Read Online Creed of Pleasure; the Space Miner's Concubine (The LodeStar Series) by Cathryn Cade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathryn Cade
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but he was no longer paying attention..
Outside the windows, the blonde had paused, in a posture that said she was not happy. Arms wrapped around her waist—a waist that he’d had his hands on, and knew exactly how slim and firm it was—and her face tight with some negative emotion. Contemplating what? Intimacy with him, or failing to get it?
Enough of this. Since she arrived, his calm existence was shot. He’d dreamed of her, thus hadn’t slept well, and hadn’t thought once of his work. That he hadn’t slept well for the past few weeks he chose not to recall.
When she entered through the door to his left, he was ready to send her on her way.
His words froze on his tongue. She was looking at the meal laid out on the table, her eyes wide. The way she’d looked at him earlier, like she was ready to leap on him. She had appetites. Although, why did he care? She was paid to service men. Just fucking, that’s all.
“Gremel fruit,” she said happily. “And rolls.” She inhaled. Then she smiled at him, white teeth gleaming, soft lips curved up. “I love gremel. Do you know how hard it is to get fresh fruit on Earth II? Not to mention expensive.”
Creed remembered what it was like to be hungry, and to have only a tube of vegprotein to staunch his hunger. She looked like she got enough to eat, but it might not be quality food. Vegprotein was a way to stay alive, but he grimaced inwardly, remembering forcing down the thick, tasteless sludge.
“Help yourself. There’s plenty.” She could take some back on the cruiser, if she wanted.
“Thank you.”
God beyond, that smile was sweet as Jaguari honey. He looked back at the coffeemaker. “You want coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She was still looking at the food, her pink tongue slipping out to touch the corner of her mouth.
He stilled in the act of reaching for a mug. The tip of her tongue had a shallow fork in it. He’d heard of that. Meant she was part Serpentian, a race known for their sensuality and endurance. Meant she’d be strong and lithe, not as fragile as she appeared.
“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered, forcing his attention back to what he needed to focus on, namely not pouring hot coffee all over himself and the floor. “You must be hungry.” Especially since she’d emptied her stomach on his boots last night.
She walked to the table, then hesitated. “Where do you sit?”
“There.” He indicated the chair with its back to the work island, facing the windows and both entrances. She slipped into one of the other chairs.
He poured two mugs of coffee and carried them to the table, where Taara had served herself a small portion of sliced gremel fruit, and was spooning up the soft, rosy fruit. She ate daintily, small bites, chewing with her mouth closed and her posture erect.
Well brought up, Logan would say.
With his first business up and running and credit enough for a first tiny apartment, Stark made both his younger brothers sit through a series of holovids on manners and etiquette. Joran had rebelled and Logan had smacked him back into his seat.
Creed could still remember the shock on Joran’s thin face, so like Logan’s. And the fierce determination burning in Logan’s gaze.
“We’re going to be rich one day,” he’d told them. “I’m going to make us rich. So rich no one can ever take it away from us, so rich we’ll always be safe. We can go where we want, live how we want, and eat the best food, not the crap we eat now. We’ll wear the finest clothes and live on the top of the tallest skyscraper in the city if we want to, not stinking little holes like this one.
“But if we act rough, people will still look down on us. They’ll still call us street trash, the way they did when we slept in the corner of the spaceport. We’ve got to learn to act like rich people do, speak like they do, dress like they do.”
Creed had looked around the apartment, startled. It had seemed like a really nice
Outside the windows, the blonde had paused, in a posture that said she was not happy. Arms wrapped around her waist—a waist that he’d had his hands on, and knew exactly how slim and firm it was—and her face tight with some negative emotion. Contemplating what? Intimacy with him, or failing to get it?
Enough of this. Since she arrived, his calm existence was shot. He’d dreamed of her, thus hadn’t slept well, and hadn’t thought once of his work. That he hadn’t slept well for the past few weeks he chose not to recall.
When she entered through the door to his left, he was ready to send her on her way.
His words froze on his tongue. She was looking at the meal laid out on the table, her eyes wide. The way she’d looked at him earlier, like she was ready to leap on him. She had appetites. Although, why did he care? She was paid to service men. Just fucking, that’s all.
“Gremel fruit,” she said happily. “And rolls.” She inhaled. Then she smiled at him, white teeth gleaming, soft lips curved up. “I love gremel. Do you know how hard it is to get fresh fruit on Earth II? Not to mention expensive.”
Creed remembered what it was like to be hungry, and to have only a tube of vegprotein to staunch his hunger. She looked like she got enough to eat, but it might not be quality food. Vegprotein was a way to stay alive, but he grimaced inwardly, remembering forcing down the thick, tasteless sludge.
“Help yourself. There’s plenty.” She could take some back on the cruiser, if she wanted.
“Thank you.”
God beyond, that smile was sweet as Jaguari honey. He looked back at the coffeemaker. “You want coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She was still looking at the food, her pink tongue slipping out to touch the corner of her mouth.
He stilled in the act of reaching for a mug. The tip of her tongue had a shallow fork in it. He’d heard of that. Meant she was part Serpentian, a race known for their sensuality and endurance. Meant she’d be strong and lithe, not as fragile as she appeared.
“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered, forcing his attention back to what he needed to focus on, namely not pouring hot coffee all over himself and the floor. “You must be hungry.” Especially since she’d emptied her stomach on his boots last night.
She walked to the table, then hesitated. “Where do you sit?”
“There.” He indicated the chair with its back to the work island, facing the windows and both entrances. She slipped into one of the other chairs.
He poured two mugs of coffee and carried them to the table, where Taara had served herself a small portion of sliced gremel fruit, and was spooning up the soft, rosy fruit. She ate daintily, small bites, chewing with her mouth closed and her posture erect.
Well brought up, Logan would say.
With his first business up and running and credit enough for a first tiny apartment, Stark made both his younger brothers sit through a series of holovids on manners and etiquette. Joran had rebelled and Logan had smacked him back into his seat.
Creed could still remember the shock on Joran’s thin face, so like Logan’s. And the fierce determination burning in Logan’s gaze.
“We’re going to be rich one day,” he’d told them. “I’m going to make us rich. So rich no one can ever take it away from us, so rich we’ll always be safe. We can go where we want, live how we want, and eat the best food, not the crap we eat now. We’ll wear the finest clothes and live on the top of the tallest skyscraper in the city if we want to, not stinking little holes like this one.
“But if we act rough, people will still look down on us. They’ll still call us street trash, the way they did when we slept in the corner of the spaceport. We’ve got to learn to act like rich people do, speak like they do, dress like they do.”
Creed had looked around the apartment, startled. It had seemed like a really nice
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