Page 34 of Alien Wants A Wife

But… how could anyone be genuinely pleased by the idea of nobody noticing their disappearance? It’s impossible.

Sure, maybe a few of my Insta followers might wonder why I haven’t posted lately. And probably the company that organizes for my fabrics to be distributed to my buyers will have noticed, but only because I haven’t set up my banking to auto-pay my bills.

I haven’t spoken to my family in five years. And I haven’t spoken to Asher in two.

And my friends…What friends?my brain demands. I’ve been so focused on getting onto reality TV and working on expanding my design brand that I’ve had hardly any free time to socialize.

Ironic, really, that the reason I wanted to star on TV is the exact reason nobody will notice I’m gone. I wanted the validation of people thinking I’m a good person, someone worth loving and spending time with that I quite literally abandoned everyone I used to have in pursuit of that goal.

Not that Asher had ever thought I was good enough for him. And he certainly hadn’t loved me unconditionally. No way. Asher had given his love to me only when I’d done something he’d thought was worthy of reward—when I’d pretended I hadn’t seen him flirting with other women. When I’d made him laugh. When I hadn’t interrupted the hours and hours he’d spent playing video games, ignoring me.

He’d dumped me, anyway, after three years of us living together and me desperately trying to make a home for us.

I’m a leftover woman,my brain tells me. And, like always, that intrusive thought is akin to what I imagine it feels like to be stabbed.

After Asher, I’d taken a long hard look at my life, and I’d decided there were lots of parts of me that needed fixing. And fix them I had.

Would my old friends recognize me, after my breakup from Asher? After two years of us not seeing each other? I’m so different to who I’d been back then. I’m quieter and more reserved. More focused on thinking about what I’m going to say before I’ve spoken.

I’m as tall as I’ve ever been, but somehow I take up less space now.

Even in this moment, filled with a desperate ache to kiss Roan, I’m hesitating, weighing up my options, instead of jumping in headfirst, as the old me would’ve done.

This is what happens when you’ve been burnt one too many times: you lose faith in yourself. You seek external validationfrom strangers, because the family you thought you could trust has broken your heart more times than you can count.

I release a shuddering breath, tightening my hold on Roan’s hand, anchoring myself to him. There’s something so solid about him. So dependable. He’s been nothing but kind and supportive since we met.

And all he’s asked in return is for a chance to get to know me. He simply wants what everybody wants—love, family, companionship.Kisses.

I wrap my other arm around his waist, loving the feel of his scales against the palm of my hand. They’re not soft. There isn’t anything soft about Roan—except maybe the way he treats me. His body is all hard muscles and tough scales.

Toughness doesn’t mean roughness, and I stroke my hand over his lower back, trying to memorize the feeling of him. Unlike any Human, of course.

Unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.

Fuck it.

Standing on my tiptoes, hands on Roan’s shoulder, I lean in and…

“Kissing is for noses?” He sounds highly confused.

“What? No!” As comfy as the darkness is, it’s also impossible to see Roan’s mouth, so I locate it with my fingers. His lips are silken, kind of. He’s got these white scales that (when you can see them) look a lot like teeth and that I can feel with my fingertips. I suppose, evolutionary-wise it’s a good idea to always be looking ready to bite anyone who has the foolish impression you’re their prey. Kissing-wise… excitement sends tingles down my spine in anticipation of learning how they’ll feel against my lips.

“Harlee.” His mouth moves under my fingers, his warm breath skating over my skin.

I hate that we’re being filmed.

I don’t hate what I’m about to do.

“Roan,” I whisper his name and finally press my lips to his.

His body tenses, and I hear a sharp inhalation. Closing my eyes, I let myself rest more fully against his chest, molding myself to his statuesque form, drawing pleasure from his warmth.

I take the lead. Haltingly, he copies, moving his lips against mine. It’s not exactly what I’d call kissing. It’s more two people awkwardly rubbing lips together, out of rhythm with each other. Not super sexy. Endearing, though.

Running a hand up his chest, I linger at the base of his throat, squeezing. I’m not scared I’m going to hurt him; I could no more physically hurt Roan than I could a heavily armored rhinoceros. Instead, I use my hold to angle his head a little to one side so our noses don’t keep getting in the way. Then I deepen the kiss. Nipping his bottom lip. Tracing the seam of his lips with my tongue.

He shifts, resettling his weight, relaxing his muscles, parting his lips, and the entire experience shifts from being ungainly and graceless to fireworks.

---