Taken By The Alien Next Door

by Tiffany Roberts

  But his mind kept twisting back to Tabitha.

  With a heavy exhalation, he pushed himself up, straightening his arms and locking his elbows. A bead of sweat ran down his face, slowing as it reached the tip of his nose. It dangled there, creating a faint tickling sensation that should’ve been unnoticeable given the almost unbearable artificially generated weight pressing down on his back. His arms trembled slightly, and his toes, bent harshly against the hard floor, seemed ready to snap off entirely.

  He closed his eyes and focused on taking slow, measured breaths, focused on the agony pulsing through his arms, thighs, and abdominal muscles, focused on the phantom ache in his groin.

  Tabitha emerged in his imagination, looking up at him with her big emerald eyes gleaming lustfully.

  Zevris’s shaft twitched. He bared his fangs and growled, willing the mental image away. The last thing he needed while the grav generator was active was to lower his body and have his throbbing cock suddenly take the fullness of his amplified weight on its head.

  Even if it contained no bones, it could still be broken.

  I’m amazed it’s still attached after the treatment I’ve had to give it.

  The droplet fell from his nose, hitting the floor with a dull splat. Zevris released another heavy breath and sent a mental command through his neural transceiver, deactivating the grav generator. The extra weight vanished suddenly enough that his balance nearly faltered; he’d not realized how hard he’d been pushing against it.

  He reached back and plucked the tiny grav generator off his back before standing up. He dropped the generator into the pocket of his sweatpants, snatched the towel off the workbench, and mopped the perspiration from his forehead. As he combed his fingers through his hair, pulling the loose strands out of his face, he drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was redolent of wood, varnish, and paint, of machine oil and the metallic tang of tools and hardware, mixed with a hint of his sweat that had settled atop the mixture.

  All those smells were familiar to Zevris, and they were oddly comforting. This garage—his workshop—had become a sanctuary for him. While he was in here practicing his adopted craft, the universe’s problems were far away. The pressure of having to save his entire species did not follow him into this space. All those years of training, dangerous operations, and combat fell away, leaving nothing but a lone male trying to shape wood into something new.

  He’d spent his whole day yesterday—from just before sunrise to well after sunset—in here trying to work, drifting from project to project with no sense of direction. That was not normal for him. It also wasn’t normal that he’d stopped so many times between those projects to take his cock in hand and pump himself to climax, or that he’d spent the night before yesterday unable to remove his hand from his shaft.

  Though that unknown floral scent from Tabitha’s house had faded from his nostrils not long after he’d first smelled it, its effects had proven devastatingly tenacious. He’d only begun to regain control of himself last night—a good twenty-four hours after it had first hit him. Whether that smell had acted as some sort of aphrodisiac or his body had confused it for a potent pheromone, it had haunted him.

  Tabitha had haunted him.

  His tail curled, its tuft briefly trailing over the floor. Tilting his head back, Zevris clenched his hair in his fist and dropped his other hand, which still held the towel, to his groin. He pressed down on his dully throbbing cock.

  In the hours following his disastrous cactus delivery, Zevris had stroked himself to climax at least half a dozen times. Each peak had been less fulfilling than the last. Only exhaustion had eventually broken the cycle.

  That cycle had commenced the second he’d awoken yesterday. By the time he’d fallen asleep last night, he’d been far, far past being able to count the number of times he’d stroked himself. Even now, he still felt the echoes of those impulses. And over the last day and a half, he swore he’d detected random, phantom traces of that maddening floral scent, even over the odors of hot metal and sawdust.

  He swore he’d smelled her.

  Zevris’s fingers curled reflexively. He refused to let them close around his shaft. He’d resisted today, had made it all the way to this afternoon without giving in to the insistent ache in his balls. He’d by no means been free of temptation, but it was a vast improvement in self-control over the day prior.

  The fragrance that had filled him with consuming lust and arousal had only magnified what he’d already felt. Zevris wanted Tabitha. He wanted to do all the things he’d imagined doing with her while he’d been in that druglike daze. He wanted to put everything he’d learned from the instructional videos to use, wanted to bring her great pleasure, wanted to show her that he was worthy, virile mate.

  He groaned, huffed through his nostrils, and forced himself to move.

  At least he’d maintained just enough control to recognize that throwing himself atop her wouldn’t have been the right choice. It didn’t matter how much lust he thought he’d seen in her eyes…he could not do any of those things without her say.

  Slinging the towel over his shoulder, he opened the interior door and entered the laundry room. The garage door slammed shut behind him; it always did unless he kept hold of it and closed it with deliberate gentleness.

  He continued into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of orange juice. It was one of the many sweet, flavorful Earth beverages he’d come to enjoy, and it was always particularly refreshing after a brutal round of exercise with the grav generator.

  Heat coursed just beneath his skin, sparking a series of mild itches throughout his body. Despite the physical exertion and the burn in his muscles, he still felt unfulfilled, still felt as though he were missing something. His heart had not yet slowed since completing his workout.

