“A male is supposed to know how to court his female where I am from. We do not ask for guidance. It is considered insulting to ask a female how to court her.”
Funny how he’s so uncomfortable about asking me how to woo me, when he was fine with whipping it out and jizzing on my door to try and impress me. “As a human, can I just say that the best way you can court me is be my friend? Be nice to me? That’s all I want.”
Nassakth goes completely still, and for a moment, his expression looks so very, very sad. “Is that all you want?”
For a moment, I want to relent, but the words stick in my throat. Of course that’s all I want from him. This is a marriage of convenience, nothing more. Friendship would be a lovely bonus. “I think so.”
“I understand.” His voice is grave. “I will not press my feelings upon you again.” He moves away from the vid display and walks past me, heading for the kitchen area. “I have made you lunch. Come and eat. We will take the rest of the day and recover from our excess of wine. Tomorrow, we will return to your farm.”
And somehow, that is that. No arguments, no protests, just a boundary set between us. So why is it that I feel so very…disappointed?
That lingering disappointment sticks with me the rest of the day. Like I’ve done something wrong. Nassakth says nothing to make me feel that way, of course. He’s extremely courteous, takes the dishes as we’re done eating, and then disappears into his gym to work out for hours on end.
It’s the perfect time for me to work on my chapters that I can send to my ladies, but…I find it’s difficult to concentrate. I set up in the bedroom, lounging in the bed, but it reminds me too much of last night and just how comfortable it was to be curled up with him. If I’d been sober, I’d never have invited him…and yet now I can’t stop thinking about it. How warm and soft he was to cuddle up against. How good it felt to have contact with another person—comforting, affectionate contact.
I didn’t realize I was so starved for it.
The bedroom leaves me rattled so I head into a sunny section of the house, curl up in an oversized chair, and bring up my files on my datapad. It’s no use, though. I’ll write a sentence, and then pause, looking around the room. Write a sentence, then listen to Nassakth grunting as he lifts weights. Write a sentence, let my mind drift. Eventually Nassakth heads into the kitchen and I hear the clang of pots and pans as he gets to work.
By dinnertime, I have all of a pathetic paragraph written.
I send a note out to the others, feigning pollen-induced migraines (sounds likely) and that I’ll post a new chapter soon. My inbox immediately floods with notes from my friends, telling me to feel better, and that makes me feel even guiltier. I should tell them I got married and it’s messing up my mojo. I imagine they’ll understand—several have made marriages of convenience over the last few months as threats against humans have escalated. No one would judge me.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to type the words.
Dinner feels strained. At least, it does to me. Nassakth is courteous, asking me gentle questions about my farm, and the weather, and what I’ve seen of Risda. Safe topics. He talks about his meat-stock and how he learned to become a farmer, and it feels like we’re two guests trapped at an awkward house party, being forced to converse with one another.
Nassakth drinks water.
I have wine, because he knows I like it, but the fact that he’s not drinking with me just reinforces the stiff awkwardness that’s fallen between us. I sip mine, and when he offers to refill it, I shake my head. I want to chug the entire bottle. I want to get drunker than hell and drag him back into the bed with me so I can cuddle him and feel warm and safe again…but that’s not fair, is it? Because I told him I wanted to just be his friend, and friends don’t cuddle. Especially not if one of them wants to be more than friends.
We pile the dishes into the sonic cleanser companionably, and then stand in the kitchen, waiting for each other to speak. To figure