Fugitive (22 page)

   As he grazed on the lake bottom, Zef was reminded that introducing Manx and Drusilla might not have been one of his better moves. If Drusilla really liked Manx, she might take him with her when she left Barada, which would leave Zef with no one for company—no one friendly enough to toss him fish bones, that is. He would miss Manx terribly, but he also knew that an excellent fellow like Manx deserved much more out of life than he'd had so far. Zef was happy for Manx and was deter mined to be philosophical about it, but the prospect of having to live out the rest of his days without his friend was rather bleak.

***

When Manx stepped out on the beach, the whole world seemed so much brighter than it had before. He not only had a woman he was crazy about, but he had also come up with a way to be more than just her lover. Not that a lover's role wasn't important—and he was astute enough to realize that most men were quite capable of giving women joy if they bothered to take the time— but Manx had always felt that to be a good pair, you had to complement one another; what one needed, the other could provide. He knew that he could help her find birds to paint, but what she could give to him took him a while to realize. What he wanted was a mate to have his children.

   Perhaps that was what all men wanted, but Manx felt it more strongly than most. It was entirely possible that he was the last of his kind, and he did not want the Zetithian race to die out completely just because he'd failed to reproduce. He wanted a woman to love him and care for him, of course, but the need for sex was some thing that went even deeper. "Survive and reproduce," he said to himself. "That's all we have to do, and I've only done half of it so far." He couldn't be certain that it was possible for them to mate and produce children, but if the way she smelled and fit together with him was any indication, they would have dozens of them.

   Calling out for Zef as he approached the shore, Manx waded in and swam out to deeper water. Drusilla should have been with him, he decided. He was looking forward to swimming with her—for that matter, he was looking forward to doing everything with her. He couldn't think of a single activity that wouldn't be improved by having her there to share it with him. "It must be love," he sighed.

   Zef heard this comment as he surfaced nearby and responded with his coarse, crunching laughter. "Have a good time?"

   Manx grinned at him. "Yes, I did."

   "Waved your dick at her, didn't you?"

   Manx thought for a moment. He knew there was much more to it than that, but he also knew that Zef didn't want to hear about destiny and leaps of faith. "Well, yes, I suppose I did," he replied.

   "Told you it would work," Zef said smugly. "Whatcha gonna do now?"

   "Catch some birds for her."

   "You're fuckin' kidding me, right?"

   "No, she paints birds, so I'm going to catch some for her."

   "Ought to be up there fucking her," Zef advised. "She'd like that better."

   "Maybe," Manx admitted. "But everyone has to take a break sometime, and she's here to paint, so I'm going to help her."

   "I'll never understand primates," Zef said. "You go to so much trouble doing useless shit like that, when all you really have to do is find food and fuck."

   Since this sentiment was very similar to what Manx had been thinking earlier, he couldn't argue the point. "Yes, but this is Drusilla's way of finding food," he said. "Indirectly, anyway. It's how she earns a living."

   "Still think it's stupid," Zef said. "Things were much simpler before. You'd catch fish and throw me the bones, we'd swim a little, sleep, catch fish, eat, sleep. It was a wonderful life—no fucking, of course, but—"

   Manx held up a hand for silence. "I'll spear some fish for you, Zef, but then I'm going bird hunting."

   "Ha! And
then
you'll fuck."

   "If she wants to," Manx said. "It's her choice."

   "That's even dumber, if you ask me," said Zef. "But I guess you primates are all a bit stuffy."

   "Trust me, Drusilla is not the least bit stuffy," Manx said. "She—well I guess I shouldn't tell you everything."

   "Yep,
definitely
stuffy," said Zef.

***

Drusilla gathered up her painting gear and headed out, only to find that there wasn't a bird in sight. However, since Manx was standing in the shallow water holding a handmade spear poised to strike, Drusilla knew she wouldn't have to look any further for an interesting subject to paint. Manx was far more worthy of being immortalized on canvas than any bird she had ever seen—aquamarine flamingos included.

   It surprised her that he would be fishing so soon after breakfast, but then she saw Zef nearby. Manx speared a fish and immediately tossed it to Zef. Then he did it again. Drusilla was impressed not only with his ability, but with his kindness to the irascible old eltran. You could open a thousand oysters and never find one, she thought in wonderment, but Manx was a pearl.

