Slag: Book Four in the Galaxy Pirates Alien Abduction Romance Series (Shifter) Alana Khan (love letters to the dead .txt) 📖

blow job will allow me to escape vaginal penetration from the chartreuse monster swinging from between his hips. I’m paralyzed, though. I can't move.

He finally allows himself the pleasure of gripping his cock. His glowing green eyes shutter closed for a moment, then open as his gaze flies to mine.

His meaty hand closes around his equipment as he palms himself. He can’t maintain his gaze as he again closes his eyes while he strokes his rock-hard member.

He sighs in pleasure, his hand moving slowly, sensuously. I need to stay alert so I can fight him when his attention shifts from himself to me.

I decide there’s something terribly wrong with me when I realize I’m turned on. I can’t drag my eyes from the action as he touches himself. Maybe I did find that calm meditative place where I feel detached from everything as if I’m watching from another dimension.

It’s surprising such a big male could be so gentle, but he’s handling himself with soft, deft touches, stroking from base to tip.

As his hand slowly feathers the length of his cock, the look on his face is of sheer primitive ecstasy. When he clenches himself harder and rubs himself faster, a moan of pleasure escapes his lips.

I tried to kill myself not eight hours ago, and have been sentenced to hard labor in a toxic mine, and yet I’m horny. Not slightly excited like when I’m watching an R-rated movie. No, it’s dry-mouthed, pussy clenching, one-touch-and-I-could-come sheer lust.

I don’t understand my own sexual responses as I feel my muscles pulse in arousal. Why would this inflame me when he could move with lightning-quick reflexes and pounce on me at any moment?

But I’m excited beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And miraculously, he doesn’t pounce. With a strangled grunt, he tightens his grip and lifts his hips off his heels, tipping his pelvis toward me.

His hand speeds up as he squeezes himself harder, his hips now pumping as he fists himself.

My mouth pops open as I gasp for breath to tolerate the sexiest show I’ve ever seen. He thrusts slow and deep now, grunting with every upthrust. The muscles on his forearm are bunching with the effort as he strains to push himself to the finish line.

He thrusts his hips closer, and with a deep, hoarse groan, his luminescent green come spatters on my abs in ropey jets. His voice is deep and hoarse as he releases with pure joy. After taking a jagged breath, he opens his eyes and stares at me.

He leans closer, his lips almost touching mine, his gaze spearing me as he rubs his come onto me as if it’s a healing lotion, a look of proud accomplishment on his face.

I’m frightened and aroused and baffled all at the same time. Until the explanation comes rushing to me.

He just marked me. He scented me like an animal scents its mate. This was to protect me from the other males. To assert ownership, to give the promise of the retribution of seven hells if any of them touch me.

He swivels me toward the wall so he can rub the sweetly fragrant liquid on my back, then pulls my shirt down to cover me. He vocalizes a deep, satisfied grunt that says, ‘mission accomplished,’ then struts to the wall with the fountain of water, cleans himself, binds his sex back between his legs, and lays down inches from me.

The dim overhead lights flicker off and we’re bathed in the darkest black I’ve ever experienced. At home, even with everything turned off, there are dim lights everywhere. From the light cast from my smartphone to the glow drifting from the moon through the curtains, there’s always some illumination, no matter how faint. For the first time, I understand the term ‘pitch black’.

I lay on the thin pile of rags and even though I think I’m safe, the back of my mind still wonders if there’s going to be an inevitable onslaught. I wait. And I wait. And wait. And then I hear Slag’s soft rhythmic breathing and I wonder if maybe there really is a God.

Chapter Two

KJ

I couldn’t have been more than ten years old when I made one of those decisions that shape the rest of your life. I’ve come to call them ‘as-God-is-my-witness’ decisions where no matter how young you are you make a vow that stays with you forever.

I was in the backseat, mom and dad were in the front, and we were driving the blue highways of Missouri. Blue highways are so named because the small, out-of-the-way roads that criss-cross the rural midwest are drawn in blue on most maps.

It was hot as blazes in the middle of one of those hundred degree, hundred percent humidity days Missouri is known for. A flagger stopped us for a construction slowdown. I observed her collar and underarms ringed with sweat and how she used her forearm to wipe the perspiration from her brow.

I either had a bit of psychic ability or a damn good imagination, because it was as if I could see her entire life flash before my eyes.

My ‘as-God-is-my-witness’ moment was to vow to everything that was holy that I would never have that life. And I decided I didn’t want to ever toil in the sun for any reason. From that day forward I buckled down in school, got good grades and was on the college track. It was that level of focus that helped me become a 911 operator.

I have to give my ten-year-old self credit. She knew what she wanted. Because right now, with rivulets of sweat pouring from my forehead, temples, and trickling down the back of my neck and between my breasts, I realize I was one-hundred percent correct about my innate aversion to manual labor in sweltering heat.

It’s not even lunchtime, although that’s not