Chapter Three
Paax
His mate slept.
In the dim light, the luminescence of her womb cast a soft glow on her features. She was so beautiful. After a year, he could not believe his luck in being matched to such a lovely mate. He’d never grow tired of admiring her and she grew lovelier each day.
Paax admired the way her dark hair spilled across the white bed linens. Her body curled around a large pillow. He wanted to climb in the bed, run his hand up her shapely calves and soft thighs and cup the round swell of her ass, wake her and demonstrate his devotion, but he knew sleep was a precious rarity for her. He would not disturb her slumber.
He kept the knowledge that she carried twins secret from her and he knew she would be upset if she found out. When she found out. The probability of losing a baby was high. He had seen his mother go through that suffering enough times to want to spare his mate. Yes, she had been healthy until this point and yes, all the scans came back within acceptable limits, but delivery was the most dangerous time and Terrans were so small.
If the worst happened and they lost a child, then she would be spared the painful knowledge. She could not mourn what she did not know she lost. A painful decision to be sure but for the best.
As if sensing his presence, Mercy stirred awake. She rolled onto her back and smiled up at him.
“What’s that look for?” she asked, voice thick with sleep.
Paax leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “Just imaging what our sons will look like.”
“Sons, huh?”
Paax paused, waiting for her reaction.
“You assume I’m willing to do this again.” She patted her belly, eyes sparking with mischief. “I mean, I love you but this is work. I’m going to need some convincing.”
“Convincing, huh,” he repeated, tone mocking the lilt in her voice. He crawled into the bed on all fours, prowling toward her. “I think I can be very convincing.”
Mercy giggled, and rolled to the side, using the blanket as protective cover. Paax pressed himself against her back, savoring the feel of her soft curves against him. He lifted her dark hair, exposing the slender column of her delectable neck. He pressed a kiss to the flesh, breathing deeply. She smelled so good. Better than good. Perfect, like the sweetest fruit on a summer’s day, heavy with juice. He licked the back of her neck, the taste of her bursting on his tongue. He needed more. He ground his hardened cock into the curve of her ass. He needed her.
“You can’t possibly want me now,” Mercy said. “I’m huge.”
“Mmm,” Paax murmured, hands roaming over her sensitive breasts and belly. “You are succulent and ripe, ready to be plucked.”
“Is that what you’re going to do? Pluck me?”
“Do you need to be convinced?” He gently squeezed a nipple and she arched against him, moaning.
She angled her head, lifting her mouth to his. Her lips, pink and succulent, begged to be captured. He claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss, full of intensity and need. Her hand drifted up and stroked down the length of his horn, finger curling around the base. He growled and his tattoos burned.
He tore his lips away and pressed his mouth against the base of her neck. Her enticing scent was strongest here. Breathing deep, he just couldn’t get enough. He licked and nipped, hands cupped the delicious weight of her breasts and she responded enthusiastically.
He brushed her stomach, the tender swell of her belly and ran a finger under her panties.
One leg wedged between her thighs, lifting them just enough for his free hand to slide down her soaked panties.
“You shouldn’t wear these,” he growled. His fingers slipped into her curls, pleased to find her ready and as needy as him. Pregnancy hormones increased her desire but he was cautioned that the effect would wear off. It never did.
His fingers slid over her sensitive button, eliciting another moan as she ground her ass into him. So responsive. He stroked the length of her pink slit before pushing two fingers into her. Hot and tight, she clamped down on him, rocking her hips. She rode his hand to completion, shuddering and sighing.
Paax licked his fingers clean. “Ripe and juicy.”
A small chuckled escaped from the back of her throat.
His fingers hooked over the elastic of her panties and he pulled them down. She shimmied out of her clothing as he did the same. Finally nude, he pressed himself against her soft back. His mate was lush, soft and warm. He lifted one thigh over his own and cupped her pussy, still hot and wet and ready for him.
His cock lined up at her pink and swollen entrance. He paused.
