WILLA

I don’t reckon I’ve ever been so scared as when I saw Gren emerge from the cat’s den, his eyes wild and flashing. He got mad at me for following him, but I heard the howls of the cat and raced forward, worried he was gonna get hurt.

I should have guessed that someone as big and scary as Gren could take care of himself. He emerged with the dead cat—about the size of a mountain lion—slung under one arm and a fierce scowl for me. It fades quickly enough and he apologizes, but I make sure to keep my distance as we head back atop one of the snowy bluffs. There, Gren crouches over the kill and slits open the belly, letting the organs spill out before grabbing one and offering it to me.

I swallow hard.

I know this is food. I really do. I know we’re in a survival situation, and he’s trying to feed me. But when I look at the dead cat with the innards hanging out, bad memories flash through my mind. I close my eyes, and I can still see Uncle Dick’s pit bulls, fighting to the death. I can see one nearly-white dog covered in blood, limping to get away, with her guts dragging in the dirt behind her. Even though she won her fight, Uncle Dick’s dogs never went to the vet, so he took her down with his shotgun a short time later. I remember that day with horrifying clarity, because it was my twelfth birthday, and one of Uncle Dick’s buddies tried to sit me on his lap and squeeze my tits.

So when I see the wet, steaming organ held out to me, my throat locks up. I give Gren a subtle shake of my head. I can’t.

Even if it’s a matter of life or death, I can’t. Maybe if it was roasted over a fire, or I didn’t see him claw it out of the critter’s belly, but…I just can’t.

I try to smile and push it back toward him. “It was your kill,” I manage. “You eat it.”

Gren nudges it toward me again, growls, and makes a mime of eating.

Again, I shake my head. “It’s not you, it’s me.” I reach out and touch his cheek gently, then turn away from the dead animal. “I’ll just eat some of the trail mix when we get home.”

Of course, that thought’s a mite scary, too. Home is now a half-ass tent against the side of a cliff? We can’t survive like that. We’ll have to figure out something better. For the first time, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake—not in freeing Gren, but in us fleeing together. Should I have fought harder for him to be accepted? Shown them that he was no monster and integrated him into the tribe? Somehow?

It’s too late for that now, and I wonder if I’ve killed us both.

He takes a frustrated bite, chewing with a show of sharp teeth, and I gaze out at the wintry, desolate landscape. Vektal and Harlow and Liz and their mates all live here. They look happy and well fed, so there must be food and places to sleep that are warm and safe. We just have to figure this out. But as I look out at the endless white landscape, I’m realizing how big this world is and how alone we are, just the two of us. It’s intimidating.

If I’m going to survive, I’m going to have to learn to adapt.

So I swallow hard and watch Gren finish off the liver (I think it’s a liver). When he digs into the critter’s belly and pulls out another organ and offers it to me, I swallow hard, take it from his dripping claws, and take a bite.

I’ve never tasted anything worse or more revolting. It’s chewy and slick and warm. My gorge rises, but I force myself to keep chewing, staring determinedly out at the snow.

I didn’t come this far to just come this far, and neither did Gren.

I somehow manage to choke down a few mouthfuls as Gren eats his fill. When I’m done, I wipe my messy, bloody hands in the snow. As I turn around, I see Gren cutting into the creature with his claws, pulling out gobs of meat. “Right, we should figure out a way to carry this back home with us. I’m glad one of us is thinking of survival.” I take the empty pack I’ve brought along with me and begin stuffing it full of snow so the meat will be kept on ice until we can figure out how to build a fire and smoke the rest.

He finishes with the creature, leaving a steaming pile of meat next to me in the snow, and before I can ask what we’re going to do with the carcass, he grabs it in one hand and begins to drag it behind him.

“Gren?” I get to my feet, wondering if I missed something.

“No, Willa.” He learned “no” earlier, and for a moment, I’m proud of how far we’ve come in language in an afternoon, but then he continues gesticulating, and I try to follow his trail of thoughts. He indicates he’s going to pull the carcass behind him, and then touches his snout-like nose. It takes me a few moments to grasp it.

Scent. He’s leaving a scent trail.

“But why?”

When he puts a finger up to his brow and curls it, I realize what he means. He’s putting down a scent trail to mask us from the others, the horned aliens. The sa-khui. My eyes widen. “You’re so smart.” I nod eagerly at him and indicate he should go. When he gestures that I should stay, I nod and go back to packing up the meat. Maybe we’re not so doomed after all. Gren’s clever, and I didn’t think once of disguising any sort of trail we left. I don’t know who’s helping who at this point—I might have assisted him in escaping camp, but he’s going to keep me alive with that sharp mind of his.

