Despite her best judgment, she had to ask. “How old are you, Cormack?”
He finished his meal and swallowed, his shoulders stiffening infinitesimally. “Thirty four.”
Double shit. Allora regretted her need to ask. At almost three and a half decades, Cormack of the bright blue eyes stood on the threshold of a minefield.
Any transgression at all and he would be sent to the draining chamber, broken down into parts which could then be used to sustain Born humans. Or pressed down into the viscous fluid that would incubate a whole new generation of Breds.
“Well, Cormack. I am not a supervisor but a second level task mistress. It would serve you well to recognize the difference.” She tapped the infinity insignia on her lapel.
His eyes went wide. “Task Mistress? I have never encountered one of your designation before. Forgive me.”
Allora ground her teeth together. That was because most who reached the task designations no longer walked the planting fields, letting the supervisors handle the Breds. “It is not a punishable offence.”
Silence reigned between them and almost as though it had been choreographed, they both stared down at the box.
“Go ahead, open it.” Allora put a thin thread of command in her tone, hoping he understood that she was in no mood for games.
Cormack ran his hand lovingly over the grime-encrusted box, his slow caress denoting awe and wonder. Her body tingled in the most unusual places as she watched his long fingers fiddle with the latch, careful not to break it. She scowled, shifting her weight to ease her odd discomfort. What is the matter with me?
The locking mechanism gave way with ease, and Cormack licked his lips as he gripped the top of the strongbox. Allora’s own tongue darted out before she realized it. Glancing from her to the box and back again, Cormack studied her mouth in a most inappropriate way.
The constraints of her thermal gear grew tighter, her skin prickled against the layers of fabric. Her nipples, peaked from the cold, felt sensitive as his tongue emerged again.
“Get on with it already!” she snapped, unwilling to prolong this bizarre encounter. To feel urges for a Bred? The only lowlier disgrace would be to mount a Cyborg.
For a heartbeat she felt sure he would ignore her command and keep eye contact, see how far he could push her. She was too close to him now to use her whip and if he attacked, she’d have no choice but to inject him with the sedative in her gauntlet and have him hauled off to be drained.
Curiosity won out and he raised the lid to the metal box. His eyes went wide and he threw it to the side and scrambled away, curling into a defensive posture in the dust.
“What is it?” Allora frowned.
He flung himself at her feet, forehead touching her boots, hands trembling. “Please, I didn’t know.”
She glanced to where the box had landed and at the clear plastic bag that protected a book. Triple decker shit on a stick.
2
Cormack watched in horror as the task mistress strode to pick up the book, his heart thundering against his ribcage. It had been going so well too, she’d been quick to strike but he understood he’d given her no choice. As a woman, she could not afford to be more lenient, lest the Bred take advantage of her.
Her beauty stunned him. Pale unmarred flesh, amethyst eyes and a curl of brilliant flame-red hair escaping the confines of her helmet. A dream, so vivid compared to the bleak landscape. For the endless moment when their gazes had locked he felt some sort of connection to her. Then he’d opened the blasted box. Even knowing what awaited him—he couldn’t help but stare at it, at her holding it. One quick glimpse of all he ever wanted.
And would never have.
He swallowed once, determined to take his punishment like a man. Perhaps his death would serve as a warning to others who found strange objects from the long deposed civilizations. Curiosity is not worth one’s life.
“Mother puss bucket, this is not my night,” she muttered. Taking off her helmet and setting it down he watched, enraptured as her red gold hair spilled free, lava flowing from a volcano.
In that moment, seeing her irritated expression and contemplating his own death, Cormack realized pride was not one of his strengths. “Please, Task Mistress. I’ll do anything. I am not ready for the journey to be over.”
She heaved a sigh, as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “You know the law, Cormack. Any Bred found in possession of a book is to be recycled immediately. I may not agree with it, but I am its servant, my sole purpose to enforce for the greater good of this colony.”
He cast about wildly for anything he might have to barter. “Can’t we just…pretend this never happened? No one else has to know.”
A muscle jumped in her jaw. “I’ll know.”
Crawling to her on hands and knees, he swallowed before offering, “I’ll service you.”
She didn’t speak. He dared to glance up. Her unusual eyes revealed nothing of what she thought or felt—if she felt anything at all.
Taking her silence as a positive sign, he pushed forward, reaching out until one hand grasped her calf through the leather of her boot. “Have you never wondered what it would be like, to be pleasured by a Bred? No man would work as hard to bring you satisfaction. I vow it.”
“Do you do this often, Cormack? Barter your sexual services to the supervisors so they turn a blind eye?” Her tone was colder than outside the protective shield around the barn. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh hay and aroused woman with his keen senses. She needed what he could give and oh, how he wanted to give it. All had not been lost yet, he could see her hesitation when she breathed, “I am not a man with an unruly cock to be tempted by such a proposal.”
“This would be the first time for me.” His fingers crept up to where the thin material of her stockings peeped out over the boot. Boldly, he caressed the delicate crease at the back of her knee for he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “Can’t you imagine how incredible it would feel, to be tongue-fucked by a man desperate to please you?”
Because he touched her, he felt her tremble. So, she had been affected by his offer. He would not have made it with any other Born, but his task mistress…he could already taste her essence on his lips, imagine the silk of her wet flesh, hear her gasps and moans as he brought her to climax again and again.
“Release me,” she ordered. He lifted his head, staring up over her thermal plated armor. It had been molded to her curvaceous form and his hands itched to undress her, see all of her. His face was even with her groin and he breathed deeply, enjoying her feminine scent. If I’m going to be damned, I will damn well earn it.
Breds wore thin thermal cloth to cover their skin, not this hefty armament. It took him a moment to discover where the ties to her garments were located.
She trembled in his arms. One of the horses whickered softly.
“I don’t want this,” she protested, but her body told a different tale. The ties gave way and her armor clattered to the ground. Beneath it she wore only a thin layer of fabric, too sheer to be thermally charged.
The armor had hidden the full lushness of her curves beneath its bulk, the delicate flare of her round hips, the gentle swells of her breasts. She still wore her boots and the gauntlets. He feared she might stop him if he tried to remove either. And he wanted this taste of her, more than his next breath.
“Yes, you do.” Guided by instinct more primal than time herself, he dared to argue, nuzzling her mound through the fabric, moving slowly so as not to startle her, as if gentling a wild mare. Would her pubic hair be the same color as the flaming tresses above, or would they be darker, hiding the mysteries of her sex?
His hands slowly bunched the fabric until he’d gathered it to her waist. Red, the same vivid red curls.