Page 23

Roslyn

“If you want me to stop, tell me.”

I should, shouldn’t I?

I should keep my goddamn head on straight, keep some distance. Remember all of this is an act, just an act. There’s no reason at all I should be considering this.

But… fuck. Somewhere between hating him and trusting him and fighting with him and fake kissing him, all my wires got crossed.

Because with a big, muscled, handsome Revexoran warrior between my thighs, hands on my ass, looking at me with all those galaxies in his eyes swirling more chaotically than they ever have before, I can’t remember the reasons this is a mistake.

The only thing I can remember is how I’ve always burned around him.

And fine, maybe some of that burning was fury and frustration, but somehow that only feeds my deranged need to pull him closer, to wage this new battle with him and see who comes out victorious.

I bury my hands in his hair and grip tight, meeting his eye.

A low rumble breaks in the back of Zan’s throat, one that almost sounds pained as he waits for me to answer. “Tell me to stop, Roslyn.”

“I… can’t.”

Another rumble, muscles bunching and tensing, hands flexing like he’s just as close to losing whatever scrap of control he’s still holding onto as I am.

“Can’t, or don’t want to?”

The question is low, urgent, asked against my overheated skin as he leans in and runs his lips over my throat, teeth dragging lightly and sending sparks shooting all the way through me.

I tip my head back to give him better access, tug at his hair to bring him even closer, silently begging, pleading, not even remotely capable of putting into words everything I want him to—

“Roslyn.” He pulls back, breathing hard. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I gasp. “Fuck, Zan, I want this. I want you to—”

Zan’s kissing has definitely gotten better.

With a hand fisted into what’s left of the braid I styled my hair into tonight and his other arm banded under my ass to keep me firmly held against him, Zan kisses me hard, tongue stroking into me and a deep, satisfied rumble kicking up in his chest. Like he’s taken each and every kiss, each touch, every time he’s let me lead and used it as a training session.

There’s nothing hesitant in his kiss, nothing uncertain, nothing fumbling or awkward as he goes to work unravelling me completely.

It’s good, so fucking good, good enough that I don’t notice him moving us across the room until my ass lands on the hard stone counter top of the kitchen island.

Even then, he doesn’t relent. Not for a single damn second.

And neither do I.

It’s different, this kiss. Just like he said, there are no cameras here, no one we have to perform for. But there’s still something so achingly familiar in the push and pull, in the unrelenting need to get one up, to best each other, to win.

Only this time, it doesn’t matter at all who’s going to come out victorious.

Because with Zan’s lips slanted hard and demanding against mine, the slow, sensual stroke of his tongue, the press of his hard body between my legs and the harsh, insistent, oh-so-gratifying growls of pleasure breaking in the back of his throat, I couldn’t give a shit.

There’s no battle to fight. No war to wage. Nothing but the bone-deep need for more .

Breaking the kiss, I tug hard on his hair, tipping his head back so his neck is exposed. I kiss and suck and bite my way to the hollow of his throat, hands making quick work of the first few buttons on his shirt.

Zan seems to get the hint as he reaches back between his shoulder blades, yanks it off, and tosses it to the floor.

It puts him on full display. All those muscles. The plated ridges running down his shoulders and arms, molded to his pecs and abdomen like living armor. I don’t know where to look first, where to touch first, and I don’t get the chance to decide as Zan crowds back into me. He tugs me right to the edge of the counter, spreading my thighs wide around his hips.

And then his hands are at my dress

The flowy, cream-colored garment has short sleeves that cover my scars and tattoos, and a row of buttons running all the way down the front.

Carefully, methodically, he goes to work.

For a moment, a pulse of unease rings discordantly through me, enough to chase away the haze of pleasure. Zan parts the front of my dress, eyes roving over each inch of skin he exposes, and I’m worried he’ll forget. I’m worried he’ll try to slide it the rest of the way off, and although he saw me naked earlier, I’m… not sure I’m ready for that.

I haven’t slept with anyone since my injury, and while objectively I know there’s nothing wrong with me—that it’s just skin, just scar tissue, nothing to be ashamed of—I’ll be damned if I can make my stupidly tender heart believe that.

But it turns out I don’t have to worry.

When the dress slouches loose and open—leaving my chest completely bare since I decided to forgo a bra tonight—Zan pulls back.

It makes me feel even more vulnerable, but only for as long as it takes to see the look on his face.

