Bebe (28 page)

Supposedly studied.

Tral heaved a heavy sigh and tried to imagine what prison was going to be like. At least there’d be automatic temperature controls. Better food, maybe. He couldn’t imagine the food being much worse than what packages currently cluttered up his pantry shelves.

His bed jostled. It was such a tiny sensation, anyone half asleep might not have felt it at all. But Tral did. Like the whooping sirens of the Central police cars, he’d been expecting it.

Throwing back the blankets, he crawled out of his bed before Bebe could crawl up onto it, picked her up and carried her back to hers. Without a word, he lay her down, raised the tail of his shirt up over her rosy bottom to give her another five perfunctory swats, and then tucked her in once more. From start to finish, she never made a sound. Though he knew her bottom had to be at least as sore as his spanking hand, she didn’t cry. She was too wounded to cry. He could see that in her eyes as she watched him smooth the blankets up to her chin before withdrawing back to his bed.

He folded himself back into his covers, and with a sigh, folded his hands behind his head again and looked up into the darkness at a ceiling only barely glimpsed beyond the shadows of the banked fire.

Where was he? Oh yeah. Prison.

The food would be better, but the cell would likely be smaller. Smaller even than his last station house. Just his luck, he’d end up sharing bunks with a very large, aggressive cellmate. Someone who no doubt had a penchant for smaller males with narrow shoulders. Tral shifted uneasily; he sorely regretted not being larger. Broader. Fatter, maybe. Certainly he wished he were more masculine. He could see how strong physical attributes (like his uncle’s) might go a long way toward keeping a man off the bottom of the food chain inside of prison walls. As it was, Tral couldn’t even run fast, and he was pretty sure that, by the end of the week, he was going to find himself regretting that too.

He was fucked, and he knew it. Just totally, unbelievably, up one side and down the other, fucked. He could only hope he kept himself pulled together when they brought him into custody. The end result would still be prison, but if at all possible he’d much prefer to avoid the added ignominy of being splashed across every major news channel sobbing like a child when they slapped the manacles on him.

What about Bebe, a small voice inside him wondered. What would happen to her once he was arrested? He had a strong suspicion (if she wasn’t shot on the spot) that she’d be taken to the nearest shelter and, like any other dangerous pet, be put down.

The bed jostled again.

Groaning, Tral pulled his hands from behind his bed and covered his face. “Bebe...”

She crawled up onto the mattress in her customary spot near the headboard, and curled into a tight ball. She didn’t touch his blankets or his pillow. She simply wrapped her arms around her legs, closed her eyes and tried to fall immediately to sleep.

He tsked, rubbing his face wearily and briefly considering just leaving her there. Up until today, he hadn’t given a second thought to sharing a bed with her. In fact, waking up next to her early this morning, feeling the heat of her small body snuggled in beside him, had been...very attractive. And not just physically, but mentally. Spiritually, even. He’d been alone a long time.

A very long time.

But knowing she was people suddenly made everything different. His eyes traced the dip of her narrow waist, following the curving line up over the rounding hill of her hips beneath the cover of his shirt. That wasn’t a pet under that fold of thin fabric. That was a female, soft and slight of build. And naked. Lying tense within an easy arm’s reach, her worst fear being that he was going to reject her again, completely and thoroughly unaware that the person she lay next to hadn’t had sex in years. Not with anything.

Lying this close, he could smell her, that faint feminine musk that wasn’t yet arousal but could be with only a very little effort on his part.

“Just go to sleep,” he told himself sternly.

Unfolding her arms, Bebe rose onto her elbows to look at him. The soft peaks of her breasts strained at the confines of the shirt and his eyes, damn it, went right to them. Not quite a handful, but definitely a mouthful. All he had to do was reach a caressing hand up to unclasp two or three of those buttons, pull her down to him and open his mouth. It would have been just like suckling on a late fall
bueli
berry. Soft and pink. He could practically feel it stiffening between his lips, and hear her soft gasp even as she tried to smother it in the back of her...

“Stop it!”

