Chapter 8 Unleashed #2
The textured tongue against my clit is — I don't have language.
Don't have precedent. The grain of it creates friction that builds from exquisite to overwhelming in seconds, each stroke a slightly different angle, a slightly different pressure, as if his senses are reading my body's responses in real time and adjusting.
Because he is — hearing my heartbeat, tasting my chemistry, feeling the micro-contractions of muscle, processing a feedback loop that no human partner could access.
He knows exactly what I need because his biology is built to receive the signal mine is broadcasting.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and the heat of his palms sinks into my muscles. I can feel the restrained strength; the constant calibration of a man who could crush the bones he's holding and is choosing, with every ounce of his considerable discipline, to cradle instead.
One finger slides inside me. Thick. Hot.
And the ridges — god, the ridges. Subtle raised geometry along his finger that catches against my inner walls with each movement, each ridge a distinct pulse of stimulation.
They're spaced deliberately, engineered by evolution for this exact purpose, and my body responds with an enthusiasm that borders on betrayal of my entire species.
He crooks his finger. Finds the spot.
"There?" He knows. He can hear it in the way my heart just stuttered.
"There, don't stop, right there —"
His mouth seals over my clit and sucks, hard, while his finger works that spot with devastating precision, and the orgasm tears through me so fast I don't see it coming.
I arch off the bed, fisting the sheets, making sounds I'll be embarrassed about if I ever develop the capacity for embarrassment again.
He doesn't let me come down. While the aftershocks are still rolling, he adds a second finger, and the stretch is fuller, the ridges more pronounced with two, each one dragging and catching in a way that's designed to — I understand now, with the clarity of a woman being expertly taken apart — to prepare.
His fingers are training my body for the specific geometry of his cock, the ridges mimicking in miniature what I'll feel at full scale, and the biological elegance of it makes the scientist in me want to write a paper and the woman in me want to scream.
"One more," he says against my thigh, and his breath is furnace-hot.
"You need to be ready. I'm not —" He shifts, and I feel the blunt heat of him against my inner thigh, heavy and thick, and the size of it against the context of my body sends a thrill through me that's equal parts want and adrenaline. "I need you completely ready."
A third finger. The stretch is significant now, the ridges working me open in rhythmic pulses that feel less like preparation and more like a slow, thorough claiming.
His mouth returns to my clit, and his tongue does something new — a rolling, pulsing motion that creates waves of pressure rather than points of friction — things his tongue can do that have no human analogue, muscular configurations unique to his species, deployed against my nervous system like a targeted campaign.
"Kaz, I can't, I'm going to —"
"Come." The word vibrates against my flesh, bass harmonics and hot breath and command. "Let me taste it."
The second orgasm is different from the first — deeper, slower, starting in my spine and spreading outward like heat through metal.
His fingers keep moving through it, gentler now, drawing it out, and when I open my eyes he's watching me from between my legs with an expression that looks like worship filtered through starvation.
"Now." My voice doesn't sound like mine. Wrecked. Desperate. "I'm ready. I need you inside me now."
He rises over me. The weight of his body settling between my legs, the density of him pressing me into the mattress, the heat of his chest against my breasts — it's overwhelming in the literal sense, my senses flooded past capacity, processing too many inputs: the hard edges of his armor plates against my soft stomach, the burning skin-on-skin contact everywhere we touch, the scent of him concentrated and surrounding me, alien and intoxicating.
He positions himself. The blunt, broad head of his cock presses against my entrance, slick with how wet I am and radiating heat that I feel internally before he's even pushed forward.
"Look at me," he says, and I do — black eyes, red skin, armor plates flared on his shoulders like dark wings. He's terrifying. He's beautiful. He's mine.
"Tell me if —"
"Kaz. Get. Inside. Me."
He pushes forward. Slowly. One long, devastating inch at a time.
The stretch is — a lot. More than any man.
More than his fingers prepared me for, though the preparation was necessary because without it, this wouldn't work.
