The Sky Regency: A SciFi Historical Alien Romance Page 9

  Margaret’s eyes flutter shut. Her breath twists in her throat. “That’s—”

  “Hush,” instructs Aidar, and Margaret listens, teeth snapping together as she closes her mouth.

  Aidar takes his time exploring her nether regions. His thumb strokes over the sensitive nub hidden beneath her hood; fingers spread apart her pussy lips, dancing over the wet opening between them. They run over the juncture between leg and hip, stroking every piece of bared flesh.

  Please do more, thinks Margaret, and the strength of how badly she wants Aidar is stunning.

  “On the bed,” she stutters out. “On the bed.”

  Aidar’s hands rest on her hips again. He walks the young woman backwards. Her knees hit the edge of the mattress and give way. Before Margaret has a chance to move at all, to say anything, Aidar is dropping to his knees between her spread thighs.

  A hand lands on her hip, pinning her against the mattress. The other resumes it’s explorations. A single finger presses against her cunt, tip dipping into the wet, warm flesh. The crystal hanging against her chest is burning hot.

  “Let me just—”

  Margaret’s words change into a low moan when Aidar slips the rest of his finger into her, aided only by the young woman’s own excitement. It’s not as thick as Julian’s finger, but it’s far longer, and far quicker to crook and bump against that special place inside of her.

  With a sigh, Margaret’s head drops back against the mattress.

  There’s nothing fast about this. Aidar takes his time, working first one finger, then two fingers inside of Margaret. It’s truly like he’s trying to memorize the way her vaginal tunnel feels, the way her velveteen flesh clenches and spasms around his digits.

  “Something else,” urges Margaret.

  Aidar ignores her. He continues to languidly pump two fingers in and out of Margaret, as though there is no limit to how long he’s willing to sit here. He keeps it up until every muscle in Margaret’s body has gone tense – until she’s gasping and mewling beneath his touch.

  Then, just before she reaches that state of orgasmic bliss, he pulls his hand away, stands up and looks at her. “I’m amazed at how quickly you let yourself be brought to the edge. The women of my race can hold out for far longer.”

  Chest heaving and feeling quite incapable of talking, Margaret just gives him a bleary eyes glare.

  “I have a good many things to ponder,” says Aidar. “This will not be our only discussion on the subject.”

  Margaret finds that she’s very glad to hear that. She reaches out for him with a fumbling hand, fingers curling in the air. “Please do something else.”

  “You want me to fuck you?” There’s a certain level of amusement to the words.

  Margaret ignores it. Her eyes flutter shut again. Her hands fall onto the bed, fingers splayed over the sheets. “Please? I can’t—it’s cruel of you to stop now.”

  This time, Aidar really does laugh. “Interesting,” he says. There’s a rustle of fabric. Margaret keeps her eyes closed, unwilling to lift her head and make this completely real.

  She hasn’t married Julian yet. Propriety dictates that she stays monogamous, but it’s not law.

  It’s just that she feels no guilt whatsoever, and that bothers her.

  So, she resists the urge to look at Aidar. Instead, she waits with baited breath as he settles himself between her legs, bending over her sprawled-out form. Something hard and firm presses against her cunt.

  Margaret’s eyes snap open. “Wait! You need to fetch the oil—”

  The words die in her throat. With a single buck of his hips, Aidar buries himself nearly halfway into her. For a moment, Margaret’s mind goes completely blank. She cannot think, she cannot breathe - she can focus on nothing but the sensation of being split open by Aidar’s massive cock.

  And it is, in a sense, massive. It’s larger than Julian, for certain, although not quite as long. Aidar folds himself over her, taking hold of one shoulder and using it as leverage to start rutting against her. With each shift, some thick, viscous liquid seeps into Margaret, serving as a better lubrication than any oil that has ever met her skin in the past.

