Won by an Alien (Stolen by an Alien Book 3)

by Amanda Milo

  With a repressed growl, he loses the battle and collapses back—which yanks my hand off of him and he sounds like he’s cursing himself out while apologizing to me and begging me to continue all at the same time, all in the same breath.

  I don’t know about him, but I’ve never had so much fun. This is awfully gratifying, to reduce an alien to pleasure-drunk, mumbling, twitching goo.

  When he lifts his head, his eyes glazed with a becoming sheen of lust, I wave my tied hand. “Want to take it off now?”

  He shakes his head, firm and sure. ...Okay.

  He lays his tethered arm across his midsection so that I have slack to work, and the set of his jaw tells me he’s prepared to see this through.

  He catches my eye and I smile at him. I think we’re thinking the same thing: if he can see this through.

  I bring my lips around his tip, then let the weight of his cock settle on my tongue, slowwwly extending my lick before I drag it back up the underside of his head. I am thoroughly enjoying his croaking, cackling noises of mindless pleasure. With my lips covering my teeth, I start to sink over him.

  And run into a little bit of a problem.

  Tac hisses and I am cringing and popping off immediately. “Sorry!”

  I study the length of his cock in consternation as he shifts restlessly under me. “Hang on,” I say distractedly as I consider the problem.

  And I have to call them something. Shroom rims. His shroom rims are so pronounced that they scrape against my molars. Not a little. A lot.

  How do his people give blowjobs, exactly?

  I chance a look at him, and see a wariness that wasn’t there before. I squeeze his shroom-shaft firmly enough that he loses the wary look with a tortured groan. I smile. “Just the first head then.”

  CHAPTER 35

  TARA

  It’s not easy to give a hand job to an alien.

  Instead of a smooth, easy slide along a slicked shaft, the multiple flanges seem to catch my deliberately applied coating of saliva, wicking it away so the next stroke of my hand has more friction than I’d think he’d like. The gap and subsequent bump of leaving one rim for the next mushroom head also breaks the seal of hand… suction. If I couldn’t see and hear Tac’s reactions, considering these along with how this started and I’d be thinking this was the worst hand/blow job in history.

  Fortunately, these are not the sounds of complaint leaving Tac’s throat. He is very, very vocal, all of it sounds like praise—pained praise, but I think it’s a good thing.

  Tac seems to love it all.

  When he’s trying hard not to buck into my mouth, and his dull-clawed fingers are spreading wide before closing into a tight fist, I guide one of his hands to my hair, and he surprises me by sliding it down and cupping the back of my head.

  “Thanngk Tara,” he rasps. “Duhhhn.”

  That’s what I tell him when I’m finished eating a meal. “Thank you, Tac. I’m done.”

  My lips curve around him. With our extremely limited word exchanges, he’s just warned me. It’s cute.

  “Sstayyy,” he groans.

  I meet his eyes—careful not to drop my teeth on his tip—and they’re imploring me. Stay? I didn’t even know he knew my word—he had to have caught me sassing back to Brax, because I think he’s the one I’ve groused this word at when he takes things like the mop out of my hands and doesn’t want me to follow him to take it back. “‘Bad Tara, no touchie, stay!’”

  That sort of thing. Which, by the way, Brax completely pretends to ignore. But I’ve seen that tail swiping the air faster. He hears just me fine. And apparently, so does Tac.

  So… stay? Like swallow?

  What if it comes out like acid or silly putty—

  I deliberate too long.

  Tac’s feet slam down on the bed as hot come hits the back of my throat with such force that I’m a little surprised, a lot concerned about, and I’m scared to swallow any of it.

  But Tac’s abdominals tense up in glorious relief right before my eyes as he bows over me, carefully setting his claws into my hair.

  I’m scared for a second that he’s going to shove me down—but this is Tac. I get gentle encouraging strokes and with his other hand, he sweeps the come that is spilling out of my lips. He wants to feed it to me.

  I want to snicker. Men are men no matter what planet.

