Chapter 9 | Justine

Chapter 9

Justine

I can’t believe I have to go to a big, fancy dinner now. My knees are still wobbly from the impact of all those orgasms. I’m not an “all those orgasms” type of girl. But I am with Markas. I look over at him strolling down the corridor next to me, wearing the catsuit he fucked me in. He smiles at me, smug and relaxed. I’m not sure if I want to punch him or drag him into a corner and go another round.

My whole universe is shaken to the core. I just fucked Markas. The Markas who wrecked my life. Who fucked me like it was his mission in life. Markas. I think I’m in shock.

I’ve been like this since we finally managed to stop screwing. I was practically a zombie when I restyled our hair and applied a light dusting of makeup. I look at him again. He’s so hot I want to cry. Actually, I want to run back to my room and put on my pajamas and pretend he doesn’t exist. I need a minute to recover. Or maybe a week.

Instead, I’m walking next to him in my own sexy catsuit that’s doing nothing to calm my nerves. The stretchy fabric rubs against my sensitized nipples and wreaks havoc with my overworked pussy, and it’s all too much. And Markas probably can sense all of this, which makes it even more galling.

What makes me want him so much? It can’t just be his looks. I’m around attractive Xanxians all the time. I don’t want to tie them to a bedpost and have my way with them. It’s certainly not Markas’ good, upstanding personality. He’s an awful lying cheat. Not to mention that I hate him, even though I thought I loved him when he was between my legs. It’s all rather confusing.

When we’re close, I feel pulled towards him, like I need to yell at him or punish him or kiss him until I physically can’t anymore. It’s like I can’t exist without him. Is that how everyone feels about their enemies?

The worst part is, he hasn’t felt like my enemy at all since we arrived on The Excelsior . He feels like a friend. Like a lover. Someone who comforts me when I’m scared and pushes me to heights of pleasure I’ve never imagined. What kind of enemy is that? A bad one. It makes me mad that he’s making it hard to hate him.

“Try taking a deep breath, sweetheart,” he says to me.

“Why would I do that?” I nearly snarl.

“You seem wound up. That’s not the image we’re trying to project to the other guests. Remember, we’re supposed to be happy.”

“Happy,” I repeat, as if I can feel the emotion just by saying it. What in the stars is happiness? I suppose I can try for contentment, but I feel the opposite right now.

“Just think about something you enjoy,” he says, and I scowl at him. “Like makeup or styling outfits. We have another day of playing this part. Maybe you should plan the outfits from now on. Though I have no complaints about how my selection turned out.” He grins at me, and I pinch his arm.

“Fine. I’ll think about fashion,” I grumble. I am rather excited about trying on the other clothes Markas picked out.

We fall into an uneasy silence as we make our way to the grand dining room on Deck 7. When we arrive, it lives up to its name. I try to act bored and unimpressed with how big and luxurious everything is, but I’m wowed. A giant old-fashioned crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, basking the room in a soft glow. The brass and wood finishings are polished to a shine and even the guest twinkle with expensive jewels.

My stomach sinks. It’s too obvious that I don’t belong here, despite the VIP lanyard. I’m not a professional faker like Markas. I’m bound to give away my humble roots somehow. I peer over at him and, just like I expected; he looks totally comfortable. He leans over and whispers in my ear.

“Rich people aren’t any better than you and me. They’re not smarter and their taste isn’t better. They just have more money. Try to keep that in mind.”

“Thanks,” I say before I remember I’m mad at him.

“Just try to pretend that you don’t want to kill me, and we’ll be fine,” he continues.

“It’s going to be a stretch.”

“Of course. And make sure you eat. I intend to give you another workout when we get back to the cabin.”

I elbow him in the ribs as subtly as I can. I want to tell him there’s no way we’re fucking again, but we both know that’s not true. But I’m not about to admit it.

“Let’s find our table, darling. I’m starving,” he says this louder, for the benefit of the guests, and leads me deeper into the room. I follow because there’s nothing else to do but plow ahead.

Markas slides his hand to the small of my back. I can feel the heat of his touch through the fabric of the catsuit. It makes my heart beat faster. I try to focus on my surroundings to keep from letting out a little moan of pleasure.

The other guests range in age from their late twenties up to their eighties. Their clothes aren’t all attractive, but they’re all expensive. Our matching catsuits help us blend in well. I’ll give Markas credit. He knows how to dress for the role he’s playing (or the scam he’s pulling).

For tonight’s dinner, we’ll be sitting with other guests at one of the large round tables spaced throughout the room. Five courses will be served and there will be a music performance at the end. It reminds me of a wedding, but there’s no cake and no groomsmen to hook up with. Just Markas sitting by my side, being sexy. As we sit at the table, other guests barely look at us, even though I feel extremely self-conscious.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart, keep it up,” he says, leaning in close. My body instantly reacts to him using the word sweetheart, like he did while we were in bed.

I smile sweetly at him and slide my hand to his thigh and whisper back to him.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Ahhh, whatever you say sweet–I mean, darling.” He slides his hand on to my leg and raises his eyebrows at me. Heat and desire zip through my veins.

We lock eyes.

“You’ll get your dessert soon enough, now behave,” he says.

“You need to behave too,” I retort quietly.

“I’ll be good, I promise.” How does he make that sound so dirty? Ugggh.

Before I can say anything else, a waitress appears to take our order. I’ve barely glanced at our menu on the holo-display hovering over our plates. A middle-aged human couple across from us taps the menu.

“We’ll take the beef and chicken.”

I see Markas frown out of the corner of my eye. He must be a vegan, like most Xanxians.

“I’ll take the vegetable loaf,” he says.

“Me too,” I say. He shoots me a questioning look, and I shrug. Is it weird that I want to make him more comfortable?

Something about our waitress makes him narrow his eyes, but before I can ask, someone taps my shoulder. I turn and see Damon, the security guard. He beckons me to stand. Markas is busy ordering, so I comply without telling him. What a mistake that turns out to be.