  It is merely the aftermath of my exercise. It has nothing to do with my thoughts of her.

  Zevris lifted the glass to his lips and drank as he walked to the sliding glass doors near the dining area. Perhaps it was merely warm in his dwelling. There was a breeze outside today that bore a taste of autumn crispness; allowing some of that air into the house couldn’t hurt.

  He opened the sliding door a few inches and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe as he sipped at his drink. The breeze flowed in through the screen door, carrying the mingled scents of the grass and flowers in his back yard and those of the lush trees beyond his rear fence. A bit more muted but impossible to miss were the smells of someone roasting meat on a grill…and Dexter.

  Before his thoughts could leap back to Tabitha, Zevris dumped the remaining orange juice into his mouth, gulped it down, and hurried to the sink to rinse the glass. His tail swished behind him impatiently.

  Did she like the gift? Did she understand my intent?

  Another pulse in Zevris’s groin made his fingers tighten around the glass. He froze, jaw clenched and arm trembling. Perhaps he’d been mistaken in assuming he had overcome the effects of that scent.

  Or, perhaps, he’d been mistaken about the true intensity of his desire for Tabitha.

  Zevris placed the glass in the dishwasher as delicately as he could before hurrying upstairs. He didn’t allow himself any hesitation in placing the grav generator on the bathroom counter, undressing, and getting into the shower.

  As he washed himself, he steered his thoughts toward mundane subjects—the items he would need to purchase during his next trip to the grocery store; which of his numerous unfinished projects seemed to be the most inspired; whether he’d received this month’s bill from his internet provider. But his mind repeatedly found its way back to Tabitha.

  What would it be like to have her hands running over his skin like this? How would it feel to have her soft, voluptuous body tucked against him with this hot water cascading over them? To have her arms and legs wrapped around him as he pounded into her?

  “Karak’duun,” he spat, halting his hand, which had been sliding down toward his hardening shaft. He forced
that hand forward instead, grasped the shower control handle, and cranked it all the way to cold.

  Zevris slapped his hands on the wall and leaned into the frigid water, ignoring the icy burn as it battled the heat roiling inside him.

  I am on a mission that may save my people.

  I am an althicar, one of the most disciplined, effective, and feared special operatives in the known universe.

  I am in control of myself—body and mind.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before his blood finally cooled and his arousal faded, but he fell into a sense of clarity that was welcome after the lust-addled fog of the last forty-or-so hours.

  His desire for Tabitha was undiminished; he was determined to make her his. But he could approach that matter from a rational position and figure out the best way to woo her without losing control, without going mad with lust, without taking rash action or acting on impulse. The unexpected effects of that scent had ruined his first attempt at traditional human courtship, but that did not mean all was lost.

  He finished his shower, and as he dried off and combed his hair, he formulated a strategy. Would the droves of books, articles, and videos on the internet related to picking up females offer any help? He’d found no success with such techniques thus far, but could that simply have been a matter of unpracticed or improper application? Which information was genuine, effective, and honest?

  No. He knew that his lack of success had little to do with those techniques. None of the females he’d attempted to form a relationship with had ignited a spark in him like Tabitha had. He’d never looked into a female’s eyes and known that she would be his lifemate. Not until Tabitha.

  After running the towel over his head again to wipe away any excess moisture, Zevris tossed it into the hamper and pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants.

  Not for the first time, he wished this mission could’ve been easier, more straightforward, more…impersonal? The idea of forging a lasting relationship with an alien female was, in many ways, more intimidating than standing face-to-face with a hostile military force. At least he knew what to expect with the latter.

  How much simpler this would have been were he authorized to simply take Tabitha, declare her his mate, and carry on.

  He plucked the grav generator off the counter and walked into his bedroom. Now, the air in his dwelling felt pleasantly cool, a welcome balm to his formerly heated skin. He stopped in front of the wall-mounted television, pulled it away from the wall, and turned it to a sharp angle. A wave of his hand—and an invisible scan of his genetic code—deactivated the lock on the hidden wall compartment, which in turn deactivated the hologram masking its existence.

  The panel—two feet wide and half as tall—slid open silently. Inside was all the equipment he’d been issued for this mission. A compact navigation device that could interface with his neural transceiver, a handful of leftover forcefield generators and sound dampeners, a long range listening and scanning device, a bundle of compact rations, a few sets of fully adjustable restraints, a communications disc, and a plasma pistol. All the items were compact and easily transported, most barely the size of his fingertip. Even the pistol could be easily disassembled into two pieces that could fit into the pockets of his jeans without rousing suspicions.

  He returned the grav generator to its case and was about to close the compartment when he noticed the faint blue light within. It was emanating from the comm disc, which he’d haphazardly tossed into the compartment after his last communication with the ultricar.

  That light meant his commanding officer needed to speak with him, likely to request another status update on the operation.

  “I guess they don’t want to wait until I have something important to report,” he muttered as he removed the disc, clutching it loosely in his hand.

  He’d made countless such reports over the years, had provided his ultricar with countless bits of information, had treated such communications with respect and solemnity. But he couldn’t help feeling like this one would be a waste of the ultricar’s time.

