Ice Queen

You have heard his name whispered by those who live in this desolate, forsaken place. They call him ‘Rhade’. He’s the enforcement arm for that joke of a holy man they follow. They say that he’s been here about seven or eight months, another ‘intruder’, like you. Thomas speaks for him, so they leave him be, although you’d wager that he could hold his own should they turn against him. You they tolerate because you’re a woman, and although you’ve kept every male who has made a play for you at bay, there are too few women on Seefra for them to chase you away.

Rhade is different from the other men. It’s not just those strange, bony protrusions that extend from his arms. He’s stronger, leaner, more in control of himself even though he is currently attempting to throw away all control. Everyone on Seefra suffers, but Rhade is suffering more than all of the others. You can see it in his eyes, those beautiful, dark eyes. He knows true sorrow and it’s eating him up from the inside. You’ve watched him try to drown his pain in liquor and soothe it away with the cheap, tawdry women that are eager to fall into his bed. He doesn’t always accept their offers, and you’ve never seen him make the first move.

Likewise, you’ve never thrown your lot in with the other women. You’ve never been one to throw yourself at a man; the man has always had to come to you. As tempting as the desire to try and ease the pain in those eyes might be, you aren’t about to lower your standards. Not even for Rhade.

That’s why it surprises you when a well shaped arm with a trio of bony protrusions sets two shot glasses down on your table with solid clink. You sit back in your chair out of reflex and watch, wary as he fills each glass from a bottle that only has about a third of it’s original contents. Whiskey, and it’s the good stuff at that, the kind that will knock you on your ass before you’ve had time to think about it. He sits down in the chair next to yours, his leather clothing creaking, over-dried from the heat and wind of the planet. You accept the shot glass closer to you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice is deep and rough. It’s all you can do not to shiver from the chills it sends up your spine. He nods towards the manifest in your hands. “What are you working on?”

“Just a cargo list from the last supply freighter that came in. A heap of junk that, somehow, miraculously continues to be able to break orbit.” You close the manifest, shielding it from prying eyes. In Seefra, freight is always a valued commodity and those few entrusted with it’s distribution have to be careful.

Rhade gives a mirthless chuckle. “The people of Seefra are afraid of technology, but they could not survive without it. An interesting quandary.” He downs his drink and your eyes are drawn to the shift of his Adam’s apple and the tightness of his lips as he swallows. Good whiskey makes even the strongest man grimace, but it doesn’t detract from the raw sensuality of his mouth. You concentrate on not staring. Desperate to sound casual, you try to think of something else to talk about.

“May I ask you something?”

“Obviously.”

That little bit of smart-ass behavior helps you regain your balance. You nod towards his forearms. “What’s the story behind those?”

He rotates his right arm to display them. “They’re bone blades. It’s a genetic modification that was engineered into my people centuries ago.”

“May I touch them?”

He studies you for a moment then extends his arm, flexing the blades so they stand out. Curious, you reach out to run your fingertips over the foremost of the blades. It’s hard and rough to the touch with a natural serration along the back edge. “Natural, built-in weapons.” You smile. “Useful.”

“They can be.” He collapses the blades back against his arm and refills your shot glass. “I don’t see you in here often, but when I do, you’re always alone.”

“You know us ‘intruders’. Regarded with fear and suspicion. There aren’t many who will dare to speak with us and not all of us are fortunate to have Thomas speak for us.”

He downed another shot and refilled his glass. “True, but that usually doesn’t apply to a pretty face.” You down your own shot so he can refill your glass as well. “They say you’re the largest supply of ice on Seefra.”

That makes you laugh, enough so that most heads in the bar turn to see what all the fuss is about. “Just call me the Ice Queen.” You look at him, studying his face. “Who was it?”

“Who was what?”

“The person who put that pain in your eyes?”

He freezes and for a moment you’re afraid that you may have said too much, pushed things too far. You’re about to apologize for being too forward, but you stop when he speaks. “Louisa. She was very dear to me, but there was an attack. She died in the battle.”

You wince internally. You knew loss and lost loves, but you’ve never had one die on you. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have pried.”

He swallows another drink and shakes his head. “It’s all right. I know my pain and my sorrow. We’ve become quite comfortable with one another.”