“I need you,” she said, which was all the encouragement he needed.
Paax surged into his mate, filling her deeply. Hot and wet and so tight, he pumped into her, pushing until he bottomed out and she gave a little squeak. He pulled back, savoring every inch as his cock moved out and then back again. In this moment he didn’t need words and the worries of leading a clan fell away. There was only him and his little star, his mate, his wife and perfection. Her body fit his. She moved with him without direction, instinctively matching his pace. Her coos and moans inflamed his desire, driving his pleasure to greater heights.
She tilted her head back, hands reaching for his horn, and she smiled.
Her smile eased the ache in his heart and he didn’t want the moment to end.
Her climax broke. She rippled around him, squeezing and milking him. He couldn’t last much longer. He pumped into her two, three more times before emptying.
Mercy rolled to face him. His tattoos glowed in the dim light and her fingers traced the pattern, reading them. “I’m going to miss this.”
“Eh?” He nuzzled the curve of her neck, where the scar from his claiming bite gleamed against her skin. She had a perfect neck, slender enough for his hand to wrap around the back and sensitive. He lapped at the scar and she sighed.
“This. You crawling into bed and having your wicked way with me.” A finger danced along the curve of his horn, hardly touching him at all. Her hand went toward the stump of his amputated horn. The nub regrew slowly and the material there, normally sensitive, was especially so. As an adolescent, his horns grew with changing hormones and were tender to every sensation and those sensations went directly to his cock. A stiff breeze could make him hard. Had, in fact. Once his horns grew in, Paax never expected to experience that particularly awkward torture again, but here he was in bed with his beautiful wife, her touch on his tender horn driving him mad.
“I told you, you’re ripe and succulent. You inspire my hunger.” His lips drifted down to the valley between her breasts. Their size had increased in the last few months and proved endlessly fascinating to him.
Mercy pushed his face away. “They’re too sensitive.”
Endlessly fascinating because he wasn’t allowed to touch them. Much had changed on her body in the last year and he need to catalogue every red stretch mark, every new curve and new sensitivity. “When our son comes—”
“I’ll need time to heal.”
Paax stroked the swollen pink nipples. That wasn’t what he was trying to ask but it was a good topic to pursue. “How long will you need to heal?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never pushed a baby out my hoo-ha before. Six weeks, the doctor says.”
Displeasure rumbled in his throat. He did not want his mate talking about sex with another male, even if it was the medic and even if it was to find out how soon they could partake after the birth of their sons.
She laughed. “That jealous streak of yours really shouldn’t be hot but dang if I can’t resist.”
Mercy
Paax stroked her hair, brushing back from her forehead and skimming the length of her dark brown locks all the way past her shoulders and down to the small of her back. His hand rested there, perfectly filling the slight curve. Here, in bed with his arms around her, she didn’t feel any discomfort; just the warmth of his body next to hers.
“Have you given any more thought to the naming ceremony?” he asked.
While birthdays were a foreign concept to the Mahdfel, they did celebrate the birth of a son. Paax explained that the infant would be presented to the clan, given a warrior’s name and marked with the sigil of their father. Normally it was a small, private affair for the family and close friends. Expectations for the warlord, however, were different, as they often were.
Baby’s first tattoo, Mercy thought, not entirely sold on the idea. “Will it hurt him?”
“A warrior does not cry,” Paax said.
“We’re not talking about a warrior. We’re talking about a baby.”
He grunted a noncommittal response. Clearly he didn’t see the difference.
“I don’t want any part of some ceremony that’s going to hurt our son,” she said, pulling away from his embrace.
“The skin is numbed. There is no sensation.”
“Really? Or are you just saying that to appease me?”
He pulled her back down, pressing her back to his chest. “Truth. I’m not interested in hurting our son, either.”
“At least we agree on that.”
“Have you thought of any names?”
