Chapter 13 Special Delivery #2
Not the desperate crash against the filing cabinet.
Not the adrenaline-soaked claiming in the corridor.
This is slow. Deliberate. His mouth moves over mine with the precision of a man who catalogues variables, and right now I am the only variable that matters.
His tongue traces my lower lip, coaxing me open, and the warmth floods my mouth—hotter than human, hotter than anything, tasting faintly metallic and sweet. Already addicted.
I melt into him. My hands slide up his bare chest and his patterns flare under my palms—that electric response, his whole nervous system lighting up where I touch him. He groans into my mouth, a low vibration that transfers through his chest into mine.
His hands move. Down my jaw, my neck, my shoulders. He finds the hem of his stolen shirt and pauses.
“This is mine,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“I wasn’t talking about the shirt.”
Desire pools low in my belly, liquid and heavy.
He pulls the fabric up and over my head in one smooth motion and I’m standing in front of him in nothing but underwear, skin prickling with goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature because the warmth radiating off his body is a furnace, a sun, a vow.
His eyes drag down my body. Slow. Thorough. The yellow brightens—pupils blown wide, irises practically glowing in the dim quarters. His bioluminescence cascades in patterns I’ve never seen, racing across his chest and arms like lightning captured under skin.
“You’re—” His voice fractures. He swallows. Tries again. “I have spent days calculating the probability of this moment, and none of my models accounted for—” He stops. Shakes his head. “You break every equation I build.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a confession.”
He kneels. Drops to his knees in front of me like gravity reorganised itself around the curve of my hips, and presses his mouth to my stomach. The kiss is open and hot and reverent and I gasp, my hands flying to his hair—thick and dark with those teal highlights catching his own glow.
His hands circle my waist. Thumbs stroking soft skin above my hip bones, fingers splayed across my lower back, claws retracted.
He mouths across my belly, my ribs, the underside of my breast, and every point of contact burns hotter than the last because his body temperature is climbing—radiating, turning his skin into a source of fire that sinks into my muscles and loosens something deep and wanting.
“Off,” I manage, tugging at his waistband. “I need—off, now, please—”
He stands and strips. Efficient. No hesitation. And I—
Oh.
I’ve felt him through clothes. Grinding in the corridor, pressed against me on the filing cabinet, the rigid line of him unmistakable even through layers.
But seeing him is different. His cock stands thick and flushed darker than the rest of his teal skin, curving slightly upward, and along the underside—
The ridges.
Five raised nodes spaced at quarter-inch intervals, swelling from base to tip, the basal one thickest. They’re pronounced now, engorged with blood, each one a distinct ridge of textured flesh that twitches as I stare.
A bead of slick gathers at the tip—his natural lubrication, faintly luminescent, catching the light from his markings.
He’s big. Not intimidating-monster big—proportional to his frame, eight inches of heat and texture and alien biology I’ve been craving since I got here.
“You’re staring,” he says, and there’s a thread of vulnerability under the roughness.
“I’m admiring.” I reach out. My fingers close around him and we both stop breathing.
He’s hot. Scorching. The ridges swell under my palm—responsive, reactive, each node thickening further at my touch.
The texture is extraordinary—smooth skin stretched over raised nodes creating friction unlike anything human anatomy could replicate.
When I stroke upward, each ridge catches against my fingers, and the noise he makes isn’t a word in any language.
His bioluminescence detonates. Gold light races across his body in erratic pulses, bright enough to cast our shadows sharp on the wall.
“Dove.” My name comes out shattered. “If you—I need—”
“Show me,” I whisper. “Show me what they do.”
His control fractures. Not all at once—in stages.
First his hands, which stop being gentle and grip my hips hard enough to bruise.
Then his mouth, which finds the spot below my ear and bites—not the claiming bite, not yet, but teeth and pressure and a growl that vibrates through my skull.
Then his body, which lifts me and carries me to the bed and lays me down with a combination of precision and desperation that shouldn’t coexist.
He strips my underwear off. Settles between my thighs. Looks at me the way a scientist looks at a miracle—like every law of physics rearranged to accommodate this.
His hand trails down my stomach. Lower. And I feel it—the barest scrape of claw-tips tracing the crease of my inner thigh.
Not cutting. Skating. Five points of razor-fine pressure dragging along the softest skin on my body, close enough to danger that my lungs stall and my hips roll toward him instead of away.
“You like that,” he says, and his voice is dark with wonder. Not a question.
“I like knowing you could wreck me.” I spread my thighs wider. Let him see what he does to me. “And you won’t.”