You nod, licking your lips. “Losing someone you love always hurts, but in a way, I think it hurts less when they just decide they don’t love you any more and leave for greener pastures. At least that way, after you’re done fantasizing that they die slow and horrible deaths, your more generous nature can be happy that they’re happy. It doesn’t really make the pain any less, but it helps you cope.”

Rhade gives a non-committal grunt as he pours the last of the whiskey into your glasses. He raises his in a toast, which you mirror. “To lost loves; may their icy grip one day release our souls.”

You clink your glass to his and both of you down the shots in one gulp. The whiskey seems to burn more after the toast, but you welcome the warmth. The ‘Ice Queen’. Perhaps you are too cold inside. Perhaps you have been alone too long. Rhade looks at the now empty bottle in contemplation. “We need another bottle.”

“Yes, I believe we do.”

He gives you a side-ways smile before reaching out and taking hold of your hand. “Come on.” You grab the manifest as he pulls you from your chair and leads you to the bar. The bartender doesn’t even wait for Rhade to tell him what he wants, just pulls out a new bottle with a still, unbroken seal from underneath the bar and hands it over. Rhade doesn’t even pause, but accepts the bottle and continues to walk smoothly towards the back exit.

He leads you through a tunnel hewn into the solid rock of the planet, deep down where it’s cool and dark. Around a corner that could be either natural or man-made, you enter dimly lit living quarters that are crowded with crates of goods and a single, double bed. The crates are filled with various items, most of them artwork. That Rhade is a lover of art doesn’t surprise you for some reason. There always seemed to be an overly educated air about him, as though he was something more in his former life, in the life he lived before he found himself in this miserable place. He’s too good for this place. No one deserves to be here, but he deserves it less than anyone you’ve met since your arrival.

Rhade releases your hand so that he can set the bottle down onto a small bedside table and shrug out of his long overcoat. Taking the hint, you find someplace out of the way to set down the manifest and shrug out of your own duster, dropping it nonchalantly atop the weathered logbook. You watch as he opens the whiskey and pours some into a pair of cut crystal tumblers, substantially larger than the shot glasses you had been using before. The cool air of the room brushes against your now bare arms as you reach out to accept the glass he offers you.

Now that you’re away from the public view of the bar and alone in this darker, more intimate location, you realize that you could use the bracing power of the whiskey and drink deeply. Without the safety of topside, Rhade seems even more dangerous that usual, like a large predator and you’re suddenly more along the lines of a deer or rabbit. You’re not stupid. You know there are only two reasons that Rhade would approach you; Thomas wants you dead or Rhade wants sex. He wouldn’t have bothered to bring you here if he were just going to kill you.

He drains his glass and sets it back onto the bedside table with a clink. You follow suit, stepping forward to place your now empty glass next to his. As you move into reach he raises one hand to run it up along your arm slowly. Your eyes close on their own, savoring the feel of skin on skin. Instinct makes you step closer to him and his scent overwhelms you. It’s musky and faintly spicy, and wholly mouth-watering. You’re tempted to take a bite, but you aren’t sure if he’d welcome it just yet. You realize that it was foolish to wonder when he uses his other hand to tilt your face upwards so he can capture your mouth with his.

He tastes of the whisky, but there is a sweetness underneath that which could only be him. His mouth is hot, almost to the point that you feel as though your lips will be seared from the contact. You hear a low, feral growl and realize that it came from you as you press closer to him. You’ve had enough whiskey to be past the point of caring what you do, but not enough to deaden your sense of touch. You never realized just how much you miss the simple pleasure of human touch until now. Maybe you have been spending too much time pretending to be the ‘Ice Queen’. Maybe you need Rhade to thaw you out as much as he needs someone within whom he can lose himself.

Your hands move upwards slowly, lingering over the warm leather of his vest as they make their journey towards his curling hair. You’ve fantasized about sinking your hands into those dark curls every time you’ve seen him in the past. When you finally do they feel like raw silk between your fingers. He seems to take your response as encouraging, pulling you closer to him to the point that nothing could possibly be fit between you. Now you do dare to take a bit, nipping at his lips playfully. This time the feral growl is from him and he pulls away from you so that he can get a better grip on your shirt. You hear the fabric tear a bit from his rush to get it off of you as he pulls it over your head and throws it somewhere to the side. You’re not sure where it landed, but it’s not important. You can sort things out later.

