Page 17 of Grumpy Alien Billionaire

I want more. I want to explore every sensation, learn every way our bodies can move together. The thought should shame me, but wrapped in Lanz's arms, all I feel is anticipation.

CHAPTER 8

LANZ

The first rays of sunlight paint the sky in soft pinks and oranges as I guide my car through the empty streets. Tyler's perfume lingers in the air, mixed with the scent of sex and satisfaction. Her fingers brush against mine on the gear shift.

"Your place is just ahead?"

"Right there." She points to a modest apartment complex.

I park and rush to open her door. The morning dew sparkles on the grass, but nothing shines brighter than her smile. My lips find hers, and the kiss tastes of promise and possibility.

"When can I see you again?"

"I have work in a few hours." She traces a finger down my chest. "Then I'll need a nap. But later tonight..."

"I'll call you after nine."

"Perfect."

One more kiss, deep and thorough. I watch her walk to her building, memorizing the sway of her hips, the bounce in her step.

The drive to Truth-1 passes in a blur. My thoughts keep drifting back to last night - the taste of her skin, the sound of her moans, the way she yielded to my touch. The morning trafficparts before my car like water, sensing my impatience to start the day so it can end and I can see her again.

I park in my private spot beneath the towering spire of Truth-1. Even the familiar weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders as I enter the building can't dim my mood.

The elevator doors slide open to the top floor of Truth-1, and I stride into my office with purpose. The morning’s meetings are a blur of human-centric nonsense—spreadsheets, quarterly reports, and the occasional sycophant trying to impress “Alonzo Ramone” with their latest pitch. I smile, nod, and sign where I need to, but my mind is miles away—or more accurately, down by the docks where Fishy Joe’s Cannery sits, rusting and forgotten.

After lunch—a plate of seared ahi tuna that I barely taste—I lock my office door and pull up the surveillance feed on my compad. The Vakutan Scout Drone hums to life in the airlock bay, its cloaking field shimmering as it powers up. I flick my fingers across the holographic interface, sending it on its way. The drone zips out of the building, skimming low over the waters of Sunny Cove, its sensors scanning for any anomalies.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding, Bob,” I mutter under my breath.

The drone approaches the cannery, its sensors picking up heat signatures and movement inside. I lean forward in my chair, golden eyes narrowing as the feed shows the drone slipping through a cracked window. The interior of the cannery is dark, littered with rusted machinery and crumbling walls. Shadows flicker across the screen, and then—nothing. The feed goes black.

I stab at the controls, trying to reestablish the connection. “Come on, come on…”

Static. Silence. The drone doesn’t respond.

I sit back in my chair, a low growl rumbling in my chest. My fingers drum against the desk. “Never send a drone to do a Vakutan warrior’s job.”

I stand, rolling my shoulders as I undo the knot of my tie. The human disguise peels away like shedding a second skin, revealing the crimson scales and hardened ridges beneath. My golden eyes gleam in the dim light of the office.

“Time to put on the real power suit.”

I stride across my office, the plush carpet muffling my steps. My fingers brush the frame of the Monet hanging on the wall, feeling for the hidden latch. A soft click, and the painting swings open to reveal a keypad.

The numbers glow faintly in the dim light. My fingers dance across the pad, inputting the 124-digit code from memory. The floor beneath me rumbles, and a hidden panel slides open with a hiss. A set of stairs leads down into the armory.

“Finally,” I mutter, stepping down into the cool, shadowed room. Racks of weapons line the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft LED lights. Plasma rifles, particle cannons, and disrupter pistols—all the tools of a Vakutan warrior. I pass them by, heading for the flight suit rack.

I slip into the sleek black suit, the material molding to my scales like a second skin. The jet pack clicks into place with a satisfying snap, the weight familiar on my shoulders. I grab a compact plasma pistol and tuck it into the holster at my side.

The tunnel entrance yawns at the far end of the armory, a narrow passage leading down toward the shoreline. I step inside, the walls closing in around me as the entrance seals shut behind me. My compad flickers to life as I move, and I open a secure channel to Veritas HQ.

“Drone investigation of Fishy Joe’s Cannery has failed,” I say, my voice echoing in the confined space. “Getting a naked eyeview instead. Increase Grolgath readiness level from one to two for the Sunny Cove area.”

“Acknowledged,” comes the reply. “Proceed with caution, Lanz.”

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