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The bed rose behind Zarek from beneath the glossy floor of his living quarters. He had chosen to live above his planet for as long as I could remember. We were in his spacecraft with the darkness of the galaxy as our expansive view.
“You are as much mine as you were yesterday,” Zarek breathed. “I can feel you against me before we even touch. I can feel you an entire planet away, Queen.” He undid the laces of his slacks while I stood still. Watching. Waiting.
I held power in the wait.
His member lengthened. Hard and thick, eager for me.
On the pullout couch, I slip my hand beneath my boxer-briefs and palm my hardening cock while I read.
“I can feel you the same, Zarek,” I whispered.
“Can you?” he wondered, and just then, long appendages grew from his shoulders like thick vines. His rothlings only grew when aroused in hunt or in sex, and often in sets of six. Demos used them for survival and for mating.
One flitted around my thighs before slipping inside me.
I rub harder, picturing what she described—Zarek’s vine in Solana, but also, I imagine slipping inside Luna.
Heat gathers beneath my boxer-briefs, and I yank them further down my thighs, freeing my erection that I fist. The friction is nothing to what I really want.
Her.
Inside her.
With her.
I glaze over the next part of the story.
I gasped, the skin around my pelvis beginning to glow. “Zarek.”
“Yes, my love?” His other rothling curled tenderly around my neck and dipped between my breasts. Soon, all six stroked against every inch of my flesh and lit me alight.
I’m jerking off to Luna’s smut, and it’s not the first time I needed to grip my shaft while reading her stories. Arousal is dizzying me, and I barely make sense of the next part in the story. Or how Zarek does fuck Solana with his actual cock and not just his rothlings (aka vines).
My phone falls off my flexed abs, and I pump my waist.
With a tightened fist, I come, but it’s barely satisfying. It’s missing the reality of her, and I sink further on the mattress. Wiping cum off with my boxer-briefs, a frown hurts my face, and the only thing I’m smiling at before trying to sleep again is the anonymous five-star that someone left on this new chapter.
I leave one too.
15
LUNA HALE
“Go, go, go,” Tom says repeatedly after removing his motorcycle helmet, his bike parked on the street. I keep my helmet on with the face shield down while in a light jog. Not fast enough for Tom, he catches my hand and runs with me to the entrance of the Philadelphia club. His keychain and the spiked chain on his beltloop jingle with each hurried step.
We enter, door clanking behind us, and Tom rolls to a stop. “Damn.” He’s eyeing the shut door like we outran total mayhem.
“Were there paparazzi?” I mumble through the helmet. I didn’t see anything.
“Two, I think.” He laughs with a radiance so engrained within him, brightened often with humor and mischief. “Imagine if our location was leaked.”
I’ve seen videos of my older brother riding his motorcycle into mobs of people and I’m always thankful that’s not me, but I wonder if there is a part of Tom these days that wishes he had that. More adoring fans who scream his band’s name and sing his songs back to him.
The Carraways are becoming a big name in the emo-punk world, but they’re not mainstream or Billboard charting yet.
“Our bodyguards are late, too,” Tom notes with another grin.
“Curse of your motorcycle,” I sing-song, yanking the helmet off now. Tom and I knew our bodyguards—Frog and Ian—would lag by a handful of minutes if they followed us in a car. I wouldn’t have even risked riding on the back of Tom’s motorcycle if we had the kinda fame Sulli does now. There would’ve been over twenty cameramen waiting to pounce.
Paparazzi have been buzzing around her like locusts ever since she’s come home. They want scoop about her rumored wedding ceremony and baby bump.
A hostess in a sparkly limeade cocktail dress greets us, tablet in hand. She stares extra long at me and my outfit but tries not to falter. “Welcome to The Green Room. Lounge is reservation only. Club is downstairs.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod, knowing the details already. “It’s under Edgar Alice.”
She taps on her tablet. “Right this way.”
The hostess ushers us into a cozier area in the back she calls the Grassy Knoll section. Only a handful of low cushioned chairs and tables are here, but all are empty with Reserved signs. Guess we’re early for clubbing standards.
It’s only eight.
“I can’t believe you and Eliot got a table,” Tom says in disbelief once we’re seated and the hostess leaves. He surveys the eclectic club. “The Green Room has been booked for eternity. I thought I’d be in my grave before I made it here.”
