Free Fragile Bond by Rhi Etzweiler Page A

his mouth down to the root. Sucking with every ounce of encouragement he could muster.
    Marc writhed, moaned, and spewed strings of words so fast and low the translation subroutine couldn’t begin to cope. He sank his hands into Hamm’s hair and grabbed hold, fingers flexing and clenching. A tremor of pleasure rippled down Hamm’s spine every time blunt nails scratched at his scalp. His cock twitched at the stimulation, lengthening, stiff against the inside of Marc’s thigh, trapped beneath him. The meadow grass brushed against his sensitive skin, and he flinched, shifted. Marc kept his fingers buried deep in his mane, but eased up and relaxed into long strokes that teased at him in ways he’d never imagined. When Hamm purred, the man’s stroking became more insistent, trying to show him something. The scent of musk from Marc’s groin was so strong, he had trouble thinking of anything at all through the pheromones swamping him. Rhythm. He matched it, sucking with mouth and tongue in cadence to Marc’s fingers. He feared hurting him, his skin was so soft, so thin. He could easily inflict pain instead of pleasure in his need for more, to slake his craving to taste.
    He craved other things, too, but that fear kept him firmly in check. However fragile Marc seemed in comparison, though, Hamm definitely wasn’t hurting him with what he did. Marc lifted his hips, thrusting up against his mouth, and his hands clenched and flexed, stuttering through Hamm’s mane to stumble upon his ears. Hamm growled, low and deep, as Marc grabbed his ears hard and pulled. Hamm glanced up at him, eyes wide, orgasm slamming through him to spill on the grass beneath him. Marc tossed his head back, neck exposed completely as his body arched up off the ground and trembles wracked him. He came in Hamm’s mouth, salty liquid spilling over Hamm’s tongue and down his throat.
    When Hamm finally eased away and chafed his cheek against the exposed patch of Marc’s stomach, the man breathed a ragged sigh and stroked his hands over Hamm’s face. Looked up at him with glazed eyes.
    “You stay when the others get here.” Hamm’s blood was still working its way back north to his brain, or he would’ve been more coherent. Couldn’t blame himself though. The human’s cum tasted even better than his pheromones smelled, for starters.
    “Stay?”
    “Yes, Marc. Here.”
    “I think I can stay for a while. The Contact and Communications team will need help.”
    Hamm clenched his hand on Marc’s thigh, then soothed his heavy touch away with the flat of his palm. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was something.
    And it wasn’t empty promises. The faint scent of truth still clung persistently to him. An honorable soldier. An overture of peace, willingly offered. Yes, a prisoner, but there’d been no duress.
    Unless Marc counted being disarmed as duress. It was possible. But he’d scented no distress, just a blend of frustration, confusion, alarm. No different from his own experience over the past few hours.
    “It will be easier to deal with them if you are here.” Less stressful. Less likely to go horribly wrong. He crawled up Marc’s body and nuzzled the soldier’s neck. It was okay to let himself show affection this way. The alien had no idea what it meant. A hundred, a thousand little slivers of communication, lost on him. It puzzled and frustrated him all at once. And he wondered how much he was missing, too. “Then I will be here for you.” Marc pushed up on an elbow and curled his lips, not showing his teeth the way he had before. Then he canted his head to watch the sky.
    Hamm eased back and stared at the line of Marc’s arched neck, unable to grasp the meaning in the onslaught of emotions he felt when he looked at Marc. The sharp edge of possessiveness, the suffusing warmth of clan, they didn’t make any sense in this context. At least he’d bought himself time to figure it out.

“Steady as you go, Mike-Tango Seven.” Marc