Page 20 of Ice Planet Barbarians

My resonance mate is chattering up a storm, shivering and rubbing her arms as she gets naked. Like her hand, her tiny feet have too many toes and are oddly shaped, but I don’t point this out. I love every ounce of her strange body, even if she is furless and tailless. My khui starts to resonate with pleasure at the sight of her, and I finish stripping off my leathers and then wade into the water.

“Hoboy,”she breathes, still standing on the bank. She’s staring at my groin. Pleased at her attention, I stretch and rub a hand over my stomach. My cock grows hard at her stare, and my body surges with resonance. Is this Shorshie’s way of encouraging mating?

“Come to me, then, my mate.” I gesture her forward. “I will fill all your needs.”

GEORGIE

‘Hung like a horse’ really never had much of a meaning until now.

I try not to stare, and fail.

I can handle fangs. The tail. The suede-like bluish-gray skin. Heck. I’m cool with the horns that curl around his head like a badass crown of some kind.

And I tell myself that I should realize that a dude who’s seven feet tall will have an enormous cock. It’s size appropriate. I’m almost prepared for that, though the sight of it growing erect still makes my thighs clamp together in trepidation.

I’m not prepared for ridges.

He’s got freaking ridges on his cock.

Just like the upraised texture along his chest, his brows, and his arms, he’s got the bumpy, knotty ridges along the top of his cock. His very big, very thick cock. In addition to those ridges, he has an additional one that almost looks like another horn, except it’s blunted at the tip instead of sharp. Small miracle, that. So, okay. He’s got a textured, huge cock with a bony, protruding knob an inch or so above it.

I feel like there’s an alien bingo card somewhere that just got checked off. Horns? Check. Tail? Check. Crazy-ass cock? Check check check.

And since I’m staring, he’s giving me heated looks with those glowing blue eyes of his. It’s like he’s daring me to touch him.

And . . . okay. I’m a little curious about what all that equipment would feel like on a girl, but I’m more interested in bathing than playing hide the sausage. I eye the water he’s now thigh-deep in, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

Right. My turn. I’m still scared of the fish from earlier, but if he’s in the water, I assume it’s safe. I move closer to where he’s at, though, just in case. And I am shivering with cold, so I need to either get in the damn water with him or re-dress.

I look at my filthy clothing and decide to get in the water. I can still smell blood and the mess from the hold on me, and I desperately want to get clean. So I take a leap of faith and get into the water.

It smells like rotten eggs, which I’ve heard is what underground hot springs smell like. I don’t care. The water’s warm like a bath, and considering that it’s snowy and bitterly cold, I love it. I moan as it hits my limbs and then I sink deeper, trying to submerge my entire body into the scalding water.

It feels amazing. Right now I could kiss Vektal for bringing me here, scary fish and all. I splash water over my limbs, rubbing at them to get rid of the nasty smells of the last ten days of captivity.

Vektal moves next to me in the water. He says something, then hands me more berries. He motions that I should squeeze them and then rub the juice on me. And maybe I don’t move fast enough for him, because he takes the berries from my hand and squeezes the juice onto my shoulders. Then his big hands start rubbing it into my skin.

I stiffen at first, but his touch is very matter-of-fact. It’s like he realizes I just want to get clean and won’t monkey around, despite the enormous erection he’s sporting that says otherwise. And it’s kind of . . . sweet, I guess. He’s not touching me to be a creep. He’s touching me because he wants to show me how to use the soap. I begin rubbing the strange, fruity-smelling lather over my arms and legs, and when he scoops a handful off my shoulder and begins to wash my hair for me, I moan with pleasure.

Being clean has never felt so amazing.

I hear him inhale sharply. Hear the vibrating purr start in his chest again. He murmurs something, voice thick, but all he does is wash my hair. No demanding touches. No insisting of anything. Just pleasure in touching me. In pleasing me.

Actually, other than the fact that he startled the hell out of me with the oral sex thing, he’s been kinda sweet. Everything he’s done has been designed to please me and give me pleasure. I digest that small bit of information. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome talking. Maybe it’s the fact that with Vektal, I’ve felt safe. Safer than I have in the last two weeks. But I don’t mind his touch. In fact, I kind of like it, probably a lot more than I should.

I can’t look at him while I’m—we’re—bathing. My cheeks feel hot, because every so often, he leans in closer and prods me with that enormous cock of his, and it makes me think of dirty things. Of his mouth on me. The suede-like feel of his skin against mine. His warmth. His intriguing scent.

“Shorshie,” he murmurs, his hands caressing my scalp.

“Gee-or-gee,” I correct him. There must not be any g sounds in his language, because he slurs them.

“Shorgee,” he tries.

“Gee,” I prompt.

“Shhhzhee—” he begins, then stops and tries again. “Corgee.”

I giggle. Corgi? Not quite. I turn around and point at my mouth to show him how to move his tongue. “Georgie.”

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