Page 119 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
I touch her like she’s holy. Like I’m not worthy but will spend my last breath proving myself anyway.
“Grau,” she whispers, and the way she says my name—raw, threaded with nerves and steel—hits me somewhere I didn’t know was still alive.
I answer her without words. My hands find her waist, then her jaw, and I kiss her like prayer. Slow. Deep. Endless. Her mouth opens under mine, pliant and bold all at once, and I drink from her like I’m dying. I may be.
She moans into me, the sound small but sharp, a spike to the gut that makes me pull her closer until there's nothing but heat and breath and desperation between us.
I lead her to the desk like it’s ceremony.
We’ve been here before. Same space. Same hunger. But everything’s different now.
This time, there’s no claiming.
Onlyrecognition.
She reaches for my jacket, pulling it down my arms. Her fingers tremble—not from fear, from weight. From choice.
“You sure?” I ask, rough-voiced.
“Don’t make me beg,” she bites out, fire flickering under every syllable.
“Oh, I plan to,” I murmur, then scoop her up with one arm and set her down on the polished wood like she weighs nothing.
Her breath hitches.
She’s wearing something sharp and black—power clothes—but the buttons come apart like they were waiting to fail. I unfasten her blouse slowly, watching the column of her throat as it’s revealed, then the smooth slope of her shoulders, then the swell of her breasts.
I kiss every inch like a promise.
“Grau—”
“Not yet.”
Her skirt hikes up easily, and her thighs part for me like muscle memory. I kneel without hesitation, palms braced on her hips, face buried between her legs like it’s my religion. She cries out, fingers tangling in my hair, legs tightening against my shoulders.
I lap at her until she shakes.
Until she’s mumbling my name like it’s a goddamn lifeline.
Until her body arches andbegs.
“Please,” she gasps.
I pull back just enough to speak, lips slick, voice deadly soft. “No.”
She whimpers, furious and undone. “Grau—please?—”
“Beg right.”
She freezes, panting, flushed and angry and so fucking close she’s trembling.
“Beg me for permission.”
The words hit her like a match to oil. Her eyes go wide—then something changes. Shegets it. This isn’t about control. It’s about power freely given. Surrender not as weakness but as gift.
“Please,” she breathes. “Let me come. Let me break for you.”
I growl and slam back into her, mouth claiming, tongue ruthless.