Bebe startled, and though he hadn’t meant to say anything out loud, Tral abruptly snapped over onto his side, putting his back to her before she could sign another, ‘
Are you all right?’
at him. No, he wasn’t all right. He already
knew
he wasn’t all right. He wasn’t likely to ever
be
all right again! He was a man on his way to spending the rest of his life in prison. With Galnak (a nice, strong fellow convict/cellmate sounding name), getting all the sex he never wanted, and when the sex he did want was lying obliviously within an easy arm’s reach. And God, but it would feel so good just to roll her under him, coax those slender thighs to part and bury his by now stiff and throbbing erection deep into the silky wet heat of her.

She tentatively touched his shoulder, petting him.

Tral covered his head with his pillow, fervently wishing he could just shut his brain off and go to sleep. “Shut up and just go to sleep.”

After a while, the bed shifted as Bebe lay back down. A little while after that, he heard her first watery sniff.

Crap. Was she crying?

Tral opened his eyes and uncovered his head. Was she crying? He listened, trying to separate his even breathing from hers until a second softer sniffle confirmed it.

Crap, crap, crap.

Trying not to growl, Tral rolled onto his back and looked at her again. She had rolled herself into an even smaller ball, her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms hugging herself, as if trying to make herself her own source of comfort. What little shred of irritation lingered just under the surface of him died then.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m a jerk.”

She covered her eyes with one hand, trying to hide her tears, and opened her mouth in an attempt to continue crying just as soundlessly as she could.

Tral softened his tone and tried again. “Please Bebe, don’t do that.”

Not only did that not work, but her bottom lip began to wobble. And then it peeled back from her blunted little teeth in a grimace that was sheer misery followed by jerking shoulder spasms so hard that they shook the whole bed. She keened, a high-pitched whining wail.

“Bebe—” Muffling curses, Tral gave up trying to keep his distance and rolled to face her fully. Tears or not, just the thought of touching her made his arousal tighten. He could feel it, like a fist clutching him between the legs and squeezing down hard. His hand trembling, he reached up to first pat, then rub, then caress her shoulder. His mouth ran dry. His throat tightened; he swallowed convulsively, trying his hardest to sound normal as he said, “I—I’m not mad at you. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

She unfolded, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and wounded eyes. Those beautiful blue, blue eyes—the palest that he had ever seen—and her soft, moist lips parting into such unwitting kiss-ability that he could hardly tear his eyes off them. He didn’t move. Not even when she reached for him, crawling right into his startled arms before he could brace himself against it.

“Oh shit,” he groaned. Fortunately, his tone must not have translated well, because she curled into his embrace as if she belonged there and buried her face against his chest. Her small hands clung to his arms; her small shoulders shook in hard jerks as she let herself fall to pieces and simply cried.

And all he could think about was how thin his shirt was and how naked she was just beneath it, which turned her instantly from a pitiful teary mess into a warm and irresistible, cuddlesome bundle of available female curves. Despite all her sniffles and breathy gasps. Despite his scrambling mental efforts to stuff her back into square ‘pet’ pegs within his lecherously round mind.

It wasn’t working, and raw need began to pulse, beating at him in a slow and steady tempo as his hands stroked her, following the curve of her small back, her hips, her thighs.

“It’s okay,” he said, cad that he was, and caressed her again. Over and over. Not fondling, because he wasn’t that kind of guy. Just comforting her. Only offering comfort.

He bent his face into her hair, his lightly shivering caress playing along the slope of her spine, his fingertips trailing along the valley of her buttocks, fanning out along the lower curve, exploring as much of her as he could easily reach. Curled as she was, he could reach almost all of her, even her tiny little toes. All five of them. He breathed in the strange yet womanly scent of her and his hand drifted back up to the top of her head. He stroked her hair next, the golden curls shining in the cast-off glow of the fire.

She raised her face to his, searching his eyes a moment before awkwardly signing with one hand and with a hiccupy gasp, whispered, “Angry, Tral? Bad Bebe?”

“No.” He hesitated only briefly, then pressed a comforting kiss to the top of her head. Because he was a cad and, he suspected, a pervert. Some of the stiffness relaxed from her and she nuzzled close again, her tears beginning to abate.