He pulls you close again, this time trailing his lips down the length of your throat as he turns you both around so that the backs of your legs are pressed against the bed. You half-expect him to just throw you down, but he surprises you when he lowers you gently, his lips never leaving your skin until your back comes to rest on the mattress. Only then does he pull away to allow himself enough space so that he can release the fastening on your pants and pull them off, taking your panties with them. The chill air of the room hits your heated skin, but you’re too far-gone to shiver. He pauses only long enough to pull your boots off and shove your pants the rest of the way off, and then stands again.

You lie there, unable to look away as he unfastens his vest and shrugs out of it. By all the stars the man is perfect! There is no detectable blemish anywhere upon his skin and his muscles are clearly defined without being overdone. You mouth goes dry just looking at him. You’re aware that he’s watching your reaction and know that you’ve got to be feeding his ego. At the moment, you couldn’t care less. You’re about to the point that if he doesn’t take those pants off soon you’re going to tear them off yourself. As if reading your mind, he unfastens them and pushes them down. Physical perfection, it seems, does not end at the waist for Mr. Rhade. Whoever was behind engineering his people had apparently taken into account that a man should be well endowed, but not so much so as to be too much for a woman to handle. A fully erect Rhade looks just the right length and thickness to fill you to near bursting but not bring you undue pain.

You reach out to him, lifting up just enough to grab hold of one of his arms and coax him forward. A large, strong hand grabs your legs roughly and urges them apart. At this point foreplay would be wasted. This moment has invaded your dreams since the first day you laid eyes on him and envied those women who draped themselves over him. You’re not going to question why he hasn’t referred to you by name or even asked your name. Names aren’t important. Everyone knows his, and you’d be willing to bet that most know yours. If he does or not, it doesn’t matter. It’s better this way. No bruised feelings afterwards. No recriminations.

He lowers himself between your legs and you feel him probe at your entrance, blunt and hard. Excitement has made your body tighten to the point that it’s distinctly uncomfortable and your entire being gives a jolt at the feel of him. Your hips rock out of reflex but he holds them still with a firm grip. There’s a predatory gleam in those dark eyes now. He’s in charge and he wants to make sure you know it. A desperate whimper sounds in your throat, but he doesn’t make you wait too long. With one strong, sure stroke, he buries himself inside you. Aching muscles protest and celebrate all at once in response to the invasion.

He makes some sort of rough, unintelligible sound, almost like someone would when savoring a fine wine or dessert. He lowers his forehead to yours, not moving for a long moment, one hand pulling your thigh up higher on his hip. The heat of his body envelops you completely and you feel as though you could stay just like this for days. But it doesn’t last for days. He begins to move within you, pulling out until only the very tip of himself remains inside before flexing his hips forcefully so that he drives back inside you. The violence of it robs you of breath and you hang on for dear life as he repeats the movement again and again. You feel the skin of your back inch bit by bit along the covers of the bed, your weight not enough to keep you in place when pitted against his strength. He grips your legs with his hands and raises them up until your thighs seem as though they will become flush with your sides, leaving you open and vulnerable to his thrusts.

It all seems too much. Coherent thought has become an impossibility as everything descends to a primal, animalistic state. Your growls and moans become indistinguishable from his and you think that you hear the wood frame of the bed protest under the rough treatment the two of you are giving it. Just when you begin to despair that the mounting, aching tension inside you will never find release, you break with a scream that they must surely be able to hear above in the bar. Let them hear! What does it matter to you if they do?

A rough, deep growl sounds from somewhere above you and you feel Rhade tense up with one last thrust. The thickness inside you jerks and spasms, releasing his seed deep within before he collapses atop you, his weight pressing you down. You wrap your arms about him as you tilt your head back to take in gulps of cool air, a short, deep chuckle escaping you upon exhalation. You feel sated and… triumphant. Yes, that’s the word. ‘Triumphant.’ There have been other women here before you, but they all had to beg and plead and ply their favors to him, their success dependant on his mood. But he came to you. This time Rhade made the first move, and although there’s no telling if it is just for this once or for a dozen nights to come, you were the one he chose.

He chuckles as well, his breath warm against one ear. “Ice Queen. You certainly do not live up to your title, Your Majesty.”

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