KRISTI
The restaurant hums with the last ghost of life as the lock clicks shut behind Kenron. The clatter of the day—the sizzle of pans, the thump of heavy boots, the swirl of dozens of languages spoken between bites—is gone. What’s left is a kind of stillness I can’t put words to. A hush thick with memory and heat.
He doesn’t say anything as he passes me by the prep table, just brushes a hand against the small of my back. His skin’s warm. Grounding. The contact makes my breath catch like it always does, but tonight, there’s no hesitation in me. No fear, no second-guessing.
“Come here,” I whisper, fingers curling around his wrist.
He follows. Of course he does.
We slip into the storage room, lit only by a single overhead bulb that hums softly, casting everything in golden amber. Shelves of dried herbs and fermentation jars press close around us, enclosing us in a cocoon of earthy spice and salt. The air smells like cumin and lemon zest and the barest hint of sweet rice.
Kenron leans against the metal shelves, arms crossed, watching me. He’s all shadow and silhouette, and those molteneyes burn holes straight through me. He’s seven feet of living sculpture, red-scaled, all sinew and strength. He dwarfs me, and I love it. Golden eyes catch the light like molten gold, gleaming with restrained hunger.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low. Rough.
“Yeah,” I say. My throat is tight.
I reach for him. He steps into me. And when his hands find my hips, the world narrows down to this moment.
We undress each other slowly, reverently, like unwrapping something sacred. His claws snag on the hem of my tunic, lifting it carefully over my head, not tearing it. My fingers fumble with the knots at his waist—thick cord bindings and layers of alien cloth. It falls away, revealing crimson skin that shifts and glimmers like volcanic glass. My breath catches.
He’s beautiful. Otherworldly. And mine.
He brushes my hair from my face with a gentleness that breaks me open. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, like he can’t believe I’m real.
I press my forehead to his chest, and his scent fills me—spice, fire, citrus oil, and something distinctly him. His scales are warmer than skin, smoother too, ridged in places that feel designed to make me tremble. When I kiss his chest, I feel the thrum of his heart under my lips.
Then his mouth claims mine.
It’s not gentle.
It’s desperate.
Hot and open and hungry. He tastes like smoke and lavender tea, like longing that’s waited too long. His tongue slides against mine, and I moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound greedily.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me down on a folded blanket in the corner, shielding me from the cold tile. The heat ofhim follows—his massive body hovering above mine, caging me without ever making me feel trapped.
His hand slides between my thighs, and I gasp.
“You’re already wet,” he groans, voice strained. “Gods, Kristi.”
“You are touching me,” I pant, shifting under his hand, seeking more.
His thumb brushes my clit in slow, agonizing circles, while two thick fingers press against my entrance, testing, teasing.
“You’re tight,” he whispers, golden eyes darkening. “So soft. So human.”
He pushes in.
I arch off the blanket with a cry, impaled on his hand, on his attention. His fingers are thicker than I expected, and curved perfectly. He curls them, and I see stars.
My pussy clenches around him, greedy and slick.
“Kenron,” I gasp, voice breaking. “More—don’t stop?—”
“I won’t,” he growls. “I’ll never stop. Not until you come all over my hand.”
He fucks me with his fingers, slow and deep, keeping his eyes locked on mine. Every thrust rocks through me like a promise. I grab at his shoulders, at the hard muscles that ripple beneath his red scales. I want to climb him. Mark him.
