AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She disrobed as she spoke. She was a little on the fleshy side-Valentine couldn't help but think of milk-skinned Molly, that summer in Wisconsin-but nicely proportioned. She'd probably been chosen for her hips and breasts.
"I'm kind of looking forward to this," she said, approaching him. Her eyeline only came to his midchest, he could look down and see the direction of growth in her hair.
"You smell-sweet," Valentine said.
"I dusted a little lavender in my hair. It's in bloom now."
Her body, soft and ripe and smelling of the spring water and salty sweat, suddenly seemed to be touching his, from toe tips to eyeline, as though they were magnets with perfectly aligned poles and curvatures.
His hands started at her shoulder blades and explored south.
She had deceptively strong muscles under that jiggling flesh. He felt one buttock tense under its padding, it might have been an oak banister carefully curved by some woodworker. They fought a brief war, her leg against his hand, and she let him win, bringing her calf up and tight against his own, tucked in between buttock and thigh.
Valentine had experienced all kinds of sex in his travels. Tender and tentative, loving, exhausted, mechanical, professional, enthusiastic, angry . . .
For him, it was a form of oblivion. He could wipe away everything when between a woman's thighs the way some lost themselves in drink or drugs.
But this woman, a gift to him in his labor pit, was outside his experiences. She reminded him of one of those Old World robotic toys, where once plugged in or batteried up, lights roamed across it and noises sounded from hidden speakers and it began to buck and jump.
The first few strokes of penetration seemed to trip a hidden "on" switch within Snake Arms. She suddenly came alive and apparently grew another set of legs and arms, like some Indian idol. Were those hands or legs on his buttocks, and if they were hands, what on earth was clasping at his latissimus muscles.
Still, he stayed gentle. She seemed like a bird in a cage, tucked under the arc of his limbs.
"Faster and harder, Scar. I can take it ... All of it, now."
"I much bigger than you," Valentine said.
"Tougher than I look." She made a face, as though trying to remember a foreign expression. Valentine felt her inner muscles work him, pulling at him.
"Jesus," he said.
"It's the dancing. Works your core."
She'd gone impossibly wet, running like the spring where he'd seen her dance in the moonlight. He gave her his all.
"Fuck yeah," she squeaked.
He had to agree.
Now they were both moving, grinding together, a steady meeting of hips like some obscene musical instrument.
The lavender must have been mostly pollen. Valentine gave a soft sneeze.
He pulled her off him, for some reason needing to taste her. He hugged her salty mount with his mouth, savoring her.
Suddenly she bucked and scooted away from his tongue. When her eyes opened again, he reentered her, aroused by her climax, and in a few brief strokes it was his turn.
His mind cleared in the afterglow.
"Work, work, work," she said into his arm. "Dawn to midnight." Then she seemed to relax into sleep.
Now he could think. A rough count of the armed Grogs made him wonder if an uprising by the Golden Ones could even be successful, given the forces the Baron had. A force two or three times that of the Baron's would be required to smash this feudal Grog-human war machine.
The Baron would have plenty of warning and the advantage of rail-fed interior lines of communication on that arc he patrolled between the Mississippi and Oklahoma. No such army existed north of the Missouri, even if he could somehow unite the Gray Ones running wild north of the Missouri valley.
No, the destruction would have to come from within. The Kurians had managed the trick any number of times. Could he manage it here?
Not on his brown sugar.