   The sky might have been purple, the lake might have sparkled like a million diamonds, but Manx was the one who had drawn her eye, and she sat on her stool, sketching his outline before reaching for her paints, nearly breathless with excitement. There was something mesmerizing about the way his hand held the spear, the way the breeze stirred his hair, and the perfection of his form. He was mysterious, dangerous, and sensuous all at the same time. Drusilla wasn't sure she could capture all of that completely, but she painted as she had never done before; the stroke of her brush swift and sure, the colors seeming to blend perfectly all by themselves, while the whole world grew hushed and still as though trying to hold that pose.

   Intent on her work, Drusilla suddenly realized that Manx was no longer there—which didn't matter because she had moved on to the background by then—but the light was also nearly gone. Somehow, Klog must have known not to disturb her, with the result that her stomach was now grumbling in protest. Pausing for a moment to study her work, she realized that it wasn't just a picture of a man holding a spear, it was a portrait of a hunter: perfect in symmetry, breathtaking with raw, undiluted power, and alive with cunning. It was as if, seeing that depiction of him, you knew he would not miss; his aim would be true, his quarry as good as caught.

   Drusilla shivered as she gazed at it, knowing that no painting she'd ever done could even begin to compare. The odd thing was, she could scarcely remember doing it; it was as if someone else had taken on the task, working through her, using only her hands to create it. She was looking at a work of art far beyond her own capabilities— something that only a great master could have accom plished—and yet, she knew she had done it herself.

   Hearing a footstep behind her, Drusilla realized that not only had Klog left her undisturbed for an entire day, but Zef and Manx had too. Her shoulder was nearly frozen in place and her fingers felt cramped and numb.

   "I caught some birds for you," Manx said proudly. "Real pretty ones."

   "Thank you," Drusilla said faintly. "But I don't think I'll need them."

   "What do you mean?" Manx demanded. He'd worked very hard at his self-appointed task and felt a twinge of resentment that she wouldn't appreciate his efforts on her behalf.

   "Look," she said, pointing to the canvas.

   Manx was no art critic, but even so, what he saw astonished him. The painting was by no means finished, but the impact was complete. "It's me," he said softly. "Is that really how you see me?"

   "It's the way you
are,"
she replied.

   "Really?" Manx would never have thought that any painting of himself would hit him in the gut quite so hard. It was like looking into his own soul.

   Drusilla nodded slowly. "Manx," she said quietly. "I've just been inspired to create my masterpiece. I don't need birds anymore. I only need you."

Chapter 13

WHILE MANX APPREDIATED THE SENTIMENT, HE WASN'T SURE that being an artist's model qualified as a real job. "I… aren't you even going to look at them?"

   "What? Oh—yeah, right. Birds," Drusilla said, her voice still a faint whisper. Tearing her eyes away from the image of Manx on the hunt, she gazed up at the real Manx standing beside her and became even more convinced that she never needed to look at another bird again.

   His hair was snarled with bits of twigs and leaves and he was dirty, sweaty, and so utterly masculine he took away what little breath Drusilla had left. The knife hanging from his belt and the bow slung over his back, along with the claw marks across his chest, only added to his mystique. The fact that he was holding a crudely constructed bird cage containing a trio of dove-like birds, each one more vividly colored than the next, was insig nificant. For sheer animal magnetism, he had no equal.

   Swallowing hard, Drusilla forced herself to examine the birds. "They're b-beautiful," she stammered. "I don't think I've ever seen colors like that."

   "These are just the easiest ones to catch," Manx said informatively. "But I've always thought they were real pretty. I can get others tomorrow."

   Drusilla didn't want Manx to do anything but lie on the beach while she painted another portrait of him, but she nodded anyway. Then the image of Manx killing the wildcat flashed through her memory, and she knew she could paint him whether he was there in front of her or out hunting birds. Clearing her throat with an effort, she said, "Well, it looks like I'm going to be busy!" Smiling up at him, she felt another jolt of electricity when he smiled back, which momentarily paralyzed her.

   Manx didn't seem to notice—or so she thought. "Is it me, or the birds?" he asked with a wry grin.

