Chapter 8
Robin
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It’s like I’m on a sugar high.
When I was a kid, Healy and I snuck into the Blastoff Festival, ate way too much Supernova Spun Sugar, and then Healy stole one of the festival signs because the “rocket ship” logo mostly looked like a huge dick. I wonder if he still has it.
Na’Ren tastes like honey. He tastes the way fresh-cut grass smells. He tastes like salt, and he lets me slide my lips over his, licking against the seam of his mouth before his lips part, and he lets me in.
My tongue seeks his, a thicker, blunter shape than mine, but silky soft and stroking. I tighten my fingers in his hair. I slip my tongue over his teeth—
Na’Ren bites down.
A sharp shock of pain against my tongue, the metallic taste of blood, and then Na’Ren draws my tongue deeper, sucking. My heart pounds in my throat. My dick strains against the fly of my jeans.
When Na’Ren pulls away, his black eyes search my face.
“What are our current anthropological findings in regards to cultural differences and kissing practices?”
Heat flares through me like a lit fuse. Na’Ren’s firm body against mine, the way coolness radiates off of his skin and collides with the warmth of my own, the blood in my mouth. Even Na’Ren’s stilted, military diction winds me tighter, and I might explode right here if I don’t get out of my clothes.
“We need more research,” I say.
A fraction of a second passes in ragged breaths, and then Na’Ren leans down and bites sharply at the join of my shoulder and neck. I gasp out, the sound loud in the tiny shack. He swabs the ache with his blunt tongue, and then he bites a gentler line up my neck.
Each bite cuts a line straight to my dick. I have been turned on before. I’ve wanted someone. This is something clicking inside my head, something like learning what sex is for the first time. Not to mention that Na’Ren isn’t even human , and I have known him for less than a day.
But my dick isn’t taking messages right now.
Na’ren’s teeth scrape along the tender shell of my ear. Electricity, lightning. Jolts of pleasure all the way down, and I drag my hands out of his hair and press them to his chest. It’s smooth, smoother than skin, and harder. Polished metal, a glimmering beetle’s shell. He gasps at the contact.
Sliding downward, over his abdomen, past the wound that has mostly healed, I find the fabric of his pants.
Strong hands clamp around my wrists. I try to pull out of his grip, to tear at the fabric, but those hands holds me immobile. A whimper falls from my mouth that would be humiliating if Na’Ren knew more about human behavior.
Well, that’s one perk of the pure, undiluted weirdness happening right now.
I test his grip again, and it tightens.
“Robin.” He draws in a slow breath and releases it in a heavy huff. “Clear your head.”
Petulantly, I press my hips against him, and he moans. “But my head is clear,” I whine, “I feel like I’m thinking clearly for the first time in six months, and I have been feeling this thing like a magnetic pull since last night. You feel it too, don’t you, you have to feel this too, Ren, or I’m going to—”
A cool palm presses over my mouth. I’m tempted to lick it.
Na’Ren narrows his eyes at me. “Are you aware that you speak very quickly when you are nervous?”
He pulls his hand away, and I gulp in a breath. “What?”
“Yes,” Na’Ren says, smiling just slightly again. “Your heart rate is significantly higher than average for your species.”
I arch forward for another kiss, but he angles away from me.
“My heart is pounding because I’m so turned on I could cry.”
“Robin.” He pauses, thinking, and I’m pretty sure I might die. “Kissing is not the only difference between our species.”
“I don’t care,” I breathe, urgent need pressing up through my body, my spine arching until we are pressed chest to chest, the stool quavering beneath me. “I don’t care. I just need you. I don’t know what’s happening to me but I don’t care , God, Ren, just fuck me .”
Na’Ren releases my wrists to cup his large palm around the back of my head.
“Oh, my bird,” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear, his voice a cool rasp, “perhaps we should deescalate the situation.”
I shake my head. It’s a desperate movement, and I slip my freed hand past the waist of his pants. And run into—
“ Oh. ”
Na’Ren sighs. “I do apologize.”
The grin that breaks across my face feels feral . “Are you...apologizing for having an enormous dick?”
For the first time, Na’Ren glances away, looking less than composed. The embarrassment kindles into pleasure as I slide my fingers over the flared tip of his cock. Breath puffs out from between his lips, and he whispers my name again.