  Tentatively, I lick it off of his finger, not able to take my gaze from his, he’s watching me so intently. Thankfully, despite not looking at it directly, I am beyond super relieved to note that it does not come out looking or smelling or feeling like acid or tar, or silly putty or play doh—which I’m ashamed to say I got last-second nerves over as all of those possibilities bizarrely blitzed through my mind.

  Tac is talking now, and the only word I really understand is my name. It’s strange, but his words sound stilted, as well as sort of rote, the way your voice comes out when you’re trying to remember the lyrics to an old song or poem you used to know.

  I’d started this off by kneeling over his thick tail, but now I realize that at some point, I not only sat back down on him, but I started rocking on it too. His tail feels much like a man’s strong thigh and I guess I was riding it like one. My poor skirt will never be the same. He must feel the air hit the wet spot when I start to lift off of him because his eyes turn to a dark jade green and he gently guides me to sit back down.

  This time, I do the bright thing and tug my skirt up to my hips.

  He slides his hands there, clamping over the disastrously wrinkled fabric. When I don’t immediately begin to move; he starts to shift me forward and back.

  I gasp.

  Then I grind on him. Watching this, he jams a white-strained knuckle between his teeth as he makes a choked chirrup. And I know he’s really gone when he’s rapidly alternating between pulling and petting my hair. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.

  When I cry out, I don’t get to bask in it; he shocks me by hauling me up, and trying to pull my sex towards his face. He starts making little chirp noises in his throat that sound excited—elated.

  Startled, my voice comes out sharper than I mean for it to. “No, Tac!”

  Even if he doesn’t understand my word, he hears my tone.

  I shake my head and he lets me go so that I can scramble off of him. He looks… confused.

  “No thank you.”

  Eyes glued to mine, he dips his head and cocks it a fraction, looking almost bird-like as he studies me, as if he’s trying to comprehend why I’d ever say no to oral reciprocation. Weakly, I pat his arm. He rolls to his side.

  When he brings his hand between my legs I don’t get annoyed. It’s Tac, he’s so earnest, looking like he’s trying to work out a problem. I let my knees spread a little as he slowly studies my wet labia with gentle presses of his fingertips. Instead of forcing his fingers inside of me, he reverently slides them along my outer lips, back, back back—then he curls his fingers forward and scoops my slickness up and to his mouth.

  It would be the single filthiest, hottest thing I’ve ever had happen to me if it wasn’t for his happy croaking and chirruping.

  It disrupts the hotness factor just enough that I blink a little faster and shake my head at him just a little too.

  But the way he assertively grabs the leather rope between us and tugs me in for a kiss?

  Hotttttt.

  Croaking or not.

  As he wraps me in a strong hug, and cups my nape to pull me in for another uncharacteristically demanding kiss, I feel like I need to fan myself. Swooon! My first idiotic thought is, ‘My sweet alien has a dominant side? We will have fun finding out—’

  But we won’t.

  I’m beyond relieved to know I’ll be with my girls in a few more hours.

  Just a few more hours! I’m almost there, hang on girls!

  But no matter how devastatingly important my reason for going home happens to be, it won’t change the fact that I’m going to miss the hell out of Tac.


  CHAPTER 36

  TAC’MOT

  My aposematic coloration isn’t only for show; in most circumstances it simply serves as a warning, but agitate me enough, and unconsciously, my skin emits a toxic mucus secretion that, at close range or in an enclosed space, can become a harmful vapor.

  Touching it causes paralysis. I’ve been told inhaling a particularly powerful application can even cause death.

  Everyone around me is constantly at risk, which is why my kind tend to be avoided as if we emit the plague. However, in a safe environment, around trusted family and friendly units, my kind are incredibly easy going, tending to avoid situations that could upset us. Thus, the likelihood of anyone coming to harm is greatly reduced.

  Matehood though. Matehood is another matter entirely. A mate will be in contact with the skin not only during times of extreme excitement—the mate will be the constant cause of a nearly neverending level of excitement.

