He waits a long, long time. His warmth covers me like a blanket. He compresses me against the table, but it is not a burden. More protective, really.
And then he slowly uncouples.
My life force drains out.
At least that’s what it feels like.
I could sleep for a week right now.
Since I just had about a hundred and fifty orgasms topped by…I don’t even know what to call it.
I have no desire to die.
But if I did, at least I had that.
He moves behind me, and then I feel the feather-light touch of his fingers brushing ointment on me. In me.
“The scratch came back?” I manage against the hard plastic table.
“No, new ones.” There’s a frown in his voice. “You advised me to go slow. Humans bruise easily.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Worth it, though.
Such an odd series of coincidences have brought us together here now. A coincidence that I should have this unique disorder that compels me to have sex. A coincidence that, in the vast infinity of space, thieves carrying Sithe’s stolen metal should stumble upon our teensy little ship.
I wonder if my exposure to lusteal will complicate the Vanadisans’ ability to develop a cure. We lost contact with them shortly after embarking from Humana. Our ship doesn’t have the capability for intergalactic communications—we have to deviate from our route to match velocities with Vanadisan satellites, and we unanimously begged the captain not to do it because it would prolong the already-unbearable, celibate journey—so they might be anxiously wondering where we are.
And I have so much delicious clarity right now.
My refractory period feels infinite.
Maybe it’s the lusteal that’s prolonging my period of clarity. I didn’t feel any different after getting dusted—somehow—by the Eruvisans. I didn’t even notice it happening, which means there are no immediate side effects aside from being able to turn on Arrisans, and Sithe says that’s not a big deal. Lusteal causes nothing more than a normal erection in him. Nothing like the compulsion I feel.
If lusteal was even a partial cure, I would beg, borrow, or…well, not steal, obviously. I’d ask Sithe for a little lusteal for the other women.
Maybe the cause of my clarity is Arrisan sex.
That’s the moment everything really changed.
Well then, lusteal could come in handy again. We’d just have to also find Arrisans who aren’t busy and won’t execute us for daring to talk to them.
Lusteal doesn’t exist on Humana. It doesn’t exist naturally anywhere in the universe since the Arrisans created it from their own bodies and have total control over it. I’ve seen a picture in a digital textbook. It was black and glittery, like mica.
If I only knew the cause of my illness… I had so many tests. So many. We all have. They tested for everything.
Everything.
They tested for space viruses from dead galaxies in case we happened to be exposed to a chip of an ancient asteroid. I’m sure they must have tested for lusteal.
All the Humana doctors can say is that there’s no mechanism for head injury, no obvious brain damage, no foreign substances, no chemical imbalance, no hormone disorder… All the noes. No yeses. That’s why we’ve put all our hope in the Vanadisans. They’ve studied alien biologies forever. If anyone can figure it out, they can.
Arrisan ointment is effective, and it’s made from components not found on Humana. If their lusteal is the cause of my clarity now—if it could give me and my shipmates even a temporary cure—it would be worth whatever price the Arrisans demanded.
Yes. We would all pay any price.
He finishes applying the ointment, and I roll onto my back. My dress is a mess. My hair is a mess. I’m a mess. His movements are controlled, his suit sealed up again except his hood, which is down around his shoulders.
He looks ordinary, but neat. Everything in its place. I will always be drawn to a man who moves with purpose, who keeps himself tidy.
Ding.
He stiffens and pulls up the hood, disappearing into the depths. His silver eyes are the last thing to go, like a spooky Cheshire cat, and then the shadow swallows even that.
I clamber off the table.
He strides to the saltwater aquarium wall and hits a button.
The fish disappear to reveal the blunt-featured Arrisan from before. “Spiderwasp in. We are ready to accept the stolen cargo, and your next assignment is waiting. We will match velocities in ten clicks.”
“There is an environmental factor.”
“Which is?”
“A lesser was exposed to the lusteal. She metabolized it and caused a reaction.”
The blunt-featured male squints.
Uh-oh.
I want very much to hide behind the table, but in case he’s actually squinting at a screen near ours, I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself.
“Convey the lesser to the science officer. Spiderwasp out.” The viewscreen returns to festive fish.
But everything else takes on a dangerous shade of gray.
Sithe stares at the tank.
Then he swings to me.
The hood is up.
He is a shadowed monster. Not a man balls-deep who ghosted his lips across my shoulders and told me he wanted to bite me. He is an elite soldier, the special forces of the deadliest aliens to conquer the universe, who executes assignments and enemies without question.
Dread seeps into my veins. Ice pumps through my heart.
I thought I was going to get to stay.
The words die on my lips.
He lifts his chin so his eyes appear in outline from the hood’s shadow. “Ten clicks.”
Ten clicks.
Until I have to go to a ship filled with Arrisans.
In this crumpled-up dress.
My legs are all sticky. “May I take a shower?”
He was staring behind me, but now he fixes on me. “Seal your door.”
Ominous.
His hood darkens to black, and he strides aggressively past me, almost at a fast glide that makes him both smaller and more nimble. He crouches beneath the pirates’ ship and then leaps inhumanly high like a grasshopper. His forearms cross, and his black blades flash out. A beetle’s deadly pincers. He disappears.
I do not know this person.
Nothing but a name.
The floor shudders. My fork clatters off its plate.
He’s doing something to the pirate ship.
Something that threatens the stability of my ship.
Run.
I move on legs I cannot feel into my bedroom and slam the button to close my door.
The light remains red. It never was good at closing. The captain was always working on it with a tool set, cranking on panels, and swearing.
“Nothing like the smell of ozone in the morning,” she’d say with a funny-shaped screwdriver clenched in her teeth. A wire would spark with a loud pop and she’d swear.
“You’d be a knockout if you didn’t swear,” the kingmaker would tell her, polished hand on her generous hip, stylish head cocked.
“The swearing is what fixes it.”
“Then you should swear a lot more. You’re straddling this line, holding yourself back, and ‘suppressed frustration’ isn’t a good look. If you went all-in on class or you fully embraced your rough edges, you’d be gorgeous.”
“My great uncle told me all the pretty girls died off in the Second Flood,” the captain had muttered. “So there’s no hope.”