  Countless small bumps line the length of Aidar’s phallus. They serve as added stimulation, pressing and stroking and rubbing against all of Margaret’s most sensitive spots. She is lost, quickly, in a haze of pleasure; having already been close to bliss, it takes little time at all before she’s reduced to a babbling, mewling mess.

  Above her, Aidar closes his eyes. His forehead comes down, pressing against the nape of her neck. It’s cold, damp with sweat. Hair tickles her skin.

  Margaret is highly aware of everything around her. The crystal is wedged between their bodies. It is hot, enough that she can feel it even through the heavy fog on her mind.

  It digs into her chest.

  It hurts.

  The crystal hurts.

  A flash of light. For a moment, she can see it. London is burning. In ruins. Lost to the fleet of sky ships that hover above it. The image dances across the backs of her eye lids, there and then gone, replaced by a barrage of colors as her ecstasy reaches a new level.

  All Margaret can think about is Aidar; how it feels to have him fucking her, how it sounds to hear their bodies slap against each other, flesh on flesh. She is lost in the smell of his flesh, in the sensation of his cock driving deep into her, hitting every spot at once.

  Perhaps it’s the strange oil that he secretes, and perhaps is just because she hasn’t been with someone physically in many weeks, but Margaret finds herself hyper aware of everything.

  The bed creaks beneath the force of their coupling. Aidar pulls himself out almost completely with each stroke, only to drive himself back into her, deep and demanding. He is mouthing something against her skin, but Margaret cannot make out the words.

  Her body shakes with the force of her orgasm, world blinking in and out of existence. When the tracings of pleasure start to fade, when she begins to come back to her body, it is with the knowledge that Aidar hasn’t joined her in completion yet – hasn’t even lost the steady rhythm of his strokes.

  Clearly, he is not close to being done.

  Aidar’s words fly back into her mind.

  I’m amazed at how quickly you let yourself be brought to the edge. The women of my race can hold out for far longer.

  Then, all she can think is, oh my.

  The next day, Margaret does her best to avoid the supposed ruler of the Sky Men. It’s hard not to remember the way that his fingers traced over her skin, that his lips had ghosted over her neck. The dark marks on her shoulder make it that much more difficult, and she’s careful to make sure that everyone is dismissed before slipping into the bathtub. The water is heated to a point that is almost uncomfortable.

  Slowly, she lowers herself into the tulip scented water. It devours her body inch by inch, and Margaret gives in, lets herself be lost to the fog tainted water.

  Once she’s completely submerged, Margaret drops her head backwards, so that it can hang over the edge of the tub. “What have you gone and gotten yourself into?”

  A mess, that’s the answer.

  She’s gotten herself into a right mess.

  Aidar, he is something unique – something that Margaret has never seen before! And last night, oh, that was like nothing she had ever felt before.

  There were hands on her skin, blunt nails digging into her hips. She had been moaning, groaning, so overcome with pleasure that it left her entire body shaking, shoulders heaving.

  Aidar had been a presence in that room like nothing else. His aura had been all engulfing, heated skin rubbing over her own. Fingers had grazed her sides and nails had followed suit, but they weren’t blunt like those of a human. They were sharp, pinching, stabbing. Almost like the claws of a large predator…

  Even thinking about it makes Margaret feel hot and heavy. Excitement rushes under her skin, makes the tips of her fingers feel hefty. She slips one hand under the wa
ter, dragging her palm over the small scabs on her side.

  There are five of them, places where Aidar’s nails had dug in harder than any human could ever have done.

  “I must be out of my mind,” breathes Margaret. “That’s what this is. I’ve finally lost it. Letting him do that – enjoying that it happened! He’s not even human!”

  But no matter how much Margaret tries to tell herself that, she can’t shake the feeling that something has changed. It’s not a visible thing, but there’s no denying it.

  Things are different now.

  Things are going to be different now.

  Whatever happens over the next few days, weeks, or months, it will not match up to anything that she has ever felt before. It will not match up to anything that she will ever feel again in the future.