  Zevris brought the comm disc downstairs, his tail still flicking restlessly as he walked. He placed the device on the coffee table—which he’d not once used for coffee—and walked into the kitchen, where he perused the various beverages in his refrigerator. Something sweet once again sounded appetizing.

  Somewhere outside, a dog barked. It was strange how quickly that had become a normal sound to Zevris. It had set him on edge for days upon his arrival on Earth, stirring memories of being hunted by trained beasts on far-off worlds, memories of gnashing teeth, tearing flesh, flowing blood…

  When he’d realized that most dogs were primarily interested in running through grass, chewing on toys, drooling on every object they could find, and locating the perfect place to urinate, his concerns had eased.

  Stranger still, however, was that he somehow knew these particular barks were from Dexter. That only pushed his thoughts back toward the dog’s owner.

  I bet Tabitha is sweet…

  Frowning, he selected a can of cola, closed the fridge, and popped open the tab. He sipped the drink as he walked to the couch.

  He’d always firmly believed in reporting every detail, well aware that the Exthurizen intelligence analysts could glean some value from it that he may never have realized himself. But something about this situation… His instinct was to leave Tabitha out of his report.

  Perhaps that was the human influence on him—he didn’t want to jinx anything. He recognized it as a foolish superstition, but all the same, it was a strong acknowledgement of the fickleness of chance.

  Tabitha was not yet his mate. He’d inform command of her when his relationship with her had moved a little further along.

  Zevris sat down, took another sip of his drink, and set the can down on the coffee table—with a coaster beneath it. He’d come to appreciate the table’s craftsmanship and finish and wanted to preserve both as best he could. After a moment’s consideration, he placed a second coaster down, moving the comm disc to rest atop it.

  He pressed the button on the side of the disc. The blue light brightened as the device scanned him, confirming his identity. A moment later, a holographic projection materialized over the disc—Ultricar Khelvar Bathiras, Zevris’s commanding officer, depicted in three dimensions from the chest up.

  Zevris rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. “Ultricar.”

  “Althicar,” the ultricar replied. His normally stoic expression hardened around his mouth and brows, but something in his eyes softened. He continued in the Faloran tongue. “Tell me you have good news, Zevris.”

  It had been over a month since Zevris’s last communication with his commander—over a month since he’d last heard his native language spoken aloud—but he could derive no comfort from it now. He frowned. “Little has changed, Khelvar. My continued efforts have yielded no results.”

  Though those Faloran words came as easily for Zevris as ever, they felt oddly alien on his tongue. That sense, though small, was jarring.

  “Everything depends on this, Zevris. It is no secret. Our people are fast running out of options.”

  “I understand. It is why I accepted this assignment.”

  Khelvar lifted a hand, scratching at his cheek with his claws. It was a nervous tick the ultricar only displayed when circumstances were dire.

  Zevris’s heart quickened, and his brow furrowed. He suddenly felt as though a molten hot spike had been plunged into his chest. “Has something happened?”

  “No,” Khelvar replied with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “No new disasters. Just the old, slowly creeping doom.”

  For a few seconds, Zevris studied the ultricar’s face. Khelvar had been an althicar operating in the field, already several years into his service, when Zevris’s service had begun, and Zevris’s first operation had been as a member of Khelvar’s team. They’d known each other for a long while, but only now was Zevris beginning to notice—and understand�
��the subtle changes to Khelvar’s face. Those changes went beyond normal aging.

  The ultricar was tired. Perhaps not for the same reasons as Zevris, but his weariness looked just as thorough, just as heavy. It was the sort of weariness that had nothing to do with the physical; it was embedded deep in what humans called the soul.

  “What is wrong, Khelvar?”

  “Orders have been passed down. I am to extract you and embed a new althicar in your place.”

  Zevris’s heart stilled. The tightness in his chest strengthened, coiling around his insides like one of Earth’s constricting serpents. Of all the things he might have expected to hear, of all the bad news he might have imagined, he could never have anticipated this.

  “This is not meant to stain you with dishonor, Zevris,” Khelvar continued. “You are the best althicar with whom I have ever served. But your release from service was meant to go into effect after this final mission, and with no progress to show… Command has decided we will not keep you there indefinitely. You’ve done your part a dozen times over. You’ve more than earned your trip home.”

  A few days ago, Zevris might have been concerned with the potential dishonor. Failure was no source of shame for an althicar—so long as it was failure suffered while fighting with one’s all. Althicars’ duties placed them in immense danger, forced them to face staggering odds, all the time. But so much of the respect and fear the Exthurizen had built over the last two generations had been due to the tenacity displayed by its field operatives.

  An althicar saw his mission to the end no matter what. Leaving an operation incomplete…that was not the way althicars conducted themselves.

  But Zevris couldn’t have cared less about all that now. His thoughts, his shock and concern, were turned toward Tabitha. Would he be separated from her before ever truly having a chance to win her? Would he be left with nothing more than a few memories of her?