And then I feel terribly guilty because why shouldn’t he be smart? Just because the others tied him up like an animal doesn’t make him one. “Do better, Willa,” I tell myself. “He’s different, but that doesn’t mean he’s less.”

It’s important that I never make him feel like “less” because he’s not. Not to me.

Once Gren finishes sweeping our trail with his carcass, he abandons it somewhere in the hills and returns to my side. I heft the pack of meat onto my shoulder, but I’m feeling its weight and I know we have a long way to go back to our little camp. Gren tries to take the bag from me and I protest. “You’re the one doing all the work,” I tell him, but he only touches my cheek, calls me his friend, and slings it over his big, brawny shoulder. In the next moment, he hauls me up and pulls me against his side, carrying me once more, and my protests are ignored. With a few subtle gestures and flexes, he tries to tell me that he is strong, that he’s not tired.

Me? I’m exhausted. So I put my arms around his neck and kiss his lightly furred cheek in a thank you, and then rest my head on his shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” I tell him as he carries me through the snow, back to our tent. “We need to see about a better shelter, and materials for a fire. We’re going to need fire if we’re going to survive. But that can wait an evening. We ate cat sushi earlier, and I guess we can have cat sushi for dinner again tonight. Yum yum.” I’m not looking forward to my icy dinner, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

“Friend,” is all he tells me.

Right, because we have a bit of a language problem. “Friend,” I agree cheerily. “And—”

“WEEEEE-LAAAAAAAAH,” a male voice calls out in the distance, the sound bouncing off of the jagged cliffs.

Gren snarls and immediately puts both arms around me, clutching me against his chest as he turns and runs in the opposite direction of our camp. In a daze, I cling to his neck, trying to grasp what just happened, when my name is called out again.

“WEEE-LAH!”

The sound is distant, and the heavy accent on my name tells me that it’s one of the sa-khui, the horned blue aliens that “rescued” our group, though rescue might be a matter of opinion.

I can hear the growl rumbling in Gren’s throat as he moves to the nearest outcropping and slams into it, pressing his big body against the rock. A moment later, I’m on the ground and he wedges me behind the wall of fur that’s his back, pinning me against the cliff.

He’s protecting me.

I wrap my arms around him from behind, trying to stroke his stomach. “It’s okay, Gren. I’m not leaving you.” I can feel his wild panting, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. His tail flicks angrily against my legs and the growl rises in his belly again. “Shh,” I tell him. “If we’re quiet, maybe they won’t find us.” And I caress him, because in the past my touch has calmed him and made him quiet.

Gren seems to sag against me, though he doesn’t push me away. I can feel his heart racing under my touch, so I press my cheek to his back and keep stroking his chest and belly, doing my best to calm him. “It’s okay,” I whisper over and over again. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“WEE-LAH! Are you out there, female?”

I don’t recognize the shouter, but I’m angry that they’re only calling for me and not Gren.

“Stay strong, female! If you are out there, we will find you!” the voice calls again, but it sounds distant, as if wandering away.

Stay strong? I snort with irritation at that. I’m already strong. I don’t need to be found or rescued. I’m not in danger. I’m with Gren, and he’s going to keep me safe.

We remain pressed against the rock, and I continue to stroke a hand up and down Gren’s chest, my face pressed to his back. I’m warm like this, and a sleepy contentment rolls through me. The voice disappears, and after a few more calls, we can’t hear it anymore. Still, Gren doesn’t leave. Part of me wonders if he wants to stay here all night, protecting me. I chuckle to myself because it’s definitely warm, but I doubt it’s comfortable for Gren.

Minutes pass, and I keep soothing him. I murmur soft words, though I know he doesn’t understand them. It doesn’t matter. I need him to calm down. But as the minutes tick past, his pulse is still rabbiting under my hands as if he’s in a race.

“Gren?” I stroke up his chest and accidentally graze one rock-hard nipple.

The big alien groans, sagging against me ever so slightly.

I bite back my gasp, my languidness replaced by heat that pulses deep in my belly. I should stop touching him, I tell myself. I’m working him up and he doesn’t want me. He’s just responding to my touch. I still my hands. “I’m sorry.”