  Margaret drags her fingers down. The slide over her ribs, her hips - they settle on the crease between thigh and groin. Beads of oil float on the surface of the water. This bath is less about cleaning herself and more about trying to fix her train of thought.

  All day, she’s been haunted by thoughts and concerns of how this will change things. Margaret tugs at the burst of curls on her mound, threads fingers through them for a moment before reaching even further down. Her thumb presses against her hooded clit, seeking out the sensitive nub of flesh that lays hidden inside.

  It makes her huff, but not in pleasure. Much to Margaret’s disdain, she’s so tender between the legs that it’s not even worth trying to ease the tension that way!

  “A waste,” she snorts. “Why am I even surprised? This is what I get, letting a savage have his way with me.”

  Even as the words leave her mouth, Margaret feels awfully guilty for them. The derogatory term has become quite popular among the English lately, although there appears to be nothing but intelligence and cold, cruel planning within the workings of the invader’s socioeconomic system. There is nothing but order and, at times, an impressive amount of skill.

  Margaret leaves her hand resting between her thighs for a few moments longer. She stares up at the ceiling tiles and tries to find shapes hidden in them.

  There is nothing.

  Nothing but thoughts of Aidar.

  18

  It takes four days before the leader of the Sky Men manages to pin Margaret down. She is in one of the smaller studies, hoping to find a book of poetry that she hasn’t read yet. After so long having been hidden away in the manor house, it’s getting difficult to find anything even remotely interesting.

  She’s only just pulled a small book off the shelf when a large hand rests on her shoulder, long fingers curling against her jacket. Startled, Margaret swings her head around.

  “I did not mean to scare you,” says Aidar, but he looks undeniably smug. “I assumed you would hear me come into the room.”

  Margaret never hears his footsteps. They are silent as mice, padding through the halls. For a moment, she’s torn between shrugging off the Prince or letting him stay.

  The choice, in the end, isn’t hers.

  It’s Aidar’s.

  He pulls his hand away, reaching into the folds of his coat instead. When it comes back out, there’s a letter pinched between two fingers. “This,” says Aidar, in that ever-smooth voice of his. “Is for you.”

  Familiar, curling words are scrawled over the front of the white paper. Margaret’s heart leaps up into her throat. She grabs the letter, ripping it open with little care.

  Instead, there are three pieces of folded up paper. The first, a letter.

  I have found her. She is alive and well. Often seen visiting the Worsley estate at Platt Hall.

  Will continue surveillance until otherwise told.

  She seems to be in Manchester. But it’s not Emma. Margaret purses her lips together. “What’s this?”

  “That is a letter from one of my men,” explains Aidar, with a slight tilt of his head. “I held true to my end of the deal. I have been looking for your cousin, and I found her. She is somewhere safe.”

  “I can’t believe it! Your men, they didn’t have her?”

  “No. To the best of my knowledge, she was simply separated from the people she was traveling with. They have since reunited.”

  “I haven’t received word from her. Emma, she would have sent me a letter.” Margaret thumbs open the second sheet of paper. This one is a picture, etched out with various shades of brown, bronze, and copper ink.

  It shows her cousin, Emma, happily holding onto the arm of an unfamiliar man. The man is wearing a uniform with epaulettes; he must be an officer of the British Navy. His long hair has been pulled back into a pony tail, and the left leg of his trousers has been rolled up to reveal something more machine than human.

  Aidar says, “I believe that she has been busy tending to her beau. His name is Benedict.”

  “You know all of this,” says Margaret, trying to keep the disbelief from her voice. “You found all of this out?”

  “That was our agreement,” answers Aidar, without hesitation. “My kind is very strict about upholding and keeping our promises. Although, I was not expecting to actually retrieve her.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “I don’t see the entire world, nor do I have contact with all of my troops. But I did look – and, to my surprise, she was there.”

  “She looks happy,” says Margaret, finally pulling out the last piece of paper. This one is a sheet of information, dictating the personal information of one Benedict Russell.

