Page 39 of Invasive Species
Now I just need to be brave enough to show him.
After a shower toget the pond water and paint off, I towel dry looking at the painting. I'm in the “magnificently proud of my genius” phase, aglow with post-creation endorphins.
What will he say when he sees the painting?“That's amazing.”Maybe, “Good girl.”Nah, I can't imagine thatcoming out of his mouth, as much as I like it when the Pirate Prince says it to his fated mate.
“Wow, looks like you actually accomplished something.”The sting hurts. No, he won't say that.
Maybe he won’t say anything at all, he’ll just look at me the way he did when I gave him my e-reader.
I fix my gaze on his eyes staring back at me from the painting. The intense ring of neon green seems to flicker in the low light. I want him. I want to show him this painting and then he'llknowI want him. Does he feel the same energy? Does he have the same feelings?
My fingers heat as if he's holding them, and I touch the edge of the painting where his hand beckons. There's a scene in Planet of the Pirate Prince where the pirate-slash-prince “inspects” his cargo. She's only in a flowing vest which parts as his hands rove over her hips, easing her closer to where he lounges on the throne.
I slide my fingers down my body and, from what I remember, two together would make one of his.
Pressing and probing the strange slit at the apex of his prize’s legs. Sliding his finger inside to find smooth silk, making his captive gasp.
I lean forward against the wall, hand balled against my throbbing clit. I've been getting myself off for years with pressure and rolling my knuckles: flutters against my clit don't do it, I need hard and heavy vibration. A magic wand plugged into the mains made by a company who also manufactures earth movers just about does it. The pirate prince might do magic things with his tongue, but I reckon it wouldn't work on me.
Within a minute, bliss spreads from my core, muscles spasming against my own fist.
Ah. The post orgasm reflection of what the hell I just got off on. Well, I'm allowed my fantasies. I turn the picture to facethe wall, avoiding the 2D Gara’s gaze. I'll have to sort through these feelings… later.
After getting dressed I open my laptop, drumming my fingers on my knees as it fires up. I need to ride this wave of productivity and turn it to marketing for Ellen. She's going to need to hit the ground running when she opens, and behind the scenes stuff can help build up interest and a following so when she’s ready to take bookings, she’ll kill it.
It takes a few minutes to load my pictures onto my editor before I pick through them with a critical eye. I need pictures of the barn as it takes shape, but there's no context to the artful collections of stones or the sunset bathing a corner. Anyone looking at this will say, so what? I need something to show what it's going to be without spoilers, and I need to build up anticipation, not blow my load early.
There’s also loads of pictures of the guys, especially the first day they crashed into our lives. Holy shit there's some amazing atmospheric ones: a shape rising from the wreckage of the barn, back lit with orange flames. Ellen standing firm, glaring up at Ilia.
A pang drops through me, hitting every rib on the way down to my stomach. I miss Ellen badly. Gara said she’d come back. She has to be on her way, right? There’s only so much time that girl can be on vacation before she goes stir crazy.
There’s a mountain of pictures of the glint on scales zoomed in on Gara’s face. I flick through and whoa, uh, I have a lot of Gara. Gara lying injured, glaring all around him. Gara following close to Ilia, looking out at the land. Gara swimming, strong strokes slicing through the lake water.
He’s gorgeous. And others would probably think he is too, and at least his arresting image would stop doomscrollers enough for a second look.
I zoom through for a photo I know I took yesterday. There: Gara lifting a beam with one of the triplets. He has hisarms spread, chest muscles and biceps bursting, his scales bright yellow on his chest and tan brown on his arms.
Perfect.
A pang hits me. I shouldn’t put this picture on the internet… but honestly, sex sells. And I can be careful. A bit of editing adds details, like edges and buttons on a non-existent hi-viz jacket. I make those buttons strain as if struggling to contain him. He looks sexy as fuck anyways, and now he looks, well… human. I blur his arms so no one can see scales even if they zoom in, and add a few filters for good measure.
I load that picture behind a bunch of photos of blocks. Now I need to think of a caption. “Working hard on a new destination B and B. Follow for more sneak peeks.”Basic but clear.
I create a new Photogram account with an arty block photo as the profile and put it up. There. It’s a start.
And it’s not like I’ve ever gone viral. It’ll be fine.
FOURTEEN
GARA
Runningmy diagnostic down my body in the sheltered area Arra-bellah made for me in the lean-to, I know what I’ll find. My markers haven’t changed, they’re all stable as they have been for years, and I know because I smell them all the time.
So it both surprises and doesn’t surprise me to see nothing’s changed. Not physically. But mentally, emotionally, I feel something’s shifted. Something monumental.
“Hypothesis: the mate bond isn’t real,” I say. “There’s no chemical component, no hormonal change; no physical adjustment such as changes in respiration or contraction rates; only scale pattern, which is under mostly subconscious control.” I stare again at my scales; they stay bright healer green as I bend my mind to this problem.
Then I glance at the space Arra-bellah made for me, her empathy for us in this space, the thoughtfulness in how she considered an area suited for everyone, her kindness in doing it for us, and my scales flash yellow. Yellow as the golden yolks of the eggs she burns for me in the mornings.