I must be getting better at reading his stoic Revexoran features, because the harsh press of his lips as he sucks in a deep breath, the lowering of his brow, the absolute focus in his black eyes, makes the bottom of my belly knot with pleasure.

He raises one hand and cups my breast, squeezing gently, soothing strokes over my nipple with his thumb, and I can’t help myself. I arch into him, a moan slipping from my lips.

He chuckles, low and knowing. “I take it you like this? I’ve read these can be… sensitive. For human women.”

Oh, god.

Of course he’s read about human anatomy.

Of course he’d want to know all my weaknesses, all my vulnerabilities, all the ways he might take me apart.

My cheeks heat, but I’m not about to argue or disagree with him as he lowers his head and fastens his lips around my nipple, thumb still circling those maddening strokes around the other.

“Yes,” I breathe, grabbing for his horns to pull him closer. “Yes. God. Oh my god, that feels—”

My words break off in a rush of breath. I almost lose my balance and go toppling back onto the counter in my enthusiasm, but Zan’s right there. One arm slung low around my back, he keeps me upright, keeps me with him, gives me something to lean on as he lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, testing pressure, tempo, seeing what works best.

Joke’s on him, though, because all of it works best.

All of him works best. The intensity of his focus. The steady strength of him against me. It all works so unfortunately well that I can’t stop myself from bucking against him, trying to get a little more friction, trying… trying…

“Do you need more?” he asks, lips still hovering over one swollen, peaked nipple. “Because my research led me to a few other ideas for how I might—”

“Oh, my god,” I say, less in pleasure this time than in sinfully sweet mortification that creeps in a warm rush up my cheeks, over my chest, lower.

Not that I mind. Not really.

Maybe I’ll feel differently about this tomorrow in the stark light of day, but tonight I can’t feel anything but an undeniable thrill from that small embarrassment. From knowing he thought about this, that maybe he’s been thinking about it just as much as I have.

A devastatingly handsome smirk spreads across his lips as he reaches for the hem of my dress and slides it slowly up my thighs.

“You were magnificent tonight, do you know that?” he asks, leaning in to murmur the words into the overheated skin just below my ear. “On the beach. Claiming what’s yours. Letting everyone know I’m spoken for. You were magnificent.”

His words slide through my veins, warm and syrupy and impossible.

I know what he means.

He means I put on a good show. I earned us some brownie points from the producers. I gave the cameras something to eat up and the editing team to salivate over. I bought us a little more time and goodwill and kept us in the game.

But that’s not what I hear.

I hear the rough satisfaction in his voice. The pride. The possessive edge that has me spreading wider for him as his fingers skate higher on my thigh to the place that’s hot and damp and aching for his touch.

Close, he’s so close, and a strained, desperate sound lodges in the back of my throat, only to be cut abruptly off by a harsh one from his.

Zan lets out what I can only describe as a growl , and under any other circumstances, I might find that really, really hot. This particular growl, however, has an unmistakably displeased edge to it. When I compose myself enough to pull my face from where I’ve got it buried against the side of his neck, I find his expression darkened with frustration.

He withdraws his hand—so damn close to where I wanted it—and I bite back a moan of frustration.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something you didn’t—”

“Claws,” he says shortly, regarding his own fingers with a glare.

After a few seconds of consideration, he sticks one into his mouth and, with a sharp, feral bite, he severs the claw down to the tip of his finger before discarding it on the floor. He does one more for good measure, leaving the middle two fingers on his right hand clawless.

The bottom of my stomach clenches at the satisfied grin that breaks over his face, obviously pleased with himself for having found such a clever solution.

Zan strokes those two fingers down my cheek, and I shiver.

When he reaches my mouth, he puts a bit of gentle pressure on my bottom lip and I open for him, sucking hard on the tips of his fingers. He growls again, and I bite him.

“Ros,” Zan hisses. “Fates, do that again.”

I have no trouble complying, teeth scraping over his fingers for a few delicious moments before deciding I want a better prize. Gripping his horns tightly, I pull his mouth back to mine, biting at his lower lip until he opens for me.

I devour his moan and give him one of my own as those clawless fingers find my pussy. He pushes my panties aside so he can tease at my soaked entrance, groaning into my mouth as he slides the tips of his fingers inside, the heel of his palm pressed to my clit.

“Fuck,” I breathe into the kiss. “There. Just… god, Zan. There.”