   Drusilla stared at him in bewilderment.

   With a swift, downward gesture, he drew her eyes to his groin, where his thick penis was beginning to rise.

   "You," she whispered hoarsely. "Like I said, I don't think I need birds anymore."

   His grin grew wider. "Want to go inside?"

   "Not really," she whispered.

   "I'm all dirty," Manx said. "Maybe we should go for a swim first."

   Drusilla shook her head. "Don't want to do that either."

   Glancing at the sky, Manx saw that the sun was just beginning to set behind the trees and his mind was assailed with the image of Drusilla in the moonlight. Making love on the beach with her…

   Manx set down the birdcage and pulled Drusilla into his arms. "I've wanted to kiss you all day." Sighing as his lips found hers, he gradually deepened the kiss, delighting in her flavor and becoming even more intoxi cated with her scent. She tasted like nothing he'd ever dreamed of and smelled like the fragrance of rainflowers on the wind. As he pushed her loose clothing aside, he felt Drusilla's knees nearly give way beneath her and the sight of her pearly skin immediately had him purring with wild anticipation. His cock was so hard it shone and the fluid coursing from the tips of the head ran down her legs as he held her closely to him. "I didn't get a good look at you before," he purred. "You make me wish I was a painter."

   "And you make me very glad that I am one." Drusilla's knees did give way then, and she landed on her discarded clothing, pulling him down with her.

   Manx captured her lips once more. He couldn't seem to stop kissing her—didn't want to, either. Once again he was consumed with the desire to get lost inside her, and, nudging her legs apart, he did just that. Burying his cock to the hilt, he gazed into her misty eyes, watching her reactions to the feel of him inside her. That was one of his favorite moments—those moments when her eyes filled with desire just from him, rather than his orgasmic fluids. It didn't take long for the first one to hit, but until it did, his cock danced inside her, making her eyes roll back with exquisite pleasure. When she came, he felt her hot inner muscles grip his shaft, pulling him in deeper and sucking him dry. There was a regular rhythm to her climaxes, and he savored those moments in between the peaks even more than the heights.

   Manx took up a slow, steady rhythm, rocking her as gently as the waves in the nearby lake. He knew he could keep going long enough for the chemical effect to dampen—or he could stop the flow of it altogether—but to do either of those things, he had to pace himself. It was difficult with Drusilla. He wanted to take his time and show her all he could give her, but at the same time he longed to reach one pinnacle just so he could leap on to the next. But he did it anyway. Most women couldn't take that much and let him keep going, but Drusilla was different—and not nearly as delicate as she appeared to be. Her contractions became less powerful, less frequent around his cock. And suddenly, he felt the change in her; the total relaxation.

   "Now it's just me," he whispered. "This is the best part."

   Drusilla's eyes had drifted lazily shut, but they flew open as Manx shifted into another gear. His hot meat pulsed, pushing gently against her sweet spot until he was almost drumming his cock inside her.

   "Do you like that, Drusilla?" he purred.

   "Mmm."

   Manx laughed. "I was hoping you'd say that." Scooping her legs up in his arms, he pushed them forward and leaned into her, hoping to keep going indefinitely, but his body had other plans. He gazed down at her. The moon was up and his beautiful Drusilla gleamed in the soft light like a glowing pearl. He couldn't stop now, the sight, feel, and scent of her was too much; the tension tightened in him like a wire, driving him on until it snapped.

   In his mind, a million brightly colored lights suddenly burst into being, obscuring his vision and triggering his release. Manx pumped his snard into Drusilla with a force that astonished him, and he remained high on the pinnacle of ecstasy longer than he ever had before. The lights in his mind pulsed and expanded before subsiding into nothingness. When he could see again, he was looking down into her eyes and saw the same lights reflected there. She appeared sated, but the emotions she evoked overwhelmed him with the need to give her even more.

   Manx knew what he needed to do, but it was with the utmost reluctance that he withdrew, and the loss of his warmth made Drusilla groan in protest. But she would know only one moment of regret because Manx didn't just lay his head on her stomach to relax, or roll away from her. No, he buried his face in her creamy wet heat, licking her gently before latching onto her clitoris. Her eyes widened, then rolled before taking on a dreamy expression of pure bliss.