Page 19 of Tamed by the Alien Warlord

GEORGIA

T he Ravager hums beneath us, a beast wound down after a brutal feast. The bridge is quiet, save for the low warble of superluminal engines winding down and the soft beeps of medbay monitors.

I lean against a console, watching Lanz’s pale, battle-streaked face as he sits in the command chair.

His remaining arm flexes involuntarily—a pang of pain I wish I could absorb for him.

He turns and meets my eyes. Nothing else matters in that moment—no battles, no labs, no past horrors. It’s just us.

“I nearly lost you,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges. “I?—”

“Shh.” I press a fingertip to his lips. “You didn’t. You came back. To me.”

He gazes at me, something softened and fierce alike in his storm-gray eyes. “Georgia… Georgia Lancaster,” he breathes my full name like a benediction, “you are my mate, my anchor, my whole damn galaxy. You’re my… everything.”

My chest tightens. “And you’re mine, Lanz Reaper of the Badlands,” I whisper. “Every scar. Every roar. Every stolen kiss. I belong to you, and I’m proud of it.”

He smiles—a small, tremulous smile—and releases a breath I hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He lifts my hand to his cheek and kisses it gently. Then his lips find mine, slow and certain and alive.

I’ve loved adrenaline. Loved headlines rougher than any tempest. But this—this is my real luxury. The feel of him: solid, warm, broken and fierce. His good arm wraps around my waist; I rest my head on his shoulder and wrap my arms around his neck.

“I’m happy,” I murmur. “To be your property. Your Reaper property.” I glance up, hoping to catch the teasing edge I still crave. “But only if we still get to broadcast their crimes to the entire galaxy.”

His mouth curls again—and not with grim humor. It’s something soft and amused. He brushes a thumb across my cheek. “Expose them together. Reaper warrior and human journalist. Side by side.”

I press a soft kiss to his chest, right over where his heart beats. “Makes for a hell of a headline.”

That night, our cabin becomes our private universe.

Candled in the dim glow of the orbiting planet below, Lanz kneels beside me on the plush rug spread across cold alloy floor plates. He studies me like I’m sacred. Like I’m his offering and his altar both.

He reaches up, brushing a knuckle along my jaw. “You’re still wearing too much.”

I shiver. The softness in his voice is deceptive—because there’s a promise underneath it. One of chains. Of surrender.

“Yes,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Fix that.”

He rises to his full, terrifying height—seven feet of coiled muscle, black skin shimmering like polished obsidian, white bone spurs jutting from his arms, shoulders, jaw. He’s monstrous and magnificent. And he’s mine .

In his hand is a length of chain—alien-forged, lightweight but unbreakable. He threads it through loops in the ceiling, tugging it down and clicking it to a collar already wrapped around my throat.

Then he takes my hands—tenderly, reverently—and raises them above my head. He locks them there, wrists manacled, arms stretched taut. The cold chain bites into my skin. My breath catches.

He kneels again and fastens more restraints—this time around my thighs. The metal spreads my legs open wide and locks them in place. I’m exposed. Utterly helpless. His .

He leans in, lips brushing my ear.

“You belong to me now, Georgia. Say it.”

I nod, trembling. “I belong to you.”

A low growl rolls from his chest—a sound of satisfaction, of approval. Then he stands and lifts a piece of dark fabric.

The blindfold.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe.

He covers my eyes, and the world vanishes.

Only sensation remains.

The first touch of his lips is featherlight—barely a breath—trailing down my collarbone, over the swell of my breast. My nipples harden as he kisses around them, never directly. Teasing. Denying. Worshipping.

“I want to memorize you with my mouth,” he murmurs.

Then he begins.

His tongue is not human—longer, thicker, textured with ridges that make me gasp when he licks slowly over the curve of my ribs.

He traces the stretch marks on my hips, the faint scars from years of living and surviving.

His mouth seals over the spot just above my navel, and he suckles , slow and deep.

I cry out.

The chains rattle as I arch against him, desperate for more, for anything —but I can’t move. Can’t see. Can only feel.

And gods, I feel everything.

He works his way lower, tongue flicking into the crease between my hip and thigh. He avoids my pussy completely, ignoring my growing desperation, my slick heat.