His hand roved her, following the soft length of her hair back down along her spine again, and she unfurled, letting her legs stretch the length of him as she shifted closer. She sniffled again and her soft breath warmed his chest as she lifted her face back to his.

“Yeah,” he breathed. Like uncle, like nephew. “Definitely a pervert.”

One kiss, he thought, bending reluctantly to steal a reluctant taste from her tear-salted lips. One kiss wouldn’t hurt either one of them. Except the heat of her trembling mouth moved so sweetly beneath his own and almost against his will that one stolen kiss became two. And then a dozen. And then he was lost in them, only vaguely aware of it when he pulled her shirt up over the top of her head and tossed it away, followed very quickly by his own. He barely did more than unfasten his pants as he rolled her onto her back, his knee nudged hers apart as he tried to settle himself on top of her.

She grunted.

“Sorry.” Tral rose quickly onto elbows and knees. He was more careful of his weight after that, but he didn’t stop kissing her. Or petting her, or exploring his way down her three-feet-too-small frame until his mouth found the highly-anticipated peak of one small breast.

She uttered a sharp breathy mew, exactly as he knew she would. Tral paused just long enough to assure himself that the look captured across her shadowy face was in fact one of pleasure. Through half-closed and smoky eyes she watched him, enraptured, and finding no trace of discomfort anywhere about her, he returned to his feast, sucking, nipping, teasing with his tongue to bring her arching beneath him, soft moans caressing his ears as her fingers swept through his hair.

He’d had years to contemplate exactly how he’d broach the complexities of making love to his next woman. Bebe was small, with one too many digits upon her hands and feet, but everything else was the same, including her shrill cry as he lay a path of nipping kisses down her torso to bury his mouth between her tensing thighs. The musk of her smelled stronger, the taste as he dipped his tongue into her a little different but intoxicatingly flavorful. Shouldering her thighs, he drank her in, refusing to let himself think about anything beyond the urgent tug of her fingers as she gripped his head, gasping and pulling at him when he covered her with his mouth. He scraped her with the points of his teeth, soothed her with his tongue, suckled and lashed and stabbed up into that hot and silken passage.

Strange taste or not, her reactions were all the right ones, and he responded to them, her twitchy, eager movements, the squeezing of her thighs, the bucking of her hips as she intuitively strove to match his motions. The effort left her thrashing upon his pillows, crying out in wordless surrender as she came, filling his senses, invigorating him.

He rose above her, his erection a solid, thick length jutting readily up to meet the narrow apex of her delicious thighs, and there was only a split second—just the barest instant of uncertainty—as he considered the substantial size difference before Bebe reached for him. She closed her hand around his shaft, for the first time in maybe the whole of her life completely unafraid as she drew him closer, wrapping him in her arms and her thighs, her sigh overwhelming the last of his reservations as the heat of her enveloped him.

One gentle thrust, and Tral found himself lodged in a moistened sheath so hot and tight and so incredibly, unbelievably pleasurable that there was no other option but to push. Not with Bebe arching beneath him, her head thrown back in a long, low guttural moan, her fingers clawing at his shoulders and his hips as he thrust, feeling for how deeply he could go before her grimace of pleasure became one of discomfort. It wasn’t anywhere near as deep as he wanted, but somehow he maintained control, sliding in and out of her in short, tightly constrained bursts that soon had him matching her moans.

Bebe came so quickly, crying out loud as her whole body arched against him, shaking and constricting like a squeezing, milking fist all around his cock.

“Fuck!” he hissed, repeating it with increasing fervor, growling it over and over as she writhed, bucking up in a frenzied effort to match his thrusts, and came again, her body wracked with shivering spasms so molten, liquid and hot that it became his complete undoing. He came with a shout, pressing once as deep and hard as the barrier of her smaller body would allow, savoring the unbelievable molten heat of her, the furious beating her heart felt in the pulsing in the sheath of her flesh.

Tral held himself stiffly over her, motionless as he struggled to experience her—all of her, as much as he could feel—until gradually all those tiny, alien sensations dwindled into pulsating stillness, and finally he collapsed on top of her.