  Thus, exchanging essences is essential.

  My tail stiffens when I replay feeding mine to her. The uncertainty in her eyes but the willingness of her lips.

  I can’t stifle the soft hoot.

  Tara doesn’t even twitch. What an incredible female. We’re not even the same species—we can’t even speak to each other—but she has unalloyedly adapted. As an early indicator, this looks good, our mating has a solid foundation of trust and will be flexible when life circumstances make the odd change necessary.

  I can’t believe this has actually happened. I’m still shocked she knew what to do—sometimes, it seems as if everything in the world is alien to her.

  Yet she recognized my mate-receptive reaction for what it was, mounted me, and chose to accept my seed in her mouth so that she is protected from my system’s toxic emission.

  Her part of the ceremony didn’t go exactly like it was supposed to—although, she isn’t Wanbaroo. It’s not necessary for her kind, therefore it’s not critical to the act of our mating.

  Our mating.

  I can’t believe she… we’re mated.

  I don’t yet know how we’ll arrange our lives after this. I will obviously follow her wherever she goes. I’m nervous: I doubt her people will be overtly accepting of my… differences. But we’ll cope. I’ve learned to appreciate simulated sunlight after all of these years spent in space; I could simply remain indoors in her domicile/dwelling and avoid venturing out entirely. I’m not sure what I can do to contribute to her livelihood if I restrict my exposure to that degree, but we will sort it all out. Somehow.

  More than our living circumstances though, I am surprised to find how melancholy I already feel at the thought of who I will leave behind here. Brax and Lem have been my family. It will be an… it will be a difficult adjustment to say my goodbyes to them.

  Isn’t she worth it though? Worth changing everything?

  Her fingers trace my fading mottles. “Ahhh, Tac,” she murmurs, her voice attractively throaty and sleep-roughened. Then she pats my skin with a motion so gentle, so tender, that my mating receptor pattern flares to life around her hand’s touch. She gasps in shock, then laughs in delight.

  Absolutely. Worth. Everything.

  She curls up on my chest and it is perfection: not only because her warmth and weight feel amazing, but because this position doesn’t strain our wedded tether. Yes. We are still joined! This is wonderful: my people believe a night spent happily in bindings indicates a strong mating.

  What is not wonderful is how she is gazing at me. It’s alarming, because she looks wistful, as well as unbearably sad.

  Last night, she struggled to fall asleep, only to fall into a fitful sort of slumber—one where she called out for them.

  Again.

  She calls for the same pair of guards. Either she had the smallest service I’ve ever heard of, or these two were her favorites of them all.

  Or… perhaps they were taken from her the most violently, and this is what haunts her.

  Yet she is attempting to lock away her pain. Underneath her as I am, I see her working to compartmentalize it.

  She gently slides over me, and slowly begins to sway herself back and forth across my shaft, the side-to-side motion not quite the friction I crave; though it seems to be serving her well—I believe—I’m having difficulty focusing on anything but our point of contact.

  I didn’t bother with the hassle of struggling back into pants last night, thus there is nothing separating me from the gloriousness of her body.

  She performs a little grinding bounce on me.

  METARK!

  I can feel her nipples poking against my chest through my shirt. My satisfaction at this might burst through my sternum.

  Her hand lands on my shoulder before tentatively sliding up my neck. As she glides her hand over my scalp, I know that to her, my short, plush hairs feel like the pillowsoft baby-down of a yanak’s belly.

  To me, her touch feels like heaven.

  She explores each of my ears, and surprises me when she scoots up higher up my torso so that she can better reach to explore all of my face—with her lips as well as her tongue.

  Creator! Who knew a tongue would feel enjoyable against my ears?

  When she pulls back enough to look down at me again, much of her sadness is chased away when she laughs at what she must find in my expression.

  I raise up enough to meet her mouth with mine.

  It would be a dishonest statement if I attempted to claim that I didn’t possess slightly proprietary feelings over her before. Now, after our mutual claiming, there is nothing ‘slightly’ about it.