He works me like that for a few delectably torturous minutes, pulling back so he can see my face, watching and listening and adjusting as he finds out just how I like to be touched. Silver stars swirl in the depthless black of his eyes and his mouth falls open on a panted groan as I arch and strain against him. My insides twist in pleasure and anticipation, a decadent, fizzy warmth spreading from my belly outwards, stealing my breath, making me feel half crazed for him as I press closer, tense against him, open my mouth to beg for—

“No.” The desperate protest rips from my throat when he pulls back. “Why did you—”

He kisses me, effectively silencing that protest as a deep chuckle echoes in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’m not done with you yet, Roslyn.”

As he rumbles that sinful promise against my lips, he reaches for my braid and pulls at the hair tie fastening the end. It slides free and the braid springs loose, salt-kissed waves falling around my shoulders.

Keeping his eyes fixed firmly to mine, Zan gathers the messy shag of his hair into a knot at the back of his head, securing it with the tie.

Then he falls to his knees.

With how tall he is, it puts him at level height to the counter, just in the right spot to—

“Look at these,” he murmurs, reaching his other hand—still clawed—up to toy with the edge of the lacy underwear I’m wearing. “It’s like production had some kind of agenda with these.”

A breathless, shattered laugh rasps from my throat. “Oh, yeah? And what agenda would that be?”

He hums, thoughtful and teasing, the vibration of it breaking against my skin as he leans in close. “I’m not sure. But I think I can guess.”

Another laugh, but this one breaks off on a sharp gasp as he lowers his mouth to me, tongue pressed to the seam of my pussy over the lace. He laps at me, keeps teasing me with that wickedly sharp claw dipping beneath the edge of the fabric, over and over until he finally has mercy and slides them off me.

As soon as they’re discarded, he tugs me right back to the edge of the counter, draping my thighs over his shoulders and spreading me wide.

And then he… stops.

Just stops and stares for long enough that the warm, squirmy heat of embarrassment and arousal and a hundred other tangled sensations coils low in my belly.

I shift a little, a futile attempt to close my thighs against that intense, focused scrutiny.

The kitchen lights are on. I’m bare from the waist down, on full display, hot and wet and aching for him, and he’s just… staring.

Maybe he’s disgusted by me.

I don’t have the same access to fancy tech and comms devices to do recognizance on Revexorans the way he apparently made a point to do on humans. I don’t know what kind of anatomy he has, what kind of anatomy females of his species have, and maybe we’re working with parts that are different enough for him to be entirely off-put by what he sees.

I squirm again, attempting to pull my legs from his shoulders, get my dress back down around myself, and put a stop to the deep, dark pit of self-consciousness growing heavier in my gut by the second.

Zan’s black gaze meets mine, all those stars swirling. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “I just… is it… weird? Am I not what you… are you not attracted to…”

The noise of protest that breaks from the back of his throat is harsh, irate, disbelieving.

“You’re beautiful, Roslyn.”

My discomfort melts immediately, replaced by a rush of satisfaction.

“Forgive me, if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” I relax as he lowers himself back between my thighs, his lips tracing a path up, up, up, until his mouth hovers a few millimeters above my skin. “Just making sure all of this was… okay? That you were into it.”

“If you only knew,” he murmurs, low and sardonic.

I don’t have any time to contemplate what exactly I’m supposed to know before he swipes his tongue up the length of my pussy, groaning as he gets a taste of me. He does it again, and it’s my turn to groan as my hands scramble for purchase in his thick black hair.

“I’ve read about this, too,” he murmurs, breath breaking against my aching clit. “And how sensitive it is.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” I gasp, clutching at his horns to pull him closer.

“Nerd.” He tests the word on his tongue. “My translator picks that up as one with great knowledge and high intelligence. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want,” I nearly wail. “Just please, please get your mouth on—”

My desperate plea breaks in a gasp as he obliges. Mouth fastened around the tight, aching bud of my clit, he draws on me.

Hard.

My back arches, my hands tighten on his horns, and his growls of approval blend with the sharp cry I couldn’t do anything to hold back even if I wanted to.

Kissing may not have been one of Zandrel’s natural gifts, but apparently he’s got a sixth sense for knowing exactly how to take me apart. He works me with lips and tongue and the gentlest rasp of his wicked-looking fangs. He brings his clawless fingers back to my entrance and eases them inside, crooking them forward and hitting a spot so sweet, I’m done for.

Slumping back against the counter, I surrender.

