On far away Sarran, the Warriorpair Jonal and Tonas, along with the rest of the planet's males, lost their Fem when the Zyptz unleased a toxin that killed only females. Sarrans mates in Triad, two males with one female, and without fems, their civilization stared extinction in the face.
But the Sarrans are tough and smart. They searched the galaxy for a genetically compatible species and found Earth. They were told the Earthen fems were an inferior species, with many unable to establish the psychic link essential to the triad bond, but they had to try.
En route, from as far out as the asteroid belt, they heard fem voices calling to the mates. Success! But their joy is short-lived, because the human fems are in pain -- they are dying. The Zyptz found Earth before the Sarrans and unleashed their toxin.
Admirals Jonal and Tonas are determined to obtain a fem at almost any cost, and rush to save Anya, because they've already mated with her in their minds.
“Thirsty,” she whispered. Then a strong, gentle hand lifted Anya’s head. She nuzzled closer, breathing deeply of fresh linen, vanilla and man, definitely man.
“Drink, Pa Mici, drink,” a deep basso voice rumbled.
Anya’s eye caught a snapshot of dark blue eyes, tousled midnight black hair. A thin white scar traced along the outline of a square jaw. Her vision was fuzzy around the edges. She picked up a slight hesitation between his words and her understanding. His lips moved and she received a nanosecond later, a weird built-in satellite delay. The hair on his muscled arm tickled across her back. His palm cupped the nape of her neck supporting her head. The thumb stroked downward. She trembled, leaning into the light caress.
The thick fingers of his other hand curved around a filigreed silver tumbler with maroon and gold swirls.
“Please, thirsty,” Anya mumbled as her lips pursed round the proffered straw.
“Careful, Pa Mici, lips that shape beg a kiss,” the deep voice rumbled.
Sweetness exploded on Anya’s tongue, a mélange of fruit? She didn’t recognize any of the flavors. Her eyes closed. The juice flowed through her mouth and down her throat easing the dryness. Voices in her mind, one was here, the basso, the other a baritone was close by. The vibrations sang sweet music to her sex. Anya’s skin flushed rose. She reached up and traced a finger along the thin scar. Anya knew she was dreaming. Her hero’s face was on the cover of every romance novel she ever read. He was an American privateer, scarred from a run-in with a British man-of-war or maybe a Regency Duke, scarred in a duel over his sister. It couldn’t be about a woman other than his sister, after all, this was her dream.
“Your skin is exquisite, Pa Mici. Do you feel us yet? “ His soft mobile lips swept light kisses across her cheek and nibbled at the corner of her mouth.
“Name ... my pirate ... name,” she insisted sticking out her lower lip, her mouth in moue.
“Jonal, rest now,” the voice soothed.
“Tis such a good dream,” Anya whispered as she grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t make me wake up.”