“My concern is more than size,” he says, and then he pushes the heavy fabric of his pants to the floor of the honey shack.
My heart stutters in my chest.
Na’Ren’s cock is improbably large. It’s intimidating and it’s unfamiliar and it makes my own dick throb against the fly of my jeans. But he’s right. It’s not just the size.
Along the thick shaft runs a series of barbs. Hard and glistening like the carapace of his chest, reminiscent of exotic thorns. The sight sends a shudder through my body, but I’m not as afraid as I am curious.
I reach out and draw my fingers down the row of barbs. They give slightly, folding toward the shaft of Na’Ren’s dick. He pants out a ragged breath at the touch.
“The Andromedan mating practice,” he says, his voice quavering, “is not about pleasure.”
I frown. “It’s only for reproduction?”
Na’Ren shrugs. “It can be. More than that, Andromedans mate to find the other half of their soul.” He strokes his fingertips over my face. “The sexual drive you are feeling is driven by my pheromones, the same chemical signals we use to communicate telepathically. The urgency will pass. The intensity will pass. And what is left will either be nothing—or it will be everything .”
“I don’t want it to be nothing,” I rasp out, panting against the need, and I wrap my fingers around his cock. Na’Ren releases a hushed moan. I stroke roughly down his shaft, feeling the barbs give way beneath my hand. It’s the strangest sensation, and it’s doing nothing to dampen my arousal.
When I reach the base, Na’Ren clamps a hand around my wrist again.
“Do not move,” he says.
Then, as I stare, my lips parted on damp desire, the muscles of his thighs contract. His abdomen flexes. And the barbs flatten down to gentle undulations, hugging close to the shaft of his dick.
Gently, Na’Ren releases my wrist.
“Sweet bird, now you have seen. Do you wish to stop?”
I’m not proud of the whine that spools out of my mouth. “Have you lost your mind?”
Na’Ren’s lips curve up, just slightly. “Yes.” He runs his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. “But I am trying to temper my urges.”
“Then take care of mine instead,” I say, and then I press him down onto the wooden planks of the honey shack’s floor.
I move in a haze. Hormones, pheromones, the sight of his muscled body laid out in front of him, his deep black eyes staring up, his parted lips—I don’t care what is driving me. All I know is that I want him. I want him, I want him, I want him...
I straddle his naked hips, his cock jutting up between my thighs. Thick and red-black and rock-hard. The honeyed smell of him fills my head with sugar and fog.
Na’Ren stares up at me for a long, electric moment. The air crackles against my skin.
Then he licks his lips and says, “At your command.”
He reaches out and slips the button of my jeans free. My dick curves out, not nearly as impressive as his, but perfectly respectable for a human. I am dripping from the tip, and when he gasps at the sight, my cock bobs, brushes against his, and a string of clear fluid stretches between us, glistening.
“Please,” he pants, “tell me how to take care of you.”
The sound that claws its way out of my throat is desperate, and I wrap my free hand around my own cock.
Na’Ren watches on with mesmerized focus. He watches as I grip my shaft, as I stroke up once and roughly back down. Then he nods.
“Yes,” he says, “I understand,” and he gently pushes my hand away. “It is much the same for me.”
Helpless, I lean back on my hands as he grips us both in his long fingers. When my cock makes contact with his smoothed barbs, I moan against the pleasure of it.
“My bird,” he whispers, his voice a contrast to the coarse movements of his hand, “sweet feathered thing.”
Na’Ren presses us together and strokes with a firm hand. I watch, transfixed, as his fingers ride up over the ridges of my dick. When he moves along the barbs, they flex softly at the touch. What would they feel like inside of me? For some reason, I am certain they would not hurt.
He strokes faster. His breath comes in ragged gusts, mingling with mine, the tendrils of our minds curling around each other. I can feel him growing through me like strawberry runners, reaching, reaching...
“Robin,” he gasps, “I may—”
“Yes. Do it.”
He comes on me. He comes for me, a clear fluid streaming from the head of his cock—and from each barb. It slicks over his hand, his shaft. It slicks over me, and then I am coming, too. My body arcs forward, my forehead colliding with his clavicle, a sharp pain that is immediately blotted out by the wave of pleasure crashing through me.
My vision has barely returned before Na’Ren sits up, lays me back against the floorboards, and licks me clean.