Page 78 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“Say it,” he urges, voice muffled against my pussy. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“Like I’m being built,” I choke. “Like my body is a cathedral and you found every bell. Like I’m not ashamed of wanting.” He groans into me at that, and the vibration starts me climbing. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he vows, and he doesn’t. He keeps me right there, teetering, then pushes me over with two lazy strokes and a slow suck that makes the night ring. I come hard, not shattering, blooming—heat and light rolling through me in waves that leave me damp and shaking and laughing his name like a blasphemythat finally feels honest. He doesn’t let go until I tug at his hair and pant his name in surrender.
“Up,” he says softly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, licking his thumb absently like he’s tasting victory. “Come here.”
I crawl back over him, kissing him, licking myself from his lower lip, dizzy with how alive I am. He shifts under me, towering even prone, guiding with a hand at my hip, the other bracing my spine. The head of his cock slides against my slick entrance, nudging, asking. I breathe, settle, take him in.
He stretches me deliciously, slow, steady, eyes locked on mine as I slide down, down, until I’m full in a way that makes my fingertips tingle. The pressure is deep, a sweet ache that flips into pleasure as my body yields and welcomes. I shake; he stills. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, every muscle trembling with restraint.
“I’m not a door,” I say, smiling through another small, helpless tear because apparently my face is just a leak now. “I’m a fuse. You’re the match. Light me.”
He exhales something that might be a prayer and starts to move. Slow first, a tide more than a thrust, grinding the blunt crown of his cock against that needy place inside until my toes curl and my head knocks softly against the telescope mount. He’s so big, and he knows it; he rolls his hips to stroke me from the inside, angling me with those huge hands so the friction crescendos exactly where I’m weak.
“Talk to me,” he says, ragged. “Tell me the color of it.”
“Gold,” I gasp, then laugh breathlessly because of course. “Gold and—oh—Gods, there—yes—violet at the edges. Like the sky when it’s about to be night. Like… like I can take anything if you don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” he says again, and the word lands in my chest like a keystone. He sits up with me, arms caging without trapping, andI wrap myself around his torso, thighs tight around his hips, my hands sliding over the thick cords of his back, palms skimming the cool, hard mosaic of scales that armor his shoulders. I ride him and he meets me, and the sound of our bodies is obscene and holy—the wet slap, the creak, the quiet grunt he can’t swallow when I clench down around him and roll my hips just so.
“Say it,” I taunt, breathless and mean because love lets me be. “Tell me how my pussy feels.”
“Like it was built to keep me,” he growls, forehead knocking mine, fangs flashing as his control frays. “Like you’re milking me with every pulse. Like if I die right now I’ll haunt you in gratitude.”
“Do it,” I gasp, laughing even as I sob, even as the coil pulls tight again low in my belly. “Haunt me. Stay. Don’t you dare stop.”
He doesn’t. He reaches between us and thumbs my clit, small circles that match the roll of his hips, and I go taut, drawn bow. The world narrows to the thick slide of his cock and the hot pressure building and the way he’s looking at me, feral and tender and mine. “I love you,” he bites out, and I break.
Pleasure rips through me, bright and deep, a tide choosing to stay, and I cry out, nails digging into his back, thighs shaking around his waist. He curses in Vakutan, a gorgeous guttural thing, and thrusts twice, three times, losing the rhythm at the end the way men do when the body takes over. He buries himself to the hilt, heat flooding me in slow, shivering pulses, and his head drops to my shoulder as a sound I’ve never heard him make leaves him—vulnerable, relieved, wrecked.
We stay like that, wrapped, breathing each other back into one piece. He softens inside me; I flex around him lazily and he groans like I’m unkind. “Again,” I whisper, grinning into hisneck, drunk on him, on us, on the fact that no one is going to knock.
“Always,” he says, and kisses me, slow and sure, as if the stars have all the time in the world.
We lie there and let the night soak back in, the cloak kicked to our hips, skin cooling in the clean air. I put my ear over his heart and listen to the slow drum I know by every measure—battle, fear, laughter, that moment in the armory when shame tried to build a cage and didn’t finish the job. Tonight it’s steady in a way I’ve never heard. The moonstone on my finger warms against his chest. He slides his hand into my hair and combs, slow, careful, the way you do a beloved thing you want to keep.
“Tell me what it feels like now,” he says after a quiet minute, because he can’t help taking notes.
“Like I’ve been barefoot in summer for hours,” I murmur. “Like lemon and dust and clean glass and you. Like I could sleep for a week and wake up starving.”
He chuckles, low and pleased. “Good. I intend to feed you.”
I nuzzle his jaw, tracing the jagged line of the old scar with my fingertip. “I love you,” I say, as unafraid as I have ever been.
His golden eyes soften, bright as ringlight. “Copy,” he whispers, and the soldier in him makes the word gentle again—makes it home.
“Say it,”I ask, because while I’m here I might as well be shameless.
“I love you,” he says, and the room doesn’t echo because the word is heavy enough to drink sound. “I love you when you’re good. I love you when you are a storm in a dress. I love you when you cheat at chess with jam on your fingers and when you negotiate with gods using laughter. I love you when you tell me to breathe and when you make it impossible.”
I prop my chin on his sternum and grin down at him, stupid with joy. “You’re very eloquent for a man who allegedly hates poetry.”
“I hate bad poetry,” he says. “I am in favor of you.”
“Wise stance,” I say, and kiss him again, slow, just to see if the world will keep being kind. It does.
We drift, not to sleep yet, but to that warm brink where talking loosens. I tell him about the ice relay, how I want to hang bells in the corridor that ring when the wind tells me a story, how I want a window seat big enough for both of us where I can put my toes under his thigh and read while he pretends not to watch me. He tells me about the cliff that eats words, how the wind there will try to take our names if we stand in it long enough, how he plans to let it, some days, so we can be nobody for an hour and then come back grinning. I tell him I’m keeping my chessboard on the kitchen table like a declaration of war on boredom. He tells me he’s going to plant a lemon in a pot by the door and teach it to behave with kindness and threats. We catalog tiny futures like we’re stacking small stones along a path to make sure it doesn’t forget us.
