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"Like I know what that is?"
She laughs, and it's like sunlight poured over my soul, every time. "It's the leaf that looks like a curlicue. Tastes kinda tangy."
"Sure, add some of that." I slide my hand down her back to her tail, watching as she adds a bit of spice to the mixture bubbling on the stove-top. I love how excited she gets about her jams. She loves her gardening. I can find her daily with a floppy hat tied across her horns, protecting her face from the sun as she hoes the soft dirt and fusses over her plants. Instead of vegetables, though, she settled on berries. She likes sweet things after being with me, she teases. The first season, she grew three kinds of Homeworld berries here, using the last of her savings on some pricey seeds. They've paid off, though—we had an amazing harvest and all of our neighbors wanted some of our fruits. This year, Haina's garden is three times the size it was last year, and with the extra berries, she's been making jams to sell in the general store to bring in some additional credits.
We've talked about adopting a baby in the future—maybe a mesakkah from the station slums like she was. Haina loves that idea, and I do, too. I think she'd be an amazing mom.
I taste her jam when she holds the spoon out again and nod this time. "That's perfect."
She breaks into a wide smile. "I'm going to write this recipe down! Aliette's Sweet Nectar will sell out in a week. You wait and see."
I groan at the name for our business. "Please don't call it that."
"Why not? It's so sweet it reminds me of licking you." She gives me a mischievous look and runs her tongue along the edge of the spoon. "And it makes me happy. Also like licking you."
"Who am I to take happiness from my mate?" I ask lightly, stroking my hand over her sensitive tail. "If we have to call it by my real name, can't we just call it Ali's Jams?"
"I might need some convincing," she says, moving the jam off of the burner on the stove. Her tail twitches in my grasp, and the look in her eyes grows heated.
Luckily for her, I am excellent at convincing. With a grin, I stroke her tail and tilt my face up for a kiss. "I'll get you to see things my way."
"I bet you will," Haina replies, and then neither of us speaks of jams or names for a long, long while.
About the Author
Ruby Dixon loves to write sexy, dirty things. Right now she's obsessed with dirty aliens. She's also dabbled in dirty bikers, dirty bears, and well, just dirty things in general.
R'JAAL'S RESONANCE has finally arrived! It's the first book in a new chapter for Not-Hoth. Get ready for Ice Planet Clones!
As always, my e-books are free in Kindle Unlimited.
Want updates on when the new book releases? Sign up for my newsletter at: http://rubydixon.com or follow me on Facebook! I love to chat with fans there!
The Kraken and The Canary
A PREQUEL FOR LIKE SILK BREATHING
CAMILLE DUPLESSIS
For N. (Above all.)
Author’s Note
This will appeal to anybody who liked Mr. Paul Apollyon and possibly wanted me to be nicer to him. It may also appease anyone who wondered why Like Silk Breathing opened with him, but not Tom or Theo. If you’re a member of one of these categories, you’ll notice Paul’s public house is called The Queen Anne, not The Shuck. It isn’t an oversight: we’re just getting a story before her name does change. (The detail-oriented among you may recall that Alastair initiated the change after a drunk patron was convinced he saw Old Shuck in one of the upper-floor windows. That happens after all of this.)
If you’re new here: welcome!
I’m so pleased to have written this, because it was in my head all along. I really hope you enjoy it.
Chapter One
SEPTEMBER 1871, CROMER
“Can I hide in your cellar?”
The question came from a delicious nightmare of a man swathed in faded black clothes and topped in a low-slung hat that would have been in fashion last century.
Paul, standing across The Queen Anne’s taproom and behind the bar, eyed him for either a full minute or possibly just a moment. His mind would be screaming for caution if he could manage to figure out where he’d so quickly lost it, or if he could account for why he’d misplaced it upon seeing a man whose appearance breathed trouble. In his own taproom, no less.
