Page 25 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Hemeansit.
He meansme.
His mouth finds the hollow of my collarbone and trails heat downward, slow and sure, until I’m gasping under every brush of his lips. The sharp edges of his bone spurs never hurt—they only tease, skimming past sensitive skin with maddening restraint.
“Grau,” I whisper, my voice already wrecked.
“Shh,” he says against my stomach. “I’m not done admiring yet.”
His tongue drags down my belly, slow, wet, deliberate, pausing just below my navel like he knows exactly how close I am to losing control. The sensation short-circuits something in me. My back arches before I can stop it. My legs try to close on instinct—some last, futile attempt at self-preservation?—
—and he pries them apart with large, steady hands.
“You open for me,” he says, almost conversational, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “You stay open.”
My cheeks burn.
But I nod.
Because I do.
Because I am.
Because in this moment, I would give him anything.
Then his mouth is on me.
And everything else disappears.
The world vanishes in a flood of sensation, each stroke of his tongue a new star exploding behind my eyes. His mouth is hot, skilled, relentless—alien in the way it moves, the way it learns me instantly, like my body is a language he already speaks fluently.
His grip is unyielding. One arm loops under my thigh, hauling me closer, while the other braces my hip in place like I might float away from the sheer intensity of it. I can feel the strength in him even when he’s holding back, every muscle coiled, controlled.
He devours me.
There’s no other word for it.
Like a man who’s found religion and decided to worship at the altar of my pleasure.
I moan—long, low, helpless. The sound spills out of me before I can stop it, my hips stuttering forward, chasing his mouth, begging without words. He gives me more every time I need it. Every time my body pleads, he answers—adjusting, shifting, learning, like he’s calibrating to my nerves in real time.
“You taste like sin,” he growls between strokes, voice rough, almost wrecked.
He laughs—dark and low and laced with something feral—and the vibration alone almost pushes me over the edge.
But he doesn’t let me fall.
Not yet.
Not until he’s ready.
He teases me to the brink and then pulls back, licking a slow line up my thigh before rising to loom over me again.
I’m trembling.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