  Aidar hums. “Does she?”

  Margaret can’t help but smile. She doesn’t understand the image that she’s been given, not entirely. It’s far too accurate to be a drawing – but she pays the intricacies of the interaction little mind, choosing instead to run her thumb over the picture.

  It gives Margaret a sense of confidence. If her cousin can find a happy ending, she’s sure that she’s going to be able to do the same! Encouraged, she lets herself be drawn into a too-long conversation with Aidar. Much to her surprise, the invader seems perfectly content to stand there and let her babble, talking about growing up close beside Emma; of how the younger woman had always dreamt of finding her Prince Charming.

  “I always hoped that she would, but it’s just so unlikely. So few women are able to find the man that they actually want to marry,” says Margaret, with a dreamy smile. She leans against the book shelf, tucking both the papers and the poetry book against her chest. “I hope that this works out for them. With all the bad going on in the world, I hope that they’re able to hold onto this hope.”

  Aidar tilts his head to the side, just slightly. The Prince has sat down on the edge of the desk. “What is marry?”

  Startled, Margaret says, “it’s—marriage! You’re supposed to do it when you love someone. You trade vows and rings, to show that you want to spend the rest of your life together. But—we do it for other reasons, too. Money and land, things we hope will try to save the family.”

  “There is nothing like that on my planet,” says Aidar. “Is it simply ceremonial?”

  “Well, in ways. We pledge to be loyal just to each other,” says Margaret. Her cheeks color slightly. “And... we’re allowed to be with one another in a far more physical sense.”

  A moment of silence stretches between them. It’s clear that Aidar is missing the implication.

  Blushing furiously, Margaret looks down at her feet. “A physical sense – like we were, the other night.”

  And there, a flash of recognition in Aidar’s eyes. “You’re only allowed to copulate with someone that you’ve married?”

  “That’s the proper way to do it, at least. People look at you all funny if they find out you’ve done it before taking a ring.”

  “Strange,” muses Aidar. “We do it in a vastly different manner on my planet. Copulation, it’s done as a sign of command or control. We use it to display our authority – our sense of self right. And at times, we use it as a way to show unity among our people.”

  “A sen
se of control?” Aghast, Margaret slips the poetry book back onto the shelf. She tucks the papers there too, for safe keeping.

  The idea that someone could be so brazen and open about their sexual lives, it leaves her more than a little flustered.

  Aidar gives her a smile, just a slight upwards twist of his lips. “You have names for it, taking someone as this physical partner?”

  “Husband and wife,” says Margaret, without hesitation.

  “Ah! Now those are words that I recognize! They are ceremonial words on my world. A sign that two people have come together to help form a stronger bond between our people. I will take on a wife in the future, to help supply my men with the strength of a unified nation.”

  “You—you have plans on getting married?”

  “No. There is no emotional connection between our coming together,” says Aidar, as if brushing aside the notion. He sounds amused at the very thought of it. “Danai is strong. She is a princess in her own right. Should we come together, it will show that our lands are unified – it will show that our planet has never been stronger. But you, you wear a ring, and you wear a necklace. Are you married?”

  Margaret shakes her head hard enough that hair bounces against her cheeks. “No! This is not a wedding ring. The Duke and I, we had plans for it. Our families—it was to bring our lands together too, I suppose. You could liken it to your own marriage, I suppose.”

  Aidar stands up then, unfolding himself in a way that makes the room seem very small. There is no doubt, in that moment, that he is a ruler; that is, on some level, in some place, a king.

  He takes his time smoothing out his shirt and slacks, adjusting the hem of his coat. Then he crosses the room in just a few steps, curling his fingers around the pendant of Margaret’s necklace. Aidar asks, “did he give you this?”

  “He did, as a proposal gift. He said that it’s been in his family for generations,” answers Margaret, instinctively tilting her head back to give the Sky Man more access to her neck.