He's thick and hot and the ridges drag against my inner walls with each inch, each one a distinct pulse of friction that layers over the previous, building a sensation I've never experienced — fullness that's textured, that has architecture, that creates its own internal rhythm of pressure and release with every millimeter of penetration.
His heat burns inside me. Not painfully — pleasurably, a warmth that radiates from his core through the most intimate contact point and spreads through my pelvis, my belly, my thighs. Like being warmed from within. Like swallowing sunlight.
He bottoms out. Fully seated, pressed against the deepest part of me, and the fullness is so complete that I can feel every ridge, every degree of heat, every subtle pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the contact.
We're both still. Both breathing hard. His forehead drops against mine, and his eyes are squeezed shut, and the expression on his alien face is agonized pleasure; too much sensation, too much want, too much of everything he's denied himself for five years concentrated into the tight, wet, welcoming grip of my body.
"Edith." My name sounds like it's being torn from him. "You feel, I can't describe, nothing in my life has ever —"
"Move." I wrap my legs around his waist. My heels find the hard ridges of armor plating along his lower spine, and the sensation of my soft calves against his hard plates is another layer of contrast that my body catalogs as impossibly erotic. "Please. Move."
The first stroke is careful. Controlled. The ridges drag outward, each one catching against me with a friction that makes my back arch, and when he drives back in, the angle is different, deeper, the ridges hitting new places, and the sound I make is not dignified.
"Good?" He's watching my face. Reading my body. Adjusting.
"More. Harder. Don't — don't be careful."
Something shifts in his expression. A decision. The restraint he's been wearing like a second skin dissolving under the permission I've just granted.
He pulls back and drives in deep, and the thrust rocks the entire bed — headboard hitting the wall, mattress compressing under force that speaks of mass and density and a body designed for impacts that would shatter human bone.
The ridges drag and catch in a way that's overwhelming and perfect and too much and I want more of it, want the excess, want to find out what happens when a Krath stops holding back.
"Harder."
He obeys. The pace builds, each thrust more powerful than the last, his body finding the rhythm his biology has been aching for, and the wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the room alongside the creak of the bed frame and my increasingly incoherent attempts to form words.
His armor plates flare with each drive forward — shoulders, spine, forearms catching the light in geometric patterns that hypnotize me even through the haze of sensation.
I reach up and grip the plates on his shoulders.
The surface is hard and warm and vibrating faintly, and when I dig my nails into the junction where plate meets skin, he groans — deep, inhuman, the sound of nerve endings being hit that don't exist in human anatomy.
The plates are wired for sensation. For this. For a partner to hold onto.
His mouth finds my neck. Kisses. Then teeth — scraping down to the junction of shoulder and throat, the spot I've watched his eyes return to a dozen times. The spot where claiming happens.
I feel his jaw flex against my skin. The pressure of teeth that are sharper than mine, testing, pressing. The desperate, full-body shudder that runs through him as instinct wars with restraint.
"Want to." The words are forced out between thrusts. "Edith, the bite, I want to mark you so badly my jaw hurts."
"Tell me." I pull his hips tighter against mine, taking him as deep as my body allows, and the angle change makes us both groan. "Tell me what it does."
"Permanent." He can barely form words. His hips are moving in a rhythm that's becoming less measured, more desperate.
"Neural bond. I'd feel everything you feel.
Pleasure. Pain. Joy. Everything. And you'd feel me.
Connected. Until one of us dies." His teeth press against my pulse point — not breaking skin, not completing the bond, just resting there with a want that makes his entire body vibrate.
"No separation. No distance. Just — mine. Everywhere. Always."
The word mine in his alien voice, with his cock buried inside me and his teeth on my throat and his armor plates pulsing under my grip — it's almost enough.
"Not yet." The words cost me everything.
Because I want it. I want it so badly the yes is already forming.
But I'm a woman who reads data before signing contracts, and permanent neural bonding requires more informed consent than the current state of my nervous system can provide.
"But don't stop. Don't you dare stop what you're doing. "