Page 34

CHAPTER 34

H is hand moved: slowly, deliberately.

At first, it was just the press of his palm over the thick fur at her side. A steady, grounding weight. But then his fingers shifted, brushing lightly against the back of her neck, just below the collar.

She tensed, not in fear, but in surprise .

Because the way he touched wasn’t rough. Wasn’t threatening. His fingers were large, thick, and roughened with the calluses of a thousand battles… but the pressure? It was gentle. Like he knew what skin could take. Like he was measuring her responses with each pass.

Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised anymore. This is how he’d touched her back in her chamber, when he was trying to warm her, to soothe her. Well, it was similar, but different.

What is he doing?

She didn’t pull away.

Couldn’t.

He moved again, just slightly—his knuckles grazing the side of her throat, dragging slowly over the fine hairs there, sending a shiver right down her spine.

She closed her eyes for a breath, overwhelmed.

He thought this calmed her.

And it did.

It shouldn’t . But it did.

It was bizarre— alien . Yet, somehow, he touched her almost like a human would. Like someone who wanted to soothe, not dominate. She’d expected something cold and mechanical, but this… this was almost tender.

And worse…

The pleasure he gave her… his touch there —it was better than that of any man she’d ever known. Better than fingers that had been too soft, or too selfish, or too unsure. There was nothing unsure in his touch. It was strong. Possessive. Deliberate.

Her breath hitched as he traced a path down the slope of her neck to her shoulder.

"You’re really something, aren’t you?" she murmured, her voice a little breathless. She shook her head, her lips twitching in disbelief. “You big, bad fucking metalhead. Asshole. What do you even want with me?”

She laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was insane. And because he couldn’t understand a word she was saying. She could say anything right now, and he wouldn’t understand a thing.

In her laughter was tension and release, and awareness of the sheer absurdity of this moment—of being curled on the lap of a faceless alien warrior in the middle of a storm on a distant, unknown planet where the skies were red like blood.

She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t crying.

She was laughing.

And melting.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Was this a dream? A hallucination?

Was she still on Earth, unconscious on a beach, her brain filling the void with this ridiculous, elaborate fantasy? What did this say about her, about her psyche?

She let the thought hang, then fade, because his hand was still moving.

Downward.

Slow.

Measured.

She stiffened again, but didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His touch was reverent. Curious. But certain. He knew he was crossing a boundary, but it wasn’t as if he was asking permission. It was more as if he was reading her permission from the rhythm of her breath and the lack of resistance in her body.

His hand reached the edge of her dress—the strange alien garment clinging to her like liquid fabric. His fingers traced the top swell of her breast.

Just like that.

No hesitation.

Did he even know what he was touching?

Did his kind have breasts? Did their females look like human women?

She didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

Because now his thumb slid across the curve of her nipple—still covered, still protected by that sleek material—and her body betrayed her.

Her tender nub stiffened. Tightened.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips—a moan, barely there. She wished he didn’t hear it, because she didn’t want to betray her weakness, didn’t want to give him anything he could exploit.

But she knew he heard, because he stilled.

And she could feel him listening, every muscle in his body coiling like a predator scenting movement.

He hears everything, doesn’t he?

And still, his hand kept moving downward, over the soft, alien fabric that clung to her skin like a second layer of thought. The material wasn’t like anything on Earth—sometimes it felt cool and fluid, like water rippling under pressure. Now, under his palm, it felt warm, reactive. Almost alive .

She swore it shifted with his touch.

A strange shiver passed through her—part anticipation, part confusion.

His hand was so warm.

Too warm. Not human.

It made her quiver, her breath catching in her throat.

She wanted to hate this.

Wanted to claw her way back to righteous indignation, to the moral clarity of fury.

But she couldn’t.

She just… couldn’t.

Not with the cold storm clawing at the edges of the ship.

Not with the black void pressing against the windows like an ocean of night.

Not when she was curled up on an alien’s lap, held in arms that could kill and cradle in the same breath.

In this moment, in this cabin full of silence and strangeness, she craved something .

Closeness.

Comfort.

Even from him .

The one who’d bought her.

The one who took her from her world.

The one whose touch now made her stomach clench and her skin burn.

This is fucked up.

She stared blankly into the darkened cockpit, watching snow swirl like ash against glass, her heart thudding so hard she thought he might feel it.

She was terrified of what this meant.

Of what she might be giving up if she let herself enjoy this.

Her autonomy . Her power. Her refusal.

It was dangerous— terrifying —to imagine surrendering that.

Letting him claim that last inch of her.

But it was also…

God help her.

Seductive.

Because he wasn’t just touching her.

He was learning her.

His hand passed over her belly, slowly, his fingers grazing the slight dips of her waist. She tensed again, but not in resistance. It was reactive .

He slid lower, over the curve of her hip, thumb dragging along the edge of her pelvis. Each movement was precise and intentional, like he wanted to feel everything. Memorise her.

And then…

His hand reached the swell of her thigh.

A breath hitched in her throat.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t grope.

He caressed .

Fingers trailed over the sensitive skin where fabric met flesh, his touch skating the border of something forbidden and intimate.

She clutched the fur coat tighter around her shoulders, the gesture not protective, but anchoring.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And for the first time, she didn’t think about escape.

Didn’t think about Earth.

She thought only of this .

And somehow— before she even realised what she was doing —her legs parted.

It was only slightly—just a subtle shift of her knees.

But he noticed.

The moment she moved, his fingers followed.

They slid between her thighs, firm and hot— so hot she swore he must be made of molten metal under that skin. The fabric of her strange, alien dress stretched around his touch, pliant and accommodating, as if the material wanted this just as much as her body did.

And he found her.

Found that soft, aching place between her legs.

He pressed against her, just enough to make her breath stutter and her chest rise.

How does he know?

How could a being like him—silent, faceless, from another world—know exactly what would unravel her?

His fingers didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate.

He touched her like he knew her. Like he’d studied the fragile art of pleasure and applied it with absolute precision.

And her body…

Betrayed her completely.

Sylvia closed her eyes and gasped.

Heat unfurled inside her, coiling low in her belly, seeping into her limbs. Her skin tingled beneath the dress. Her nipples peaked, already sensitive from his earlier touch. She clenched the fur coat tighter around herself, half a shield, half an anchor.

But nothing could ground her now.

Not when pure power was touching her like this, so gently it made her tremble.

She went still.

Completely still.

Caught in a state of suspended anticipation.

Pleasure.

Mind gone blank.

The howl of the wind outside faded. The black glass of the cockpit vanished from her awareness. There was nothing left in the universe but the heat of his fingers, the slow, unbearable drag of his palm as he slid her dress higher, higher?—

From the hem that circled her knees.

The fabric shifted like water, responding to his hands as if summoned. It lifted, baring her thighs to the air.

And still, he said nothing.

Made no sound.

Just held her.

Touched her.

Possessed her in silence.

What the fuck is this? What the fuck am I doing?

God, this was like a dream. A nightmare and a euphoric reverie.

His hands— six-fingered , she reminded herself in a dizzy kind of clarity—slid up her bare thighs.

Bare.

Because she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the strange, clinging dress. No underwear. No protection. Nothing between her and him but a single breath of air and a line she hadn't even noticed herself crossing.

He was massive behind her, solid as stone, his bare chest like a wall of muscle carved from deep blue marble. Everything about him was too much —too big, too strong, too alien.

“Oh, my god, ” she whispered, swallowing hard.

Right now, it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see his face.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand a word he said.

It didn’t even matter that he had bought her.

What mattered was the feeling of his hand—callused, wide, hot-as-lava and impossibly precise —sliding higher.

Until he found her.

And still, he didn’t speak.

Just breathed.

Just touched .

And she…

She let him.

Because she didn’t know what else to do. It felt good. So good. Better than anything she’d had from the men she’d known on Earth.

He was responding to her.

To the way she arched into his touch, to the stifled gasps she couldn’t control, to the way her breath hitched each time his fingers traced somewhere more sensitive.

He adjusted.

Teased.

His movements were maddeningly slow, like he was playing her: each shift of pressure, each pass of his fingers calibrated to draw out another tremor, another sigh—like she was an instrument and he’d already mastered how to make her sing.

And when his fingers finally found that most sensitive point, when the pads of them brushed, circled, pressed with devastating precision, her body betrayed her completely.

She gasped.

Soft. Broken.

Gone.

God.

She wanted to say something. Protest. Swear. Moan. Anything. Fuck.

But nothing made it past her lips because her whole body was humming, trembling, tuned to the rhythm of his hands and the steady, inescapable warmth of his body behind her.

She was so vulnerable. So helpless .

But it didn’t scare her anymore.

Not with him.

He could’ve crushed her. Commanded her. Broken her.

But instead, he was coaxing something else out of her entirely.

Pleasure.

And she let him.

To hell with Earth’s rules.

To hell with shame.

It felt good. So impossibly good.

He knew.

She could feel it in the way he moved, the way he paused just long enough to build tension, then soothed her again. Like he could hear every nuance in her breath. Feel every change in the beat of her heart. Smell every flicker of her response.

He knew.

And when it happened, when everything inside her coiled too tight and then snapped, wave after wave crashing through her…

She simply let herself fall apart in his hands.