"mayflies06" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

"If you say so." He smiled into her almond eyes, which came closer and closer and fuzzed out of focus as her nose bumped his. She wore no Cologne, and he approved. Her own scent was more real, more immediate, than anything that could come out of a bottle.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
He obliged. Her soft lips yielded under his, which parted for the deft insinuations of her tongue. He teased it, tasted it, wondered why humans found it so titillating-wondered, in fact, why his own body was responding so strongly and eagerly.
Breaking the kiss, she cleared her throat, blinking while she licked her lips. "Are you in a hurry to get back to work?" Her voice was low and husky.
"No," he said, surprised to find his own unsteady. "No, I'm finished for the day."
"Good." She breathed into his ear. Delightfully warm, the vibrancy tickled but pleased. "Lie back." Pushing against his shoulder, she toppled, then straddled him, her plump behind on his thighs, her knees pressing lightly against his ribcage. "I like to take this very slow." Her hands ran up his shirtfront to open the velcro fastener. Her fingernails skated figure-eights on his chest.
"How slow?" he asked, half because his body wanted it immediately; half because his alien mind was curious about sexual mores among the humans.
She giggled, and rubbed the bulge in his pants. "When I've got the time," she said, undoing his belt, "I take off my shorts when they're wet, and put them back on when they're dry."
"C'mere and kiss me." When she bent over, he groped for her breasts, cupped them, raised them so gravity could mold them to his hands. The blouse's three buttons surrendered to his fingers, and her skin was silk to his palms. "I want to kiss these," he said, partly to please his mouth, partly to please her. Humans, he knew, liked that kind of thing. He guided her right breast to his lips, nibbled its stiff nipple, and flicked it with his tongue. His hands, climbing the outside of her smooth thighs, caressed her.
"Wait," she said. After settling on his bulge and pressing down hard, she peeled off her blouse. In 3/4G, her breasts drooped a bit; as if embarrassed, she touched the bed's controls to elevate it to two meters. The top of her head almost touched the ceiling; her breasts rose high and firm. Only 3/4G pulled at Kinney's spine. "That's better."
"Uh-huh." He reached for her, but she caught his hands and tucked them under his neck. Breathing hard, he watched her open his pants, slide them and his checked briefs down to his knees, and take him between her palms. He felt bigger, harder, than he ever had.
"You like this?" Her gentle hands rubbed their captive, up and down, back and forth.
"Yeah," he gasped, "but I might-are you-"
She brushed the base of her thumb against her seam. "What do you think?"
His Fingers slipped between hers to find tight, damp fabric. "I think you're dripping wet," he said. "Where's the zipper?"
"In back." Once he'd undone it, she stood, bending at the waist to avoid the ceiling. "Pull them down."
He had to half-sit up, and bury his face between her breasts, to reach the shorts, but a gentle tug wisped them down her long legs.
Then she knelt, sliding moistly onto him. Moaning, now, she began to ride. Slowly. Tenderly. They had all the time in the world.
And it was very good.
Afterwards, while she napped, he lay on his back, arms under his pillowed head. Thought ran like a sluggish stream. He found amusing his disinterest in something his body so obviously enjoyed, so obviously excelled at . . . but he'd slept with enough aliens, in enough odd bodies, to know that sexual arousal was more than physical-that culture determined most of it.
And since his idea of sexiness was cool, round, yellow, two meters in diameter and ten centimeters in height . . . Mae Metaclura, for all her scent and build and throaty cries, could not compete.
"Ralph?" whispered a small voice.
"Hi." He kissed her nose, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile. "Have a nice nap?"
"Fanta dreams . . . " Sitting up, she pulled the sheet over her bare shoulders. "I was the middle pancake in a stack, and having sex with the cakes above and below . . . god, I am so-" she slid a hand over the top of his thigh, and found him limp. "Tired, huh? We'll have to . . . " Her head slipped under the covers.