A noise tears out of him—low, guttural, barely leashed. His claw-tips trace higher, skating along the outer edge of where I’m slick and swollen, and the scrape of danger against the most vulnerable part of me makes me clench with a want so sharp it borders on pain.
“I want to taste you,” he says, and the harmonics in his voice reach inside me and pull.
His mouth finds me and I arch off the bed.
Hot. His mouth is so hot—fifteen degrees above human baseline concentrated on the most sensitive part of my body.
His tongue is broader than a human’s, slightly ridged along the surface, and when he drags that texture across my clit the sensation is so sharp and foreign and perfect that my hips buck off the bed without my permission.
He pins me down. One hand splayed across my stomach, fingers warm, claw-tips barely grazing my skin—five pinpricks of controlled danger that send lightning bolts straight to my core.
Not scratching. Hovering. The threat of sharpness without the cut, and the contrast between his lethal hands and his devastating mouth makes me whimper.
“Cetus—God—right there—”
He flicks his tongue—quick, precise, the ridged surface catching and dragging across the swollen bundle of nerves.
Once. Twice. A third time that makes my spine try to leave my body.
Then he seals his mouth over me and growls, and the vibration rockets through me in subsonic waves I feel in my teeth, my nipples, the soles of my feet.
His fingers replace his tongue—two, careful of claws, sliding inside me.
The heat of them makes me moan—they’re scorching, warming me from the inside, and when he curls them the pads of his fingers find the spot with a scientist’s precision and stroke.
His mouth returns to my clit. Tongue flicking that maddening texture while his fingers work me open, and the dual sensation—heat inside, ridged friction outside—is unlike anything I’ve ever processed.
“I can’t—it’s too—” My hands fist in the sheets. My thighs clamp around his head. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare—”
I come the first time with his mouth on me and his fingers buried deep, screaming his name, clenching around the heat of him in waves that leave me shaking and wanting more, not less, because the emptiness afterward is unbearable.
“More,” I pant. “I need—I want to—”
I push at his shoulders. He lets me guide him onto his back and I slide down his body, pressing kisses to his markings along the way. Each one flares under my lips and he shudders, fingers threading into my hair.
I wrap my hand around the base of his cock.
The basal ridge throbs against my palm—thick and hot, a quarter-inch of raised flesh that pulses in time with his heartbeat.
I lower my mouth to the tip and taste—salty, faintly sweet, the slick warmth of his natural lubrication that coats my tongue like honey and heat.
Addictive. I lick my lips and his cock twitches, a fresh bead welling up, and his scent hits me—concentrated, intoxicating, a pheromone trigger that bypasses my brain entirely and speaks to something primal.
Wet. I’m so wet from his scent alone it’s slicking my thighs.
“You smell like home,” I murmur against the head of his cock, and his entire body jerks.
When my lips stretch over the first ridge, his whole body bows off the bed.
The node swells against my tongue—responsive, alive, pulsing hotter than the rest of him.
And through his skin, I can see it—his glow bleeding through the teal flesh from inside, illuminating the veins, the ridges, making his cock shine faintly gold.
I’m watching his pleasure light him from within.
“Dove—” His hips jerk. His hand tightens in my hair—not pushing, gripping, hanging on. “Your mouth—the ridges—they can feel your tongue—every—”
I drag my tongue along the underside, tracing each ridge individually, and his patterns go supernova.
The room fills with gold, pulsing in time with his ragged breathing.
He’s magnificent like this—spread out beneath me, all that discipline cracking apart, his body broadcasting pleasure in wavelengths I can see.
I take him deeper. The ridges drag against my lips, each one a bump of texture that makes him curse in Lividian—harsh syllables I don’t understand but feel in my chest. His cock pulses in my mouth, the ridges swelling further, and I realise with a lurch of want: this is what they’ll feel like in me.
This texture. This fire. This responsive, reactive, alien biology designed to make its partner come apart.
“Stop.” His voice is wrecked. “Dove, stop, I need to be inside you when—I need—”
I release him. Crawl up his body. Straddle his hips with my knees braced on either side.
From this angle, looking down at him—teal skin flushed darker across his chest, markings blazing, yellow eyes molten and desperate—he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen seventeen star systems.
“You’re sure?” he asks. His hands find my hips. Trembling. “It will be—the ridges—”
“I want to feel every single one.”
I position him at my entrance. The head of his cock is blunt and hot, slick with his own lubrication and my mouth, and the first point of contact—just the tip, just the heat of him pressing against where I’m open and aching—sends a shudder through us both that I feel in his hands, in the tremor of his thighs beneath mine, in the way his markings blaze bright enough to turn the room to gold.
His fingers tighten on my hips. Not pushing. Not pulling. Waiting. Trusting me to take what I want.
I begin to sink down.