Zander’s seating platform rotated and he examined her with a critical eye. A frown appeared between his brows.
It shouldn’t bother her so much.
“Come here.”
She stepped forward to stand before him.
He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, which stood out under the fabric. His touch hardened them, pushing them forward even more. One of them poked through the open weave.
“No.” His voice was harsh. “This is not acceptable.”
She covered her breasts with her hands, a flush of heat climbing her neck to her face.
He flicked open a hologram and barked something in his own language to a servant. She hadn’t considered the Zandians spoke another language. Every being had been speaking Ocretion, the language of the planet they were on. The galaxy superpower who had overtaken Earth and stripped all her resources, including humans, one thousand solar cycles before.
He pointed once more at his feet. “Kneel.”
She dropped to her knees, and he went back to work. A few moments later, an older Zandian came in carrying a stack of clothing. He set it on the bed and fished a tiny undershirt out of the pile. “Will this do, my lord?”
Zander spared a glance over his shoulder. “Yes.”
“Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The elderly Zandian bowed and backed out of the room.
She started to move but realized she should wait for his direction. She raised her eyes, expectantly.
He glanced down, his mouth open like he was about to bark something. He halted and stared. “I like that look on you.”
She glanced down at the clothing.
“Not the clothing. Your face.”
A flush of heat warmed her cheeks and ears. What expression had she worn—supplication? Of course the arrogant bastard liked that. Her annoyance didn’t travel to her sex, however, which clenched at the thought. Holy star, why? Her pussy liked subservience? Or liked that he liked it? Or was it the way his eyes bore into her, shining a deep, hungry amethyst?
Maybe she was crazy or perhaps it was some strange survival instinct finally kicking in, but she wanted his desire. Not only because it was better than his cold, impatient indifference.
He reached down and grasped the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head and staring at her breasts like she hadn’t already been naked for him for the entire past planet rotation. His nostrils flared.
Something on his hologram flashed and he blinked several times, shaking out of it. He jerked his head toward the clothing on the bed. “Dress yourself. No nipples showing. Gunt will take you to the kitchen to dine.” Dismissed, like the elderly servant.
She stood and he handed her the pink sweater. The undershirt was constructed of the finest material—some kind of spider silk. It slid along her skin in glorious sensations—a creation of true beauty and function. The pink sweater fit back over the top. She wished Zander had a mirror or self-imager in his chamber. She felt so beautiful.
“Gunt,” Zander called out.
The door to his chamber slid open and the guard who stood there stepped in. “Yes, my lord?”
“Escort Lamira to the kitchen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Zander didn’t spare a glance for her, which shouldn’t have been so disappointing.
When the door shut, Gunt took her elbow. An unpleasant jolt ran through her. It settled in the pit of her stomach. “So, he let you wear clothes today?” His lips curled in a sneer.