I surrender to Zan, to the magic of his mouth and his hands and the singular focus he uses to dismantle me. He puts it all to work pushing me closer, closer, then tossing me right over the edge as a soul-wracking orgasm crashes through me.

I’m still trembling with the last aftershocks of it when Zan stands, hooks his hands under my thighs, and scoops me off the counter. I cling to him as he carries me from the kitchen and into the sunken living room, settling on the lounger with me in his lap.

For a few long, breathless minutes we sit just like that. Silent, panting, slowly floating back into my body while Zan rubs slow strokes up and down my back.

In some distant corner of my mind, I wonder if this is… too much.

Cuddling like this. Being tender like this. Acting like any of this is… real.

But his touch feels too good, and my limbs are all too heavy and satisfied to move from where I’m sprawled on top of him. And, with each passing moment of clarity, I realize I might not want to be done. Not yet.

As long as we’re here, as long as we’re not stopping to talk about what exactly the fuck it is we’re doing right now, I want to have some fun, too.

I shift in his arms, moving until I’m straddling him with my hands resting on his shoulders.

Zan watches me with a dark, hooded gaze, big hands braced on either side of my hips.

“Alright?” I ask as I make myself comfortable.

Instead of answering right away, he leans in to brush his lips over mine. I taste myself on him.

And… fuck. Fuck, that’s good.

He tastes like moonlight, like ice, like smoke. The damp heat of my pussy still clinging to his lips makes my head swim, makes me groan into his mouth. I kiss him hard and deep and desperate until we both break away, panting.

Tentatively, I raise a hand and press it to the center of his bare chest.

The plated ridges are hard beneath my fingertips, unyielding, and I meet his gaze with a question in my own.

“Is this… good for you? Or should I not—”

Zan lifts a hand to cover mine, pressing it more firmly to his skin. “I like it when you touch me, Roslyn.”

Permission granted, I take my time doing just that. I explore every sculpted inch of his shoulders, his chest, his biceps, and not just with my fingers. Mouth hot and hungry, I kiss and nip at him, working him back up into a frenzy.

“Ros,” he groans when my hands find the fastenings at the top of his shorts. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to. Let me?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, but gives me a brief, jerky nod and helps me slide his shorts down and off of him.

It turns out those ridges do, in fact, continue below the belt, but… that’s all there is. Just more of that natural armor, nothing that would give me any clue at all about what I’m supposed to do next.

“Where is… how do I…”

My cheeks flare with heat.

Fuck, it’s got to be so, so incredibly rude to ask someone how their junk works, doesn’t it?

Without missing a beat, Zan gives me a sharp grin and grabs my wrist. Shifting me so I’m perched back further on his thighs, he places my hand between his legs and presses my fingers into him.

At first I don’t know what I’m supposed to be touching. All I feel is more of his firm, plated skin that’s a lot warmer right now than it’s ever been before.

“Do you feel it?” he murmurs, leaning in to speak the words just below my ear, warm breath breaking against my skin.

I shiver. “Feel wha—”

My fingertips find it, a split in his skin. And when they dip just inside, they brush up against something hot and hard and slippery.

“Human men walk around with everything just hanging out, woefully unprotected,” Zan says with a teasing disapproval in his voice. “You’re going to have to work a little harder than that with me, Roslyn.”

A flash of heat breaks over my skin as I sink further into him.

Zan lets out a sharp, shuddering groan, and I freeze.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Fates, no. Keep going.”

A pulse of heady satisfaction breaks over me at seeing this warrior so undone. It spurs me on, makes me bolder, and I’m rewarded by another rough moan and the firm press of his fingers into the swell of my ass as he grips me, bucks into me, thrusting up to meet my touch.

My fingers wrap around his length, so thick I can’t quite close my grip. Giving him a couple of tentative strokes, his cock rises to meet me, sliding out of that slit in his body and…

Fuck. Holy fuck.

Zan’s cock is a darker shade of gray than the rest of him. Though it’s shaped pretty much like a human’s, it’s also got a set of plated ridges running along its length, and is covered in what looks like some kind of natural lubricant.

And it’s enormous. Zan’s cock is enormous.

Because of-fucking-course it would be, given the proportions of the rest of him.

I give him a hard stroke, and he groans again. His half-hooded eyes stay locked on my face, mouth open on a tight inhale, hands still gripping me and keeping me in place.

“My turn,” I murmur, reaching around his horns with my other hand to take my hair tie back.