Page 31 of Tempting Cargo
“Of course they’re short. What are shorts supposed to be? Long?” Strange human. “What clothes do your humans wear for wrestling?”
He made a strangled kind of squawk. “Just shorts.”
I swore he sounded a little sulky about it.
“Well, we can do authentic human wrestling, then,” I said, enjoying myself more than I had in a long time. “Can I turn around yet? My muscles are withering, and I want to win.”
“Harsh.” His voice was about as far from his word as could be, and I imagined his face lit up with amusement, wanted to drink it in. “Yes, if you promise not to laugh.”
“I cannot promise because I haven’t seen you.”
As I turned, the teasing words died in my throat. I was certainly not laughing as I took in Garrison wearing nothing but my shorts.
I was never washing them again, which was objectively disgusting, but I didn’t care. They weren’t as tight as his delightful trousers, which was just as well—the swell of my cunt was all I could feel, his solid, strong body was all I could see, and if any more of him had been on display, I might have lost control.
He was delicious. And we had delayed touching each other long enough.
Garrison’s husky voice held an edge of steel. “Drop you, I think you said?”
I’d barely readied myself before he rushed me. He took advantage of my upraised arms to grab the sleeves of my tunic, then reversed, pulling me backwards.
Kheh. I was heavier, and he sought to use my momentum against me.
I knew better than to try to outsmart an unknown move in training, so when he lowered his body and twisted round, I let him throw me onto my back, quickly following the movement flow and coming to my feet in a ready stance. The rush of adrenaline took over, and I pressed forward, kicking out against his thigh, gauging his responses.
He shifted his weight, and I took the opening. I dropped lower, hooked my leg behind his, and swept him to the floor, following up with an atamka hold.
His short mane was too tempting, and I brushed my hand over it. “Soft. I thought so.”
I wasn’t surprised when he broke free, but at his gentle touch on my headspines, I caught my breath.
“And these?” he asked, voice low. “How sensitive are they?”
When I frowned in confusion, he grinned. “So I know how hard I can grab them if I have to fight dirty.”
Insolent male.
He had just enough mane to catch some between my fingers, so I did, pulling steadily until he winced.
I let go, smoothing away the hurt with my fingertips. “About the same as that,” I told him. “But it is dishonourable to fight that way. It is a shameful kri’ith who uses an opponent’s headspines to achieve victory.”
He dropped his hand like I’d struck him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect—”
I laughed, slapping his arm as I would my kin. “It is fine. We do not expect such high standards from other species.” I let the smile play on my lips so he knew I wasn’t being as serious as other Orithians would be.
My headspines dipped, as though they lamented losing the warmth of his touch. I should have told him how sensitive they could be, but the moment had passed.
He rose to his feet. “I can show you high standards. Again.”
I matched his stance. Our techniques were similar but different, and we tested our moves against each other, sometimes him dropping me, sometimes the other way round, and every time teaching the other moves we didn’t know. By the time we paused for a rest, I’d all but forgotten the other game between us, so absorbing was the kri’ith joy for battle, and so gratifying it was to spar with such a worthy and interesting opponent.
“I think I am winning,” I said, my breath coming in hard bursts.
He raised a haired brow at me. “I dropped you first, remember.”
“You got lucky.”
“No, I saw an opportunity.” His smile was happy, not smug, and the heat in his gaze sent fire to my belly. “You were distracted by what you saw.”
