Page 18 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

T he prep dome smells like morning and adrenaline—sharp citrus zest, damp flour, the earthy tug of truffled sea salt.

I inhale it, steadier than I feel, as I watch Rekkgar move beside me.

He’s quieter today, all silent storms rolling in his stance.

His jaw juts just the slightest fraction of a millimeter when he reaches for an emerald basil leaf or racks a steaming pan of pugori powder.

The cameras creep around us, red lights blinking, but I’m only aware of the space between him and me—an electric current humming with that familiar charge.

We’re up next—a duet titled “Harmony Through Taste.” They say judges want unity of flavor and form, a sensory dialogue across species.

What they don’t know is that between us, the actual language is unspoken.

A glance, a nod, a subtle shift of hips while maneuvering past each other—it tells the story we built in late-night kitchens, in flour-flecked laughter, in wounded words left unspoken.

I glance at him—really look at him. The way his dirt-stained warrior skin softens under the studio lights, the flicker of internal red-eye blade pausing mid-calc, the creases around his ice-blue eye that move when he’s thinking twenty steps ahead.

I sense his tension; he’s bracing for something—maybe a judge’s sniff, maybe a camera angle, maybe the unknown. But he’s anchored here, for me.

When the host shoves a platter of alien root ribbons and Earth-style cream br?lée our way and blurts, “Show us your harmony,” I exhale.

Together, we step into the ring. All eyes.

My hands still shake, but Rekkgar’s palm grazes my back just long enough to steady me.

I turn, blink, and find strength in his posture. A protector’s in me blooms.

We unpack. I zest lemon over the br?lée; he drizzles wormwood syrup atop sugar curls.

I carve root ribbons; he fans them out like petals.

When I reach for a knife, he’s already passed it to me—silent, precise, present.

Every gesture is measured, effortless. It feels like dancing.

Our breaths sync: inhale, exhale, plate, present.

I drop a micro-herb blossom into his soup bowl; he mirrors it with a micro-flower on mine.

The audience blurs. The lights glare. I don’t miss a single move he makes—how his foot shifts, how his eyes soften mid-smile, how his body angles protectively toward me across the counter.

“Work together,” one judge hisses through clipped teeth. “Make it sing.”

“Control your components,” another adds, “or it collapses.”

My chest aches. The burning bubble of recognition: we already are singing. The flavors weave in my mouth: sweet Earth cream, spicy alien root, the faint kiss of fire-pepper beneath the micro-herb. I swirl the spoon for the judge. Rekkgar bows his head, then meets my eyes.

I lift the spoon again, bridge the distance in a single motion, and place it daintily onto the judge’s counter. The judge tastes. Pauses. I feel Rekkgar’s gaze sharpen into something warm, triumphant.

When the judge nods—just once—every cell in me releases.

Backstage, the cameras are relentless, but they catch me in motion: I’m moving through press, through handshakes, through blinking lights, and there—where the chaos thins—he’s waiting.

Not stoic. Not distant. Not untouchable.

Just him —nearly silent, nearly detached, except his hand drifts toward mine, fingers curling around mine in front of the rolling lens and globed lights and shouting questions.

I don’t pull away.

And I know—in that breath, that space—that we have crossed from partnership into something sacred.

We’re not just baking together.

We’re living, breathing proof that we belong—side by side—as equals, as allies, as something deeply, irrevocably entwined.

And maybe, just maybe, the world is ready for it too.

I swallow hard. My breath catches in my throat as I whisper, “Rekkgar.”

That’s all it takes.

He crosses the room in three strides, every inch of his seven-foot frame radiating barely leashed hunger.

His black scales shimmer under the overhead lights, stripes of red like war paint across his massive arms and chest. When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to. His hand comes up—so slow, so careful—and cups the side of my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone like I’m made of spun sugar.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, his voice low, guttural, wrecked.

I can’t. I won’t.

Instead, I rise onto my toes and press my mouth to his.

It’s fire.

It’s a growl and a gasp and the heat of a decade of denial igniting in a single kiss.

His mouth crushes against mine, his teeth graze my lower lip, his tongue sweeps deep to taste every inch he can reach.

I whimper, my fingers fisting in the collar of his tunic, tugging him closer until my chest is flush against the solid heat of him.

