Page 33 of Claimed By the Alien Prince

CARYS

I kiss him back. Hard.

Desperation surges between us, and the world dissolves into a chaotic blur of heat and longing. My body crashes against his like thunder rumbling in the storm, each clash igniting something primal deep within me.

His hands roam, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer as if I might slip away again. My own hands find purchase on his arms, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. I should hate this. I should push him away.

But the taste of him—rich and intoxicating—floods my senses, overwhelming my logic.

“I hate you!” I manage to gasp between frantic kisses.

He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, a smirk playing on his lips that only infuriates me further. “You don’t,” he counters, voice low and teasing.

“Really? You fucking yelled at me!” My frustration spills over as I shove against his chest, pushing him back slightly—but he doesn’t budge.

“And you ran from the castle like a reckless child!” His voice sharpens, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement laced within it that makes my heart race for reasons I can’t explain.

“I wasn’t running! I was escaping!”

“Escaping?” He leans in again, brushing his lips against mine as if testing my resolve. “From what? A cozy little room with warm meals?”

“I’d take prison over your bullshit any day,” I fire back even as my body betrays me, leaning into him again.

His grip tightens around my waist, drawing me flush against him once more. “And yet here you are.” His breath mingles with mine; it’s electric.

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “Don’t think this means anything,” I say defiantly as our mouths clash together again in a mess of passion and urgency.

“You can lie to yourself all you want.” He bites down gently on my lower lip before diving back in with renewed fervor. His hands roam under the hem of my robe, fingers skimming across bare skin and setting off sparks that dance through every nerve ending.

My heart pounds as our bodies tangle together in this reckless argument—a fierce battle of wills cloaked in hunger and heat.

“Let go of me,” I demand weakly against his mouth, even as every fiber of my being screams for more.

He chuckles softly against me, his eyes darkening with mischief. “Not a chance.”

My hands betray me, pulling him even closer.

The swamp’s chill evaporates under his hands.

“Hold still,” Zevran growls, fingers skimming the clasp of my mud-caked field vest. His claws snag on the polymer—frost-blue fabric tears clean down the middle.

I grapple for his belt with swamp-slime still caked under my nails. “Your tailor’s going to hate me.”

“Don't care.” He crushes his mouth to mine, peeling the wrecked vest off my shoulders.

The remaining shreds of my shirt follow, plastered to my skin with cold muck he licks away like some starved thing.

I arch into the heat of his tongue tracing my collarbone, lips parting around a gasp when his teeth graze the swell of my breast.

His laugh rumbles against my nipple. “Pathetic human biology.”

“Says the guy whose knees just buckled.” I claw at his tunic’s intricate closures, green geometric sigils glowing faintly under debris. Six different buckles clatter to the moss. “Why the hell do royals dress like they’re allergic to zippers?!”

“Ceremonial—”

“Ceremonial pain in my ass.” The final clasp snaps. His tunic slumps open, revealing those jade-marked abs I’ve accidentally mentally blueprinted six ways to Sunday.

He kicks off his boots in one fluid motion, retractable foot-spurs glinting. “Still talking.”

“Still winning. ” My thumbs hook into his waistband. The smug quip dies when his erection springs free—all smooth alien granite and flushed violet undertones.

Our remaining clothes vanish in a frenzy of shredding fabric and bitten curses. He lifts me against a moss pillar, hands worshiping every curve like cartography. “Mine,” he snarls against my throat, fingers pinching a nipple. “Every scar. Every freckle.”

"Delusional princeling?—”

His hips snap forward, a swift, unyielding invasion that steals my voice, steals the forest’s oxygen, and leaves me clawing at his shoulders with a desperation that borders on feral.

He fills me with brutal precision, every inch of him a testament to the raw, untamed power of Verus itself.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine, his breathing as ragged as the terrain that surrounds us.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl that resonates in the hollow of my throat.

"No," I defy him, even as my body betrays me, arching into his touch, craving more.

A sharp thrust, a punishing rhythm that punches the lie from my lungs. I choke on a moan, my nails raking over the sacred markings along his spine, tracing the deep green geometric patterns that tell the history of his people. "Th-that’s cheating?—”

"Say it feels good," he orders, dragging out to the tip before slamming home, the angle shifting in a way that sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through me. Deeper, hotter, stars bursting behind my eyelids in a celestial display that rivals the luminescent fungi of the underbrush.

"Never—” The word is a gasp, a denial that is lost in the symphony of our joining.

He flips us mid-thrust, a display of strength that is as thrilling as it is terrifying.

My back hits the soft moss, a stark contrast to the hardness of the body that covers me.

My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, locking him to me, as if there's any chance of escape.

His grin is pure predation, a baring of teeth that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Different enough for you?" he taunts, the smugness in his tone only serving to stoke the fire of my defiance.

"Basic… missionary… isn’t… innovative —” My words are punctuated by the harsh rhythm of our breaths, by the relentless pounding of his hips against mine.

Three punishing strokes cut me off, each one a declaration of possession, a demand for surrender. His hand circles my throat, not tightening—claiming. A silent promise of protection, a vow that he will never let me fall. "Take. All. Of. It."

And I do. I take every thrust, every growl, every whispered endearment in a language I've never heard but somehow understand. I take the pleasure and the pain, the sweetness and the sting, until there is nothing left but us.

The climax rips through me like solar flare. He follows with a roar, spilling heat that rivals Verus’ core. We collapse in a tangle of limbs and gasped breaths, his chuckle vibrating against my sweat-slicked shoulder.

I bite his bicep.

“Brat.”

“Tyrant.”

"Mate."

I pause, looking at him. Really looking at him. And, even though I don't say it… I know he sees it.

I'm his mate. And he's mine.