I don’t pull out my boobs because, for one, I don’t want our so-called intergalactic audience to see them, and for two, I don’t want to distract him. I want to get out of this fucking hourglass before the sandworms decide that Zan’s feet are worth chewing on. Or worse, his balls.
“I was just getting to know his balls, and was getting very attached to them very quickly. It would be a shame for the sandworms to eat them.”
“You realize you’re saying that out loud still.” Zan sighs.
“I think this heat is addling my brain,” I say. “I’ve been monologuing about your balls.”
“Yes, you have, and it’s very distracting.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“But it is nice to have motivation to get out of here,” he adds. “Because I have a feeling that me and my balls are going to be very happy with whatever else you have planned for them.” He manages to say it with a straight face as I sand piles up around him.
My lower back shifts, trying to push it off to the side without getting buried in it, and I cough as some sand gets into my face.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Zan says.
It’s hard to make out his progress, then the mouth of a sandworm juts out.
“Watch out for that!”
Zan flicks it away with his other wing, and I realize that he’s protecting himself with his tail too, under the sand—something I hadn’t noticed before.
“All those appendages are pretty handy,” I tell him. “Kinda jealous I only have arms and legs.”
“Don’t forget about your breasts,” Zan says. “I very much like those parts too.”
“Hey,” I snap. “You’re supposed to be concentrating.”
“It’s very hard when a woman who smells as heavenly as you do, begging you to let her come just the night before has her tits pressed up against the glass,” he comments casually. He continues fitting the strange, clear puzzle pieces together like he hasn’t just told me the one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard.
Just another Tuesday for Zan.
Not that I have any idea what day of the week it is, or if this floating hell hole of a space station masquerading as a planet keeps track of weeks.
It makes my brain hurt, so I stop thinking about it.
I watch him, fascinated, grateful to have something to focus on besides the crushing pressure of the sand on my back.
I cough again, and the shift of my body against the glass means that a bout of sand spills out onto Zan’s back. He blocks the puzzle from the sand’s onslaught with his wing, a worm choosing that moment to launch out from the sand around his thighs and latch onto his wing.
Zan grunts at the impact but stays focused on the task.
“Holy shit—Zan—oh my god—okay, I’m going to have to come back down there?—”
“Don’t you dare. Whatever you do, stay away from these worms. I’ve had worse in my life. You forget I was a soldier, female.”
“That’s hot.”
“My translator is saying that this could be both a sexy or temperature-related observation.”
He wedges in a corner piece, and it clicks, and I cheer, although it’s getting harder and harder to see him as the sand fills up around me.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “I’m going to have to, like, put my head somewhere else so I won’t be able to see what you’re doing.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s fully concentrated, his tail flicking away sandworms where it can, the one latched onto his wing still gnawing at the tender membrane.
And still he works.
