything.

  She pressed her face into the cradle of her arms, her hands grasping the other edge of the table. All she could see was her own body and the green slate octagons of the tabletop. Behind her, she heard a rustle, another rustle, then a step.

  Her body stilled in barely contained anticipation.

  His hand descended, pushing her dress higher, revealing her completely. He held his hand warm on her ass, brief protection from the chill of the blowing climate conditioner. Then he pulled at her panties, a modest concession to the shortness of her dress, struggling to move the thick brown silk down her legs.

  “Oh.” She gasped softly as the first chilled air crossed her pussy. She longed for him to fill her body.

  He got the underwear near her knees before she remembered her shoes.

  In style, shoes were meant to be a base, like on a building or a tree. They were a solid foundation to something slender and tall. They were infuriatingly inconvenient.

  He would never get her panties past them. She’d have to sit down to take off the shoes, and this entire encounter would be ruined.

  Showing amazing wisdom, or just too impatient to bother, he left her underwear below her knees, stepping close to shield her body from the creeping cold. He pushed two fingers into her cunt, slowly, then deep, pumping and twisting by turns.

  Her mind was flooded with his taste, more than she could process. All people had natural shields, which thinned the closer they got to an animalistic, instinct-driven state. That’s where he was: a man stripped down to his animal instincts.

  He wanted in her. He wanted deep in her, pumping home, and he just didn’t care about anything else.

  She knew the feeling.

  She withdrew her senses as best she could, building shields.