His mouth finds me and I arch off the bed.
Hot. His mouth is so hot—fifteen degrees above human baseline concentrated on the most sensitive part of my body. His tongue is broader than a human’s, slightly ridged along the surface, and when he drags that texture across my clit the sensation is so sharp and foreign and perfect that my hips buck off the bed without my permission.
He pins me down. One hand splayed across my stomach, fingers warm, claw-tips barely grazing my skin—five pinpricks of controlled danger that send lightning bolts straight to my core. Not scratching. Hovering. The threat of sharpness without the cut, