Chapter 19
ALAINA
The storm rolls in around midnight, loud as an angry god with a grudge and just as dramatic.
The wind whips through the balcony railings like it’s trying to get inside. Lights flicker twice. Then the whole district goes dark.
“Perfect,” I mutter, lighting the emergency glowlamps and watching them flicker a sickly blue across the walls. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Power’s down?” Troka calls from the kitchenette, his voice half-muffled by the clink of glassware.
“Nope, it’s just moody.”
“I’ll check the fusebox.”
“You’ll break the fusebox. Sit down.”
He’s barefoot.
Don’t ask why I notice that first, but I do. Barefoot and shirtless, because he somehow decided a power outage equaled “remove top layer,” and I don’t have the bandwidth to argue with golden-scaled pecs right now.
“There’s a spare blanket in the hall closet,” I say, busying myself with the glowlamp settings. “And a pillow. Couch pulls out. Sort of.”
He doesn't move.
"You expecting other company?"
"Just you, fridge slayer."
"Then I'm not sleepin' on the couch."
My head whips toward him. "Excuse me?"
He crosses the room in two steps. “I meant the floor.”
“Sure you did.”
We stand there. Him, impossibly close. Me, stubbornly frozen.
Then the thunder cracks so loud it rattles my fake glassware.
I flinch.
Not because I’m scared. But because everything’s too damn much all of a sudden.
Troka mutters, “Come here.”
I don’t move.
He doesn’t ask again.
Just spreads the blanket across the couch and lies down. One arm stretched out. Waiting.
“Alaina.”
“Don’t.”
“Come here.”
I slide in beside him because I'm weak. Or maybe just tired.
Or maybe just done pretending that his warmth doesn’t make the world feel like it’s not ending.
We’re not touching. Not at first.
Just sharing space. Breath. Heat.
Then his fingers brush mine.
Slow. Intentional.
I turn my head. His eyes—god, those eyes—catch the glowlamp and gleam like twin stars.
“You always this hot?” I murmur, trying to keep the air between us light.
“Only when you’re next to me.”
He says it like a joke.
But it lands like a vow.
I suck in a shaky breath.
His hand cups my jaw—rough, warm, grounding.
“You wanna stop this,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheek, “you gotta say it. Right now.”
My throat tightens. There’s a million reasons to walk away, but none of them mean shit.
“I don’t want to stop.”
There. That’s the truth.
The first kiss is slow. Not clumsy. Not shy. Just... reverent. Like we’ve kissed a thousand times and this one still matters most.
His tongue parts my lips, and I taste him—smoke, heat, spice, and something deeply, addictively him. Something alien that’s wrapped itself around my bones. I moan softly into his mouth, and the sound makes his grip tighten like I’ve ignited a fuse inside him.
I shift in his lap, knees bracketing his hips. I can feel him—hard and massive beneath me—and my pulse stumbles.
His hands slide up my thighs, over my hips, like he’s memorizing me through touch alone. He makes a low sound, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“You’re so soft,” he groans, voice ragged. “You kill me, Alaina.”
I smile against his temple. “You’ve survived plasma grenades.”
“You’re more dangerous.”
Clothes disappear. I don’t know who pulls what or when. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is heat, friction, the sound of breathing, the gasp when his chest brushes my bare breasts.
His body is massive above mine—warm red scales under my fingers, golden eyes watching me like I’m something rare and holy.
He stretches over me like a weighted blanket forged in muscle and fire. I’ve never felt safer. Never felt smaller. Or more wanted.
His hands trail reverently over my sides, hips, down to the curve of my thigh. Not hurried. Not greedy. Just… worshipful.
“You sure?” he asks again, voice a gravel rasp.
“Don’t you dare stop now.”
He groans, low and deep, and then guides the thick head of his cock to my entrance. My breath catches. I’m wet—soaked for him—but still, he’s big. Too big. I brace myself, and he presses in slowly.
Painfully slowly.
The stretch burns. And it’s exquisite.
I gasp, clutching his arms. “Stars…”
“Easy,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. “I got you. Just… stay with me.”
I nod, barely breathing.
He fills me inch by inch, his cock dragging along every nerve inside me, making me feel split open and remade. My body clenches around him instinctively, desperate to hold him.
He’s not smooth—his cock is ridged in sections, a slow pulse of heat and pressure that drags deeper, deeper, until I swear I feel him in my throat.
When he bottoms out, I cry out—pleasure and overwhelm tangled together.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “You’re… gods.”
He rests his forehead against mine, golden eyes tight. “You’re mine now.”
A tremble rolls through me. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”
He pulls back, thrusts in again. This time harder.
I gasp. “Oh, fuck—”
“I mean it,” he growls, fucking me slow but deep, each stroke dragging fire across my nerves. “You think I’d risk this with anyone else?”
We move together. Rhythm syncing. Breathing like we’re tethered.
Every thrust knocks sound from my lips, steals the air from my lungs, replaces it with want. With need.
“Troka,” I whimper. “Harder.”
His grip on my hips tightens. He flips us, pins my wrists above my head, and starts to thrust.
Hard.
Rough.
Perfect.
The bed creaks beneath us, headboard banging the wall in rhythm with our bodies. I arch under him, every nerve blazing.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I force my eyes open, meet his gaze. There’s no smirk there. No arrogance. Just raw, blistering honesty.
“I’m gonna come,” I gasp.
“Let go,” he says, panting. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
That does it.
My orgasm slams into me like a quake. I cry out, body locking around him, pussy clenching tight as waves of pleasure roll through me. He fucks me through it, relentless, soaking in every tremble, every sound.
Then he snarls.
Grabs my hips hard.
And slams into me one final time.
He spills inside me with a roar—hot, thick pulses filling me as his body shudders above mine.
We collapse together, tangled and slick with sweat, his chest heaving against mine.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
I rest my head on his shoulder, eyes closed, breath shallow. His heart thuds under my palm—steady, grounding. His fingers trace soft, absent-minded circles on my lower back.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You?”
“Better than I got any right to be.”
I swallow hard. My throat burns with truths I don’t know how to speak.
“I need to tell you something.”
He shifts, tilting his head.
But then… he speaks first.
“I wish I could go back,” he says, voice rough. “Do everything right. Answer your messages. Come home sooner. Be the male you deserved.”
And just like that… I can’t.
I can’t drop a truth grenade in the middle of this moment. Not when he’s here, open, aching.
“Maybe this is you doing it right,” I whisper.
He pulls me tighter. His chin rests on top of my head. I hear him exhale.
We stay that way. No sound. No pressure. Just skin and truth and something real forming between heartbeats.