Snatched

Juan & Clint

It was getting close to lights out and yet Clint and Juan had done nothing since their return to their quarters except exchange a few meaningless words—and it was making Clint anxious. Juan had asked to sleep and Clint had allowed him to do so, watching his breathing from across the room, becoming more and more uncertain and anxious. They'd formed their first degree of attachment successfully, but they needed to reach the third before Clint could be sure that they'd made an unbreakable partnership.

His mate had been so open last night. Sex had been wonderful. Clint had taken for granted that it would be just as easy again tonight. What had happened?

Now awake, the Rictorian was keeping his distance, a hard thing to do in such a small room. He'd eaten and showered and was now sitting at the table, his eyes lowered, his hands folded in front of him.

Clint watched him as he sat perched on the edge of his bed, his hands folded in his lap, thinking back on last night, recalling how he couldn't entice the Rictorian to suck his erection ... and he began to wonder. Rictorians were intelligent. Granted, not as intelligent as his own kind, but enough so that they could communicate and understand each other. Was it possible that Juan was becoming suspicious of their connection? Was Clint underestimating the Rictorians' cognisance?

The thought was both alarming and exciting.

'Tell me what's wrong,' Clint said.

'I told you there's nothing wrong. I'm just ... tired.'

Clint watched him carefully. Juan raised his eyes, then lowered them again. The first degree of attachment was already working. The Rictorian was having difficulty keeping his eyes off him, but that didn't mean he couldn't resist. It didn't mean he couldn't eventually break their still very tenuous connection.

He needed to do something before it was too late. He stood from the bed and went over. Juan looked up at him, drawing his hands away as Clint sat opposite him.

'You're afraid,' Clint said.

'No ...'

'You are. It's normal to be afraid.'

'I am not afraid!'

Clint leaned back. 'Angry, then.'

Juan frowned, looking away.

'Why are you angry?' No answer. 'Don't you like me?'

Juan's eyes darted to Clint's. They held each other's gaze for several moments before Juan ripped his away again. He was fighting their connection. Fighting it desperately. Though he didn't want to. Clint could see it in the hardness of his jaw, in the strain of his neck, in the way his eyes kept turning of their own will back to Clint again and again.

'Stop fighting it,' Clint said calmly. 'It'll only make things hard.'

Juan's eyes swivelled back to his. 'What do you mean by "it"?'

Clint sat silently, resisting the urge to drum his fingers anxiously against the table. This was not going the way it was supposed to. Clint couldn't tell him the truth. It might risk everything. Not only for Clint but for the others too. But what else could he do? Juan was suspicious—and angry. If Clint didn't explain, then wouldn't Juan make his own assumptions? Potentially false and damaging ones at that? And if he spread those to the other Rictorians ...

Clint sighed. 'It is hard to explain with our language ... problem.'

'Keep it simple.'

'We are making a bond, an attachment. A Zibon's semen is ... special. Each time I ejaculate inside you we become closer ... and closer. Until we cannot be separated.'