Page 21 of My Big Fat Fake Alien

Two hours later, I'm stepping out of a taxi in front of Kirk's Upper East Side mansion, my black outfit blending with the shadows. The digital key card he gave me earlier beeps against the security panel, granting access.

My heart pounds as I take the private elevator to his floor. The doors open silently into a marble foyer.

I ease his front door open a crack. A news anchor's voice drifts from somewhere inside, discussing the day's market fluctuations. Most of the house lies dark and still.

Holy shit. The entryway alone probably costs more than I'll make in ten lifetimes. Crystal chandeliers catch what little light filters through massive windows. Original artwork adorns walls covered in what looks like actual gold leaf.

A curved staircase sweeps up to the second floor, its mahogany railings gleaming. To my right, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a private garden. To my left, a formal dining room bigger than my entire apartment.

Focus, Raven. I'm not here to admire the decor.

But as I slink deeper into the shadows of Kirk's palatial home, reality hits me - this place is huge. Six floors of luxury to search, and I have no idea where to start looking for evidence linking Kirk to that lizard creature.

This is going to take way longer than I thought.

A low, guttural groan echoes down the hallway, pulling me like a moth to a flame. My pulse quickens as I follow the sound, my boots silent on the plush carpet. The noise grows louder, more rhythmic. What is hedoingin there?

I peer around the corner into a massive bedroom that looks like something out of a billionaire's wet dream. The bed is the size of a small island, draped in black silk. My eyes dart to the source of the noise?—

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The lizard man sprawls across the bed, completely naked. Golden scales glint in the low light, his ridged chest rising and falling with each powerful breath. His clawed hand pumps his enormous cock, the tip slick with precome.

And on the wall-sized TV—me.

A slideshow cycles through pictures of me from my social media: me painting at Hudson River Park, a selfie after a shift at Area 51, even one of me in my Nightbird outfit tagged from an anonymous street art account.

This is Kirk. It has to be. Those same sunset orange eyes, the commanding presence—it's him, his true form. My legs wobble as I clutch the doorframe for support.

I should run. I should grab my phone, snap a photo, and expose him to the world. But I’m frozen, transfixed. The way his tongue flicks out as he strokes himself, the way his hips buck with each pass of his hand?—

Heat pools between my thighs. I press my legs together, the friction sending a jolt through me. My fingers twitch, itching to touch myself. I’m already wet, my panties soaking through.

The lizard man—Kirk—growls my name, the sound vibrating through the room. "Raven," he whispers, his voice thick with desire. "My Raven."

My hand slips into the waistband of my pants before I can stop it. My fingers brush against my clit, and I stifle a moan. I’m playing with fire, but I can’t help myself.

The TV shifts to a candid shot of me laughing, my head thrown back. Kirk speeds up his strokes, his claws digging into the sheets as he nears the edge. My other hand clutches the doorframe, my knuckles white.

I’m supposed to be finding evidence, uncovering the truth. Instead, I’m here, fingering myself while I watch him wank to the sight of me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

But I can’t stop. My hips roll against my hand, the pressure building. Kirk’s breaths come faster, his voice a low rumble as he says my name over and over like a mantra.

And then he comes, thick ropes of come painting his scaled abs. My body clenches around my fingers, my own orgasm crashing over me in waves.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out. My legs shake as I pull my hand free, my mind racing.

What the fuck just happened?

Kirk collapses back onto the bed, his chest heaving. I take a shaky step back, my heart pounding. I need to get out of here before he notices me.

My legs finally remember how to move. Just in time too - Kirk rises from the bed, his scaled form rippling as he stretches. I dart back down the hallway, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.

The alcove near the grand staircase catches my eye. Perfect. I scramble up into the shadowed space, pressing myself against the cool marble. Please don't look up here.

Kirk's footsteps pad across the floor below. His nose twitches as he inhales deeply, and a low chuckle escapes him. What's so funny? Then he starts singing, his voice surprisingly melodic:

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