“Please,” I whisper.

He chuckles—dark, rich, terrifying. “Not yet.”

He licks my inner thighs, slow strokes that leave wet trails cooling in the ship’s air. His claws slide up the outsides of my legs, not breaking skin, but close. Close enough to thrill. Close enough to sting .

Then finally—finally—his tongue brushes my pussy.

I scream .

His mouth closes over my clit, tongue flicking, swirling, sucking. He eats me like a man starved. Like he owns the taste of me. Every flick of his tongue drives me higher. Every grind of his mouth makes me see stars behind the blindfold.

My orgasm builds fast and furious.

“I—Lanz—I’m gonna?—”

He stops.

I sob.

“Not yet,” he says, voice low. “You don’t come until I say .”

Then he starts again.

This time slower. More deliberate. He drags the flat of his tongue over my clit, then dips into my pussy, fucking me with it. I choke on a cry. The sensation is too much . I’m shaking, moaning, begging—but still held open, still blind, still denied.

Again, he brings me to the edge. Again, he pulls back.

Tears spill from beneath the blindfold.

“Please,” I whimper. “Please let me come.”

He chuckles, wicked and warm. “Not yet.”

He does it three more times.

My whole body trembles. My legs feel like fire. My pussy aches—wet, swollen, pulsing around nothing . I’m gasping like I’ve run a marathon.

“Beg,” he says. “Let me hear you break.”

“I’m yours,” I cry. “Please, daddy, please let me come—I’ll do anything, I need it—I need you inside me, please— fuck me ? — ”

The chains creak.

He rises behind me.

I feel the thick head of his cock brush against my entrance, and I sob in relief. I’d forgotten what words felt like. I’m raw. Shaking. Ready.

“Say it again,” he growls.

“I belong to you.”

He thrusts into me from behind in one brutal, glorious stroke.

My scream echoes through the cabin.

His cock is massive—alien-thick, ridged, with those infernal bone spurs flaring slightly as he stretches me open. They scrape against my inner walls, textured in ways that set every nerve on fire . I’m so wet I can hear it—every filthy, slick slap of his hips against my ass.

He grips my hips, claws digging in. His pace is relentless. Ferocious. Each thrust drives me forward against the chains, the leash tugging at my neck, the blindfold keeping me locked in darkness.

I’m nothing but sensation. Nothing but heat and friction and him .

“You take me so well,” he groans. “Like you were made for this. Made for me. ”

“Yes—yes—harder, please?—”

He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls , forcing my back to arch. The angle changes. His cock hits deeper. I see stars. Galaxies. The whole damn cosmos.

“I want to hear you scream it,” he snarls, fucking me harder. “Who do you belong to?”

“ YOU! ” I scream. “YOU! I belong to YOU!”

And with that, I come.

Hard.

It detonates through me like a supernova. I scream, thrash, sob his name. My pussy clamps down around him, milking his cock, drawing him in.

He grunts—a sound animalistic, primal—and thrusts deep one final time. His cock jerks inside me, and I feel the hot, thick surge of his cum spill into my core. It doesn’t stop. Pulse after pulse fills me, and I swear I can feel it dripping down my thighs.

We stay like that—me hanging limp in the chains, him pressed against my back, both of us breathing like we’ve survived a war.

Eventually, he eases the blindfold away.

Then the chains.

I collapse into his arms, boneless, wrecked, radiant.

He carries me to the bed, cradles me like I’m priceless.

“I’ll chain you up a thousand times,” he whispers into my hair, “just to watch you come undone for me.”

I smile against his chest.

“I hope you do.”

By dawn, the ship hums a different tune—a sense of purpose. Georgia Lancaster, human journalist, reclines beside Lanz, former Reaper warlord, with a binder of Holonetwork camera loops and lab logs between us.

He traces a finger over a printed logo. “Ready to leak?”

I lean into his good arm. “Let’s light them on fire.”

He smiles. “Together.”

We merge—partner, lover, revolutionaries—in the quiet hum of our ship, set to expose one of the galaxy’s darkest crimes.

And together, beneath battered shields and hopeful skies, we begin our true fight.