Vael-Torin’s arm tightens around my waist, anchoring me against his side and stopping some of the self-loathing with a fresh wave of heat.
Nothing like lust to distract you from an intergalactic shit show of your own making.
The wheel whips around before creaking to a stop, an arrow plunking to a brightly colored pie slice.
Style Build and Drag.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Vael is muttering nonsense alien words under his breath, and then I’m being rushed along to the next part of the challenge.
The translator chimes over the speakers, directing us to our lanes.
Vael-Torin hurries me along, chest heaving.
The crowd seems to be pushing him to the edge. He keeps touching me, making sure I’m alright, positioning his big body between me and the audience.
It’s not helping my heat. “We gotta do this, big guy,” I tell him brightly. “We can win. Then think: Sueva, a mansion, and you and me having a lot of fun.” I put an extra oomph on the word fun.
Because I mean sex. Like, sex is the only prize I care about right now at all.
He leads me to a roped-off lane of dirt where a fabric-covered lump sits at the starting line.
The second we hit the dirt with the supplies in front of us, his entire attitude changes. Vael-Torin whirls around, ruby-red wings flaring wide to block the drone cameras from getting a shot of my bare legs. Before I can say a word, his hands clamp around my waist, lifting me into the air and placing me squarely onto the fabric sheet so my feet don't touch the gravel.
Which is actually pretty damn cute. I beam up at him. “Thanks.”
“Fankssss,” he repeats, squinting at me briefly before returning to his alien language.
Okay. Well, he’s trying.
He drop-thumps onto his knees in front of the pile, ignoring me as he goes to work.
I watch, transfixed, the ache of my heat making my lady parts throb as I track his movements. His forearms bunch, thick muscles standing out as his long fingers rotate the iron bolts with crazy speed. He isn't guessing.
He knows exactly how the chassis aligns.
I would have cried over this. Legal briefs and research and divorce negotiations are one thing. Putting together whatever the fuck this is is completely different field, and I can confidently say that I’m not good at this.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him, trying to keep my smile in place while he ignores me totally. “You’re so good at that, Vael!”
If he hears me, he doesn’t act like it. Finally, I give up and just watch.
Within minutes, the heap of metal brackets transforms into a rigid rickshaw.
He stands to his full height, chest expanding as he pats the wooden bench inside the basin. He looks at me, a flash of pride in his eyes. “Pah-pee?”
I don’t love that he’s turned the second syllable of my name into a bodily function.
"POP-py," I tell him, stepping over the iron frame and settling onto the seat, bracing my hands flat against the rails.
He marches to the front, hoisting the handles onto his shoulders, tucking his wings tight against his spine.
Then he explodes forward.
I scream, wind whipping my hair around my face. The fluff on my little heels try to flutter with the force of the air, but are too sodden to do more than plop sadly.
The power of Vael’s legs launches the rickshaw across the terrain.
The cart rattles as he banks into the roped turns. He moves at an inhuman speed, tail whipping behind him to counter the momentum, mastering the "style" requirement with a roll of his shoulders that sends a cloud of dust billowing behind us.
