Page 6 of Hunted By Khor (Alien Mate Hunt #1)

H e drops to his knees in the water, bringing him to eye level. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider than comfortable. The position leaves me completely exposed, but he still doesn't touch where I need. Just studies me.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Your body knows its purpose even if your mind denies it.”

“I'm not?—”

He leans forward and breathes warm air across oversensitive flesh.

The response is immediate, overwhelming. My vision whites out, my knees buckle, and sounds tear from my throat that I've never made before. He catches me before I go under, holds me while I shake through the intensity, my core clenching desperately on emptiness.

The waves of sensation seem to go on forever, leaving me gasping and disoriented when they finally fade.

“So responsive already,” he says against my ear. “Let's see what else your body can do.”

His tongue emerges for the first time—longer than any human tongue could be, forked at the tip like a serpent's.

The ridges that pattern its surface aren't decorative; I can see them flexing, designed for a friction that would be overwhelming.

It moves independently, both forks testing the water around me.

“Please.” The word escapes before I can stop it.

“Please what, little female?”

“I don't—I mean?—”

“Be specific. Tell me exactly what you need.”

The tip of one fork barely grazes my inner thigh. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves through nerves already hypersensitive from the tonic. My skin burns where it touched, the sensation spreading in waves.

“Touch me?—”

“Where?”

“You know where?—”

“Say it. Name the place you need relief.”

“Between my legs. Please.”

But instead of giving me what I begged for, he pulls back completely. Stands, water cascading off scales that have shifted from crimson to deeper red. His body's response is obvious now—anatomy designed for claiming, already prepared for what won't happen. Yet.

“Not yet. You're not desperate enough.”

“I just begged?—”

“Your mouth begged. Your body needs more preparation. When you're truly ready, words won't come. You'll just be need incarnate.”

He turns to leave. Panic flares, hot and sharp.

“Wait!”

He pauses at the pool's edge. “There's food cached to your left. The purple fruits. They'll ease the worst of it. Slightly.”

Then he's gone, leaving me trembling in his pheromone-saturated water, my core empty and aching, that brief moment of relief having only intensified everything else.

I find the fruit—dark purple things that taste like copper and ash. They do help, barely. The desperate edge softens to merely unbearable. But I can still feel his pheromones working through my system, his territorial marking soaking into my transformed skin.

That night I don't even try to sleep. I lie beside the pool on sun-warmed stone, legs spread, hand working between my thighs. Nothing helps. Two fingers, then three, trying to approximate what my body craves. But my fingers are too short, too smooth, wrong temperature, wrong texture.

I try grinding against the smooth rocks, finding one with a ridge that almost helps. The pressure brings me close, so close, but I can't tip over. My body refuses. It knows what it needs and won't accept substitutes.

“Please,” I whisper to the darkness. “Please come back.”

Nothing. Just wind and my own desperate sounds.

By dawn, the ground around me shows the evidence of my struggle. Scratches where my new claws dug into earth. The stone is dark with sweat and the evidence of my body's constant preparation. My fingers are cramped from hours of futile effort, my core sore but still desperately empty.

He said tomorrow. The promise hangs in the air like a lifeline.

But there's something else in the air now. Another scent, fainter than his but definitely male. Different. Younger.

Something else is hunting these grounds, and my scent is drawing more than just my intended mate.