Page 31 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
And then he fucks me—fucks me—with relentless force.
Each stroke hits the sweet spot. The slick sounds of our bodies meeting fill the space. My clit rubs against the ridges at the base of his cock with every thrust. I reach down to rub it faster, desperate, needy.
“Don’t you dare,” he snarls.
He knocks my hand away and takes over, thumb finding my clit and rubbing in brutal little circles, timed with the thrust of his cock.
“I do it,” he growls. “I make you come.Nobody else.Not even you.”
That’s all it takes. I explode—vision shattering, body jerking. My pussy convulses around him, sucking him deeper, tighter. I scream, nails clawing at his shoulders.
Dayn’s whole body locks. His jaw clenches, then he thrustshardone last time and pours himself into me—hot, thick pulses of come flooding my pussy, his claws digging into the metal on either side of my head.
We’re shaking. Panting. Still joined.
He kisses me hard, one hand cupping my face with unexpected gentleness. “Josie,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “I’m never letting you go.”
I grin, dazed, tangled in wires and his body. “Good. I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in forever, I know exactly who I belong to.
When it ends, we stay tangled—lungs burning, skin flushed, hearts hammering like distant drums.
He rolls off me, breathing ragged. His eyes meet mine. “That was… inevitable.”
I smile, voice hoarse. “Yeah.”
We don’t speak more.
We don’t need to.
There’s movement by the door—someone might have heard. Someonedid. We scramble, pulling into ourselves and patching clothes.
He whispers, low and deep: “We can’t?—”
“I know,” I say, voice soft but certain. “But we did.”
He nods.
And under the weight of everything—the broken workshop, the rebellion in dust, the seeds we’ve planted—I realize we didn’t need a plan for this.
We just needed each other.
We collapse onto the concrete floor, scattered by the unfinished tools and wire-wrapped schematics like survivors in the wreckage of something too big to resist. My cheek presses against rough grain metal, cold and grounding after the heat of what just happened. It feels like coming up for air.
I breathe in. The air is heavy with dust, heat, and the faintest scent of him—leather, oil, something ancient and deep that thrums just beneath the image inducer’s human mask. I close my eyes.
Dayn's arm wraps around me again, stronger, more protective. Not as an assassin holds a target, but like a stormssheltering someone beneath the sky. He doesn’t say anything, but his breath vibrates against my hair, low and steady.
I can’t help the teasing lilt that tickles my throat. “So… do assassins usually cuddle after racketeering or revolution?”
He growls, low and amused—more sound than language—and pulls me closer. One clawed hand slides under the image inducer at my neck, the contact featherlight yet blazing across my nerves. It’s not human. Iknowthat now. But his fingers feel soft. Real.
I let him hold me.
Because Iwantto be held too.
When neither of us needs more words, I whisper: “You’re not human.”