  Tara is mine.

  ...For now. When she deems herself ready to bring guards back into her service, I’ll share her.

  I had already been stroking her back, and I am well acquainted with her buttocks in that polite way that becomes unavoidable when you lift and carry another person. But now she reaches behind herself, covering my hand with her own, and moves it to her rump where she… she makes me squeeze her nethercheek. Then she backs our hands off, before bringing them sharply against the soft curve of her buttock, and I can feel the skin bounce under my palm with the impact. My tail thrashes wildly.

  Creator!

  I let my head thunk back down, breaking our kiss.

  Never, never handle Gryfala roughly. That’s what Grake told me. It’s true he isn’t Academy trained, and I’m even further from it than him—but my Gryfala either didn’t read the manual or she’s making up her own rules.

  She laughs again before sitting up, which causes our wrists to abruptly follow the other.

  I somehow muster the resolve to sit up also, and it is with great satisfaction that I reach for and begin to unwind a length of our wedded tether. I bring the leather across my teeth to split it, and I do this three times. Once accomplished, I plash the lengths as she watches me in fascination. I part it in the middle and knot off the ends, and that done; I fasten the intricate remnant about her wrist, before I repeat the same for mine. “Bound by the same cord,” I tell her.

  The end of her nose begins to turn an odd shade, darkening. So do the rims of her eyelids. “Nohw eye haff sumteeng too reemembrrr yoo bye.”

  I cup the side of her face and attempt to study her. Instead of letting me do so, she rolls her neck so that she can quickly press her lips to my forearm. The movement to get there might have been quick but she makes certain it is a lazy, inflammatory kiss. She doesn’t want to end what we’re enjoying here either.

  I grin. “Well now, we have a bit of an issue. Because I don’t know about your state, but I must use the facilities. Um, ‘baahthrum.’” I would have suffered a ruptured bladder before ever asking to stop our second session of wedded pleasure; but I really have to piss. I make myself lift her body off of mine, to which she sighs sadly as I set her aside. I sigh sadly too. I’m no less reluctant to disrupt this perfect cocoon of bliss we’ve only just started here.

  She’s more than content to let me carry her to the B.C.U., and though she’s only
recently started looping her arms about my neck when I carry her around—now she takes me by surprise as she throws her arms around me, clinging to me even tighter than usual.

  This evidence of an even stronger formation to our relationship is exciting to me, and I bounce us in place happily. She doesn’t laugh though, and her smile is somber.

  I don’t detect regret but perhaps she is simply missing what she had with her hobs. That would be understandably difficult to work through. After all, I don’t even know how long she had with them. She would have layered on little affections, building attachments over a span of solars and solars. I may not have known her long, but were I to lose Tara to violent tragedy right now, how long would it take me to ‘move on’? To ever smile again. To be wholly able, and without bittersweetness to take another, if such a thing were possible by biology and circumstances?

  Never. I’d never be able to.

  Realizing this, I feel a new appreciation for her strength. I know Tara feels deeply, and is kind. Binding with me was not a decision she made lightly. But it’s no wonder I’ve caught her staring off at nothing, mood palpably sad as often as I have.

  A tug on my wrist’s wedded braid has me shaking free of my morose thoughts, especially when I see how she is trying to cheer me up by way of a soft smile.

  Such a sweet female.

  I set her down and pause awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if I should wait outside for her as is our usual routine, or—

  Her face fills with a brilliant rouge coloration, and she shakes her head a little at me, so I step back.

  “Noh, Tac!” Her laugh seems to startle out of her. “Gehht een heer,” and she tugs me inside.

  She closes the door and turns to look up at me. I snort down at her. This female’s signals.

  “Goh ohn,” she tells me, shooing me with one hand that, when I step in, lands against my chest.

  Such a small, simple touch. Yet, it makes my body heat.

  I want to hover my lips over hers, I want to tease out more smiles. I want her mind on the todays and tomorrows and not her hurts and losses from her yesterdays.