Fahgwat smiled shyly. “I am named for little purple flowers that grow in desert rocks.”
Martha wished she could be mean, but the girl’s expectant stare took the anger and the jealousy right out her like a quickly deflating balloon. She was so young, and Martha didn’t have the heart to be cruel. Telling herself she needed to be kind to keep her close, she said, “I think it’s a fine name, but maybe we could soften it. Do you have a nickname?”
The girl shook her head.
“Well, Little Flower’s a mouthful, but since you’re named for a purple flower, how do you like the name Violet? Violets are pretty purple flowers on Earth.”
“Violet is also my favorite color,” the girl said, touching the fabric of her skirt.
Reminded of the lascivious glance Cantor had swept over the girl’s hips, Martha said, “We really do need to find you something else to wear.” Taking Violet’s hand, Martha led her down the rock-lined path toward the communal longhouse.
“Do you think he was very annoyed with me?”
Martha took a deep breath. “Who?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know.
“Can-
torr
.”
Dear God! Martha groaned inwardly. The man would come in his pants the first time he heard her say his name like that. The last syllable purred, for chrissakes! Hell, her own toes curled in her sandals. The pain grew inside Martha’s chest. How could she compete with Little Miss Exotic?
“He does not like me.”
“He likes you just fine,” Martha said, tamping down her jealousy.
“Then why did he look so angry?”
Martha sighed and stopped in the middle of the path. “Men are strange creatures. When they like someone, they try not to show it.”
“Why?” Fahgwat’s doe-like eyes stared up at her.
Martha wanted to shake her. “Because, they think it gives a woman power over them.”
A little frown creased the smooth skin between the girl’s dark brows. “I have a lot to learn if I am to make him mine.”
Martha felt her mouth grow lax.
Shit!
“You want Cantor?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt like an idiot. What woman wouldn’t?
“Yes,” the girl nodded, eager as a puppy. “I love him.”
“But…you just met him. How can you know?”
Fahgwat’s gaze slid away, and her cheeks grew rosy. “I just know. He makes my woman’s place wet.”
Martha forced a stiff smile onto her lips. “You’re describing lust.”
“Oh, I know it is love. I never feel this way when I look upon other men.” Fahgwat sighed. “But such a
virr
-ile man must have many wives.”
Martha looked at her curiously. “Would that bother you?”
“That he has many wives?” At Martha’s nod, she said, “No. Such a man would need many to satisfy him. Besides, I do not want to be a wife.”
“To Cantor?” How anyone wouldn’t want Cantor as a husband was beyond Martha, she wanted him so badly herself.
“Not to any man.”
That surprised her. Someone as lovely and untried as this girl needed a keeper in a rough place like this. “Why not?”
Fahgwat’s expression turned solemn. “I was raised to serve a man, but I escaped that prison. Why would I seek another? You should understand that.”
Martha felt the last of her resentment melt away. “I do understand, but I don’t equate marriage to prison—or a
ha’arem.
Not if I were married to the right man.”
Fahgwat gave her a glance that was unnerving in its directness. “Do you love him?”
Martha didn’t try to pretend this time she didn’t know whom she meant. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to be his wife, then what do you want?”
Fahgwat shrugged. “I am not sure. But I would like to learn about love.”
Martha smiled then. Just looking at Cantor had her wanting sex all the time, too. “And lovemaking?”
Her cheeks dimpled with delight. “Oh, yes!”
Martha felt her mouth stretch into a smile. “Cantor doesn’t have any wives. I’m not sure he wants even one.”
Fahgwat blew out a breath. “I was afraid he had many.”
“Why would it matter if you don’t want to be his wife?”
“Only because I thought he would not notice me. His other wives might have been more knowledgeable of his desires.”
“Do you want to learn about…his desires?”
“Oh yes! I would learn what pleases him.”
“And what about you? Would you want to be pleased as well?”
Fahgwat gave her a sly smile. “How can a man like that fail to please a woman? He is very well made.”
“He is indeed,” Martha murmured. A very wicked idea blossomed. “Remember what I said about men trying not to show women how much they like them?”
Fahgwat nodded.
Martha put her hands on Fahgwat’s shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Sometimes, men have to be made to tell. Sometimes, they have to be seduced.”
Fahgwat’s nod was slower this time. “But I have never seduced a man. I mean, my mother and aunts have told me how to work upon a man’s staff, but I have never actually…”
Martha’s eyebrows rose. “Well, every man’s a little different. Would you like to learn what pleases Cantor?”
“Do you know? Have you…”
Watching the younger woman’s face light with curiosity, the idea became fully rooted. “Yes, but he won’t be bound by sex. Actually, I think he’s spoiled.”
Fahgwat’s head canted. “Spoiled?”
“Women fall all over him. Me, included.” She wrinkled her nose. “He gets what he wants too easily.”
“Ah!” Fahgwat grinned. “Like a child with too many toys. He expects them.”
“Exactly.” She gave the other woman an approving smile. “You know, I don’t think you’re as fluffy as you look.”
“Fluffy?”
“Never mind. Fahgwat, I think we can help each other out.” Wrapping an arm around the shoulder of her newest friend, Martha guided her down the path.
Cantor paused outside his cabin door at the sound of feminine laughter coming from inside. More than one woman awaited him. For once, he was relieved.