Gren covers one of mine with his and moves it ever so slightly, indicating that he wants me to continue.

The breath catches in my throat, and I can feel my pussy get slick with heat. Why is this such a turn-on? I caress his chest again, this time roving a bit more. I’m not just touching to comfort. I’m touching to explore because I like the way he feels, and I like the way he reacts to my touch. I didn’t think I was this person, to be so bold with a stranger, but maybe the old rules on Earth don’t matter. Who’s going to care if I touch someone as lonely as I am and give him pleasure? Has anyone ever touched him because they wanted to?

I want to give him that.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I murmur, even as I slide my fingers through the thick wealth of hair over his pectorals. It thins out down his belly, and I follow it to his navel…and am surprised to find he doesn’t have one. That’s…odd.

When I stop, though, he touches my hand again. “Willa.”

There’s so much need in his voice that it fires up my blood, and I forget all about navels and anyone else that’s on this planet. There’s only Gren, and I want to touch him. I press a kiss to the fur on his shoulder and then continue downward, heading deliberately for his groin. “I want to touch you,” I tell him. “I’ve wanted to since we left. Is that wrong? I keep fighting it because I’m not this person, but I’m tired of fighting it. I just want to touch you and give you pleasure.”

And I slide my hand lower, seeking his cock.

It’s not hard to find. He’s as hard as iron, and the size of him is shocking. I’ve known that he likes to go around naked—all of the male “gladiator” aliens seem to, and so I’ve made it a point to never look down when I’m with him, because it’d be impolite. I have no idea how I missed such a beast, though. His cock’s enormous, the skin smooth and heated here, and practically pulsing with life. I can hear him choke my name out even as I press my cheek to his shoulder and continue my exploration of him with touch, learning his shape. I’ve never touched a man like this, and I wonder if they all feel this wonderful. He’s impossibly hard and scorching hot, but when I brush my fingertips over his skin, he feels like the softest velvet. I feel a thick vein along his shaft and follow it from the base of his cock up to the head, and gasp to find that not only is the head of him completely wet with seed, but it’s enormous. This isn’t the normal cock-head I’ve expected, that all the anatomy books show back home. The man has a bulb at the end of his shaft, and it feels hard and rounded and slightly elongated, and I wonder how in the heck any of this can possibly fit inside a girl. But it must work just fine, because people reproduce all the time. That’s just the virginity in me talking.

The woman in me is squeezing her thighs together tightly because I can’t imagine how this would feel inside but I’m so, so curious. If a big cock feels better than an average one, Gren’s going to put them all to shame. I slide my fingertips around the head of his cock, learning it by touch, and I’m surprised when his hips jerk and he thrusts against my fingers. A groan of need rises from him.

“Enough play?” I ask, fascinated. “You need more?” And I squeeze the head lightly, because I’m not entirely sure how to give more, but I want to. Maybe I should move to the front, take him into my mouth—

He pumps against my grip again, and I try to make a fist, to give him something to use, but he groans again, and then my hand is covered in thick, sticky fluid.

He came already.

Oh dear. “I don’t suppose I’d have much stamina, either,” I tell him, “If this is all new for you.” I suspect that it is. He always acts surprised when I touch him, which makes me want to do it more.

Now I have a hand full of rapidly cooling semen, though, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. Do I…lick my hand? Do I wipe it off in the snow? Is he going to get offended if I do? I have no idea how one figures out the etiquette for an alien hand-job’s aftermath. I gently pull away from him and discreetly bend down to wipe my hand clean in the snow.

Gren just stands completely still in front of me. He won’t look in my direction, won’t move, and for a long, dreadful moment, I worry that I’ve done something wrong. That he’s upset, or I’ve missed some sort of signal entirely and now I’ve made him feel awful. That he didn’t want my touch at all and I just violated him.

“Gren?” I whisper, worried.

A full body tremble racks him, and then he grabs his cock in his hand, squeezes hard, and groans heavily. I can’t see what he’s doing—I’m still pinned behind him—but it sounds like he’s coming again. Oh. I slide my hands up and down his tense back. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m right here.”

He collapses forward on hands and knees, panting hard, and I worry if something’s wrong. I kneel next to him, intending to put a hand on his shoulder, but to my surprise he grabs me and pulls me against him, burying his face against my chest and taking long, shuddering breaths. Oh. I stroke a hand through his tangled, dark mane. “I’m here,” I tell him. “You’re all right.”