Mercy closed her eyes and sighed. For the last month, they’d gone round and round on names and were no closer to naming their son than when they started. Paax gave her a list of his family names and she vetoed the obviously terrible ones. Pinnis? Really? Paax still didn’t understand what was wrong with the name when she explained.
She wasn’t being spiteful. He did the same with her list. Human names were “weak”, apparently, and no warrior would respect a Michael with a straight face. She didn’t know why. Michael was a fantastic name.
“I still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael,” she said, rolling over to face her husband.
“Because mikael means sugar in my language. No warrior will fear Sugar.”
“I think you’re being small minded about this, honey. I think a warrior called Sugar is terrifying.”
His bright blue eyes narrowed, as if trying to ascertain if she were joking or not.
Mercy smiled and patted his shoulder. “Joking, honeybuns.” He was solid muscle under her hand, unmoving as stone. His body had changed much in their year of marriage, as did hers. She grew softer, rounder. He grew harder, gained muscle mass and definition. Paax had been a scientist when they were married, before he became warlord. He wasn’t a slouch then, with a lean, athletic build. All Mahdfel were warriors, even the scientists. His training, however, had not been as intense.
Becoming warlord changed that. Mercy knew Paax trained daily, sometimes twice. He needed to be in top form because a warlord led with his physical prowess as well as through his strategic superiority.
Her hand drifted down his shoulder, gliding over his pecs and toward the solid washboard abs. One year or twenty, she’d never get tired of this view.
Paax raised an eyebrow. “Were you not satisfied, little star? Do I need to improve my performance?”
“Hmm? Oh,” she blushed. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Not what a male wants to hear from his mate.” Paax rolled her until she sat astride him. “Obviously I need to practice my form.”
Mercy licked her lips as his muscles bunched and flexed under her. No, there was nothing wrong with his form. “I really do want to talk about baby names.”
“We talk and talk but come to no consensus.” He lifted his hip ever so slightly and she felt the poke of his already hard cock.
“Are you even serious right now?”
Another thrust. “Very. My mate needs to be plucked. Again.”
“Help me name this kid and we can pluck our brains out.”
Paax growled and Mercy tingled at the sound.
“Seriously, don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what? This?” A growl and a thrust and a shot of pure desire ran through her body.
“That. This kid will be here any day now and all we have is a long, long list of vetoed names.”
“We will know his name when we see him.”
Right. She was so not interested in that scenario. “I’ll name him Rover if you don’t give me a better alternative.”
“Rover is interesting—”
“No! It’s a dog’s name.”
“The rhotic sound is aggressive and it implies travel. I like it.”
Was he even being serious? His eyes gleamed and the barest hint of fang showed on his face. That jerk was trying to hide his laughter.
A smile spread over her face in response. It was good to see Paax laugh. He was so serious all the time. The pressures and expectations of being warlord meant Paax’s public persona was gruff and serious. The clan demanded a stern warlord and frankly Mercy enjoyed a dominant hand, but it was good to see him relaxed and laughing, even if it was at her expense. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. Sheesh,” she said with a dramatic eye roll.
“Nic,” he offered.
“Nic Nawks? That’s a hard no.”
“Maax.”
“That’s a power level, not a name.”
“Opportunity.”
“Seriously? Did you not understand why Nic was vetoed?”
“Axil.”
Mercy paused, considering it. “Yeah, that sounds all right. Axil.”
“And Drake.”
“Axil Drake Nawk? I didn’t think you guys did middle names.”
“Drake is a strong name. It is also your name.” His hand roamed up her thighs and settled over the swell of her stomach. “So it is perfect.”
That was so sweet and corny. She went all fluttery on the inside. “How long have you been holding onto that? Because I’ve been agonizing on a name for months.”
“A few days.” His thumbs rubbed small circles on her skin. A few days ago this position would have been too uncomfortable but the baby had shifted, sitting lower. This was nice.
“Wait— You’ve been feeding me terrible names on purpose.”
He grinned, this time not bothering to hide his laughter.