"Turn around," he said. Her mouth awakened him even as she maneuvered; by the time her thighs flashed into view, her fingernails were tracing the cleft between his cheeks. Easily, he rolled her onto her back, and spread her knees. His tongue dipped, and licked, and cabled the muscles of her legs. Her muffled moans aroused him. He eased his hips back, then slowly glided forward, deeper. Her knees locked behind his neck and her pelvis ground her against his face. Her scent was strong, now, and delectable. Her spasms triggered his. They clung to each other through all the long after-tremors, and separated only when each had relaxed. Then she twisted around to share the pillow with him.
"God, that was great." She lay back, her eyes closed, her hair tousled. For a minute she breathed so comfortably, that she seemed half-asleep. Then she took his hand in hers. "I'd like to marry you."
He winced-was grateful that she couldn't see him-wondered how he'd extricate himself gracefully-and said. "What about Bob?"
"He'll be very hurt . . . " She massaged her sweaty temples, as if to drive away the headache demons. Black hairs stuck to her cheeks. "But what can I do? I'm obsessed with you, not him. I love him. Deeply. But something about you . . . a mystique . . . I don't know-" she caught her breath, held it, and let it out very slowly. "You make me feel things-understand things, in a way that Bob never does. If you weren't around, I'd marry him in a minute. But you are, dammit, and I want you!"
"Mae . . . "He couldn't just say "no." That would never work. "I can't get married till I'm forty, that's another twenty-"
"I'll wait."
And she would. He didn't-need to enter her mind to know that-he could feel it even through the barricade. He had to tell her.
"Mae, I have a confession."
"God, don't tell me you're gay."
"No, no, not that. Worse, I'm, uh . . . that ship outside, the one that's been with us for twenty years, now?"
"Uh-huh." She sat up, curiosity in her eyes, but something else, too.
"Well, it's there because I'm here, I . . . I mean, see. I'm not really Ralph Kinney."
Her smile was tremulous; her Fingers plucked at his pubic hairs. "It's a helluva disguise."
"No, uh . . . the body is fully human, genetically . . . it was being conceived when I arrived. I impressed myself upon the zygote . . . and, well, the mind, the personality, is not human."
"You're k-k-kidding me, right?" Her eyes were filling rapidly.
"No, really-you can ask CC, he knows."
"I don't-I can't-I won't believe it, you're just saying this to chase me away, you're not really-"
"I am really," he insisted. "You don't want me."
"I-" Helplessness overwhelmed him. How could he possibly . . . he took her hands, lifted her chin, and plunged into her eyes. Her cheeks were pale and wet; her nose was pinkening. "I shouldn't do this, but-" Cautiously, he removed a section of his barricade. His mind enfolded hers. She stiffened with surprise. Fright widened her eyes. Her mind struggled futilely, but he was gentle, though firm.
"Look," he said, and gave her his memories.
She became aware with him on the homeship, newly budded and learning how to ripple. She grew with him during adolescence, when patient Krgalln was teaching him how to extrude pseudopods deft enough to handle machinery. She held on with him when, quintuply pregnant, he was sealed into a spaceship and dispatched to develop a new sub-mind. Through stars, past planets, slingshotting off black holes, he took her there and showed her what he really was.
Then he brought her up to the alien bulk of the ship called Mayflower, and let her feel the ecstatic union of sperm and ova. She sensed his urgency as he reached across; she sensed his desire as he impressed himself upon the unicellular embryonic brain. She matured with him again.
Then he laid before her the nature of his love for her, the depth and the width and the compassion and . . . the distance.
"Now I understand," she said. She wiped her eyes on her hands. "I wish I didn't . . . but I do." She cleared her throat, squeezed her eyelids shut, and shook her head, then said, with a shaky laugh, "Now I see why you feel different . . . you are, you really are . . . all right." She reached for her clothes. "You're sure it wouldn't work?"
"Positive."
"Okay." Buttoning her blouse, she asked, "Only me and the Ice Bucket know?"