He’d avoided Little Flower—Daisy—whatever her real name was—all afternoon and evening, using every problem brought to him as a pretext for delaying the inevitable contact.
He’d taken his dinner with the men selected to guard the sheep that night, huddled around a blazing fire while listening to their endless bragging. Hearing of their sexual exploits had done nothing to cool the heat his body had carried all day from the first sight of the lovely virgin.
Lovely…
untouchable
…virgin.
He’d helped to pull a large piece of farm machinery from where it had become mired in a low-lying trough. He’d climbed a tree to retrieve a lacy bit of underwear that had blown away from a clothesline, and narrowly escaped the owner’s grateful, full-on-the-lips kiss.
He’d settled no less than three arguments among the ex-cons, listening endlessly to their convoluted, impossibly illogical opinions until his head ached. The last had firmed his decision to flee the planet at the first opportunity. It had been a fight over a bloody window.
He’d taken his noontime meal in the communal longhouse, when three women approached with their petition. Their request involved a bed beneath a window in the women’s dorm that was vacated when one of Doc’s nurses moved into his cabin.
“Why do you all want the bed with the window?” he’d asked.
“Because the sunshine’s so cheerful,” was the answer he’d gotten.
“How does that matter if you’re busy with your chores during the day?”
“I’d love a breeze caressing my skin at night,” one said, casting him a saucy glance. “It gets very hot,” she’d said, as she walked her fingers up his chest.
“But you’d freeze your arse off in the winter,” he replied. He had thought to end this ridiculous line of conversation, when he asked, “What makes any one of you more worthy of the window?”
This question launched a lengthy debate over the comparative gravity of their crimes, the severity of their sentences, the length of their menses, and finally, their body weight.
In the end, Cantor showed them the Wisdom of Solomon and ordered the window boarded up.
He had exhausted himself a-purpose this day. He had to protect the girl from his low-down, horny-dog cock. The thing threatened to overcome his best intentions. No amount of deep-breathing meditation would bring it down. He’d walked around with his shirt outside his pants to hide his sorry condition the whole bloody, goddamned day.
He’d taken himself in hand—twice—to relieve his blue-ball hard-on. As helpless as any teenaged male against the onslaught of testosterone, bathing his brain with images of dark, dusky nipples, smooth-as-silk nether lips, and beguiling brown eyes. Even now his cock was heavy and full, pressing painfully behind the placket of his breeches.
Thank God, he’d had an extra mattress sent to his cabin. He’d give the girl the bed and make due with the mattress on the cold floor. So long as he didn’t have to bear the torture of sleeping inches from her, he might calm his “inches” long enough to get some sleep.
He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Two heads, one light, one dark turned toward him. Two pairs of puppy-dog brown eyes stared at him. Now along with the pressure in his cock, he felt tension cinch around his neck.
Martha!
His stomach knotted. He didn’t want to hurt Martha any more than he already had…but then again, she did know the score. Her expression appeared a little strained and furtive, and then she licked her lips and dipped her eyelids.
Halleluiah!
Now, how would he convince her to step outside the door for a quick poke without embarrassing the girl? Immediately, he felt shame wash over him. Martha definitely deserved better than to be used to simply ease an ache.
Then he noticed the two sat cross-legged on his bed, wearing short shifts that couldn’t possibly hide their mons should he walk deeper inside. Light from no less than six phospher-pots were placed around the room, chasing away the shadows.
Sweat broke on his forehead despite the cool air at his back. “Good even, ladies.”
“Hi, Cantor,” Martha chimed brightly, and then she nudged Little Flower.
“Hello, Can-
torr
.”
He sucked in a deep breath and nearly turned to flee the cabin. The girl’s sweet voice rolled the R’s like a kitten’s purr. His treacherous body tightened hard as a rock. Walking stiff-legged into the room, he closed the door behind him, shutting himself inside with their sweet scents. He tried not to breathe too deeply, but Martha’s petal-soft smell mingled with a fresh, minty-spice that he knew must be the girl’s.
A desperate glance around the room and he realized something was wrong. “Where’s the damn mattress?” he asked, dismay making his voice harsh.
“We had it taken back. There are so many far more crowded than you are, Cantor,” Martha replied, her eyes alight with merriment.
Cantor’s narrowed, suspicion creeping into his testosterone-soaked brain that Martha was up to something.
“Turn around, Violet,” Martha said. “Let me braid your hair for bed.”
Violet? It suited her. Sweet—and crushable. And seventeen, for fuckssake! Sweat broke on his upper lip. She was getting ready for bed. Violet shifted around on the mattress and the shadowed area between her legs was exposed for a moment to his gaze. Her plump lips were indeed bare.
His knees wobbled. “Perhaps, I should head over to the men’s dormitory…” he said, “…since you’re planning to stay the night, Martha.”
Martha smiled and lifted her arms to brush the girl’s long dark hair. “Suit yourself. We’re getting to know each other.”
Cantor watched each stroke of the brush. The slow movement pulled Martha’s shift taut against her generous breasts, revealing the luscious curves and hard points. Violet’s eyes closed and she sighed with pleasure.
Hunger gripped his loins. He was a drowning man.
Martha slid him a sideways glance. “Of course, you’ll put the word out the other men shouldn’t expect a welcome, here. Violet needs her sleep.”