Rekkgar groans—low, feral, primal—and suddenly his hands are everywhere.

One grips the back of my neck, the other slides down to cup my ass, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my skirt rucking up as he carries me to the prep counter and sets me down with a thud that rattles the spice jars.

“You smell like sugar,” he growls into my neck, his nose dragging along my jaw. “Like cinnamon and cream. Fuck, Ruby.”

His claws—gods, he has claws—drag up the back of my thighs, lifting my skirt, baring me to the cool air. I gasp, arching into his touch, heat pooling between my legs as his fingers trace the lace edge of my panties.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his breath trembling.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, Rekkgar, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He tears the lace away with a single rip, tossing it to the floor like it offends him. Then he drops to his knees—on his knees, between my thighs, his massive body dwarfed only by the intensity in his gaze as he hooks my knees over his shoulders and leans in.

The first stroke of his tongue makes me sob.

“Fuck,” I whimper, my head falling back. “Rekk—oh—gods—Rekkgar!”

He growls against my pussy, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

His tongue works with devastating precision—broad licks, sharp flicks, little circles that make my thighs tremble and my hips buck.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow when I come, writhing on the countertop, crying out his name as my orgasm crashes over me like a rogue wave.

He holds me through it, licking me gently as I shudder, then presses a kiss to my inner thigh and looks up with eyes that glow with something dark and beautiful.

“You taste better than anything I’ve ever cooked,” he murmurs. “Better than any victory.”

I pull him up by the front of his tunic and kiss him again, tasting myself on his lips. My hands scramble to undo the magnetic clasps across his chest, each one popping open with a hiss until the tunic falls away, revealing hard muscle, dark scales, and a constellation of old scars.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” I breathe, my palms trailing down his chest, over the slash of scar tissue that rakes across his ribs. “Every inch.”

He growls again, low and trembling, and fumbles at his waistband. I help, my hands shaking with anticipation as I bare him.

And then I see it—his cock, thick, long, ridged with the same faint red markings as the rest of his body. My breath catches.

“Will I fit?” I ask, half-teasing, half-terrified.

His eyes darken. “I’ll make you fit.”

And then he kisses me again—rougher now, more desperate—before positioning himself between my thighs. He slides the thick head of his cock through my folds, groaning as it catches on my still-sensitive clit. I gasp, my nails digging into his back.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice raw.

I nod. “Yes. Fuck me, Rekkgar.”

He pushes in.

Slow. So slow. Stretching me inch by inch until I think I’ll shatter. I whimper, my head falling back, my mouth open as he fills me completely.

“Oh… gods,” I gasp. “You’re—fuck—you’re so big.”

“You’re perfect,” he growls, his forehead pressed to mine. “So tight. So wet. Ruby, fuck, I can’t?—”

He thrusts.

Hard.

I cry out, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist as he fucks me in deep, punishing strokes that send sparks flying behind my eyes. The prep counter shakes. The spice jars fall. Somewhere in the distance, something shatters.

I don’t care.

“Harder,” I beg. “Don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t.

He slams into me, every thrust rocking my body, every growl making my pussy clench tighter around him. His cybernetic eye flares red, and he cups my face like I’m breakable even as he pounds into me like he’s coming undone.

“I’ve wanted this,” he gasps, “so long—so fucking long—Ruby?—”

“Me too,” I sob, tears spilling over. “I’ve wanted you—every day—every fucking day?—”

We come together.

I feel it—him tensing, roaring into my neck as his cock throbs deep inside me, and I shatter around him, crying his name like a prayer.

When it ends, we cling to each other—panting, shaking, spent.

He kisses me then—soft and slow and reverent—and I know.

We aren’t just heat and fire and stolen moments.

We are forever.

The applause still echoes in my ears, a distant thunder as I stare at the judges’ table.

The Vortaxian critic—sharp-witted, always ready with a cutting barb—leans forward, eyes glinting with something like respect, maybe astonishment.

Her voice, low and dry, carries louder than I expect: “A couple that cooks like that is clearly bonded.”

My stomach flips. I force a smile that feels fragile as sugar glass. Not because I’m embarrassed—though it tingles against my cheeks—but because it’s true. I feel something real, something tethered and fierce, in how we moved together, how our breaths fell in sync, hardly needing words.