Page 10 of Claimed by the Alien Assassin

His mouth latches onto a nipple without waiting for permission. His tongue is hot, talented, and when he sucks, the ache in my pussy becomes a raw, desperate throb. I throw my head back and cry out, legs squeezing tighter around his waist.

“Say it,” he demands, licking a hard circle around the bud. “Tell me who this body belongs to.”

“You,” I gasp. “Yours. Always yours.”

That’s when he moves.

He spins, carrying me across the workshop. My back hits the workbench with a thud, and he doesn’t wait—just yanks my pants and underwear down in one fluid movement. I squirm under him, breath hitching as he drops to his knees and spreads me wide with his massive hands.

“Hold the edge,” he commands.

I obey, clutching the table behind my head as his mouth finds my pussy and devours me. His tongue is longer than a man’s, and the way he uses it—fuck. He doesn’t just lick—he explores. Flicking, stroking, tasting like he’s memorizing every twitch, every whimper.

When he finds my clit, he doesn’t tease. He attacks.

“Shit—Dayn—!” My thighs tremble, pussy flooding his mouth as my orgasm hits fast and mean, a brutal burst that knocks the breath out of me.

But he’s not done.

Before the tremors finish wracking my body, he stands, grabs my waist, and flips me onto my stomach on the bench. His claws scrape along my back as he drags me to the edge, my legs dangling, ass in the air.

“Still wet,” he mutters, rubbing his cock between my cheeks. “Still fucking perfect.”

I feel the head of him—not just hot and hard, but thick and textured. His cock isn’t smooth like a human’s. There are subtle ridges along the shaft, and when he presses into me, they stretch my walls in the most obscene, incredible way.

I cry out as he buries himself in one hard, claiming thrust.

“ Fuuuck. ” His voice shudders against my spine. “You grip me like you never want to let go.”

He pins me flat, one hand braced on the small of my back, the other gripping my wrists behind me. I can’t move. Don’t want to move.

“You’re mine now,” he growls, voice vibrating through my bones. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I choke out, face flushed against cold metal, pussy clenching around his cock like it knows.

He fucks me slow at first—deep and punishing, letting me feel every inch. The ridges along his cock rub my walls perfectly, the curve hitting places I’ve never known a man to reach.

But then the pace shifts.

Dayn releases my wrists, grabs my hips, and starts pounding. My cries echo in the workshop, mingling with the wet slap of skin and the scrape of his scales against my thighs. Each thrust rocks the bench. The sound of metal rattling under me is loud, but not louder than my gasps.

He pulls me upright, holding me against his chest, still buried deep.

“I want to see your face when I ruin you,” he murmurs in my ear. “I want to see those eyes when you come on me again.”

My legs are shaking, my whole body trembling—but I turn in his arms, and he lifts me effortlessly again. Like I weigh nothing. Like I’m a doll he can wreck.

This time he lays me back on a pile of schematics and greasy cloth, knees up, legs spread, and climbs between them. His eyes lock on mine—two blazing black, one burning red.

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 thrusts hard one 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. Someone did . 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 storms sheltering 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. I know that now. But his fingers feel soft. Real.

I let him hold me.

Because I want to be held too.

When neither of us needs more words, I whisper: “You’re not human.”

He doesn’t pull away. He just shifts, the metal plate beneath my ear pressing gently, grounding me.

“Why does that matter?” It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

His lips brush my hairline, and his words are a breath: “Because you still chose me.”

The heat behind my eyes burns—fierce and soft all at once.

I roll onto my back, cradle his face in my palm.

The image inducer skims his brow, but everything else is bone and flesh beneath.

I trace the line of his jaw, wondering what star forged the creature beneath the mask, and if he’s cursed to carry old wounds in places I can’t reach.

“What do they call you?” I ask softly, voice like a prayer no one ever taught me to say.

He stills. His eyes—those deep, fathomless things—flick to mine through the filter. I feel the weight of fantastic danger there, but also something gentler.

“Dayn.”

I swallow.

“It suits you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

I trail my fingers along his neck. “I’m not letting you go.”

He smiles. Not broad, but in the curve of his lips—something like hope. “Good.”

A silence settles then—quiet but alive, like dawn stirring beneath rubble.

There’s fear in it, too. Because this moment?

It’s fragile. Fleeting. Because the promise of what’s next carries every risk we’ve faced—and millions we can't foresee. Because there’s a galaxy that wants me weak, and one that wants him weaponized and disposable.

And they will come for us.

But right now, he’s here. And I’m here. That’s enough.

Together.

I slip a hand against his chest under the mask, feeling the slow, steady pulse of a heart I’ve rebuilt from trust and shared battlecry. My thumb brushes a scar that doesn’t belong to me. I swallow.

“You’re mine,” I say. Not a question.

He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

Then he tightens around me—strong, true, fierce.

And in the cold wreckage of our workshop, among blueprints and broken tools, we become home for each other.

And nothing will ever be the same.