Page 83 of Stripped By the Alien

“I just ended the fight.”

We struggle for another couple of seconds until Krix’vorr grabs both my wrists. He glares down at me with eyes that shot lightning. “How dare you attack me!” He pushes me into the wall and lifts me so that we’re nearly eye to eye.

Shit. Was that too much? Did I trigger some alien reflex that makes him really mad? “Sorry…”

The locust glares at me. “Did you think this was just a fun exercise? Did you think you could assault a Chief Harrower in his own ship?”

“But we were just…” I begin.

“We were just training?” he snarls. “Is that it? It was just harmless? That’s what you thought?”

“Yes…” Damn it. I may have to poke him in the eye for real.

He lifts me higher. “Then let me tell you this: it was.” He leans in and places a kiss right on my mouth. “And it was wonderful. Nobody else dares practice with me. And certainly nobody dares try to teach me something new. You’re the most unafraid female I’ve known.” He kisses me again. “Your softness is only on the outside. On the inside, there’s something else entirely.” He sets me down and comes down himself, sitting on the floor and making me straddle him.

The position puts us face to face for the first time. His hands settle on my hips and his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.

"This isn't training," I point out, breathless.

"Maybe not," he rumbles. "But it's even more important."

His antenna touches the tape and loosens it. When enough of me is bare, he pauses and simply looks. His hands hover a fraction above my skin, close enough that I feel their heat but not their touch.

"What are you waiting for?" I whisper.

"I'm memorizing the territory before I enter it." One finger traces from my collarbone down between my breasts and continues to my navel. "A good Harrower always does."

The laugh that escapes me turns into a gasp as his mouth follows the same path. His tongue is warm and textured and unhurried, and the scrape of his mandibles against my skin sends shivers racing in every direction.

I rock against him involuntarily, and discover that the shield at his midsection has already parted. The hard, ridged cock presses against me through what little tape remains. The contact draws a low, resonant sound from his chest that I feel vibrating through my thighs.

"Krix'vorr." I pull the last strip of tape away myself and press down against him. The slick friction makes us both shudder. "Stop memorizing. Start entering."

His hands grip my hips and lift me slightly. I feel him position himself beneath me, blunt and hot and thick. Then he lets me set the pace, lowering me slowly, watching my face as I take him inch by textured inch.

The stretch is new. The fullness is overwhelming. Every ridge catches and drags in ways I didn't know I could feel. By the time he's fully inside me I'm shaking, hands braced against his chest, mouth open, unable to form a single coherent word.

"Breathe," he says, and his voice is rougher than I've ever heard it.

I breathe. Then I move.

His hands tighten on my hips but he lets me lead, lets me find the angle and the rhythm that turns the impossible stretch into rolling waves of pressure exactly where I need them. The training room echoes with sounds I would be mortified by under any other circumstances, but the way his eyes darken and his antennae flatten against his skull with every noise I make kills any self-consciousness dead.

"You fight like this, too," he manages. "All instinct. No hesitation."

"Shut up," I gasp, and ride him harder.

He shuts up. His hips begin meeting mine, thrust for thrust, and the combined force of it drives the breath out of me in sharp, stuttering cries. His hands slide up my back and pull me flush against his chest. The cool hardness of his carapace against my bare, sweat-damp skin is a contrast so sharp it borders on electric.

I come with my face buried against his neck, biting down on absolutely nothing because there's no soft place to bite, just hard chitin that doesn't give. The climax rolls through me in deep, clenching waves, and I hear myself making sounds that have no business in a training room.

He follows a moment later, both arms locking around me as his own release shudders through him. His wings flare out behind him with a sharp snap, then fold slowly forward, enclosing us both.

For a long moment we stay exactly like that, tangled together on the training room floor, breathing hard, surrounded by scattered strips of tape and the faint, lingering scent of sweat and sparring.

"So," I manage eventually, still straddling him, still joined. "Is this what happens every time I beat you?"

A rumble moves through his chest. "You didn't beat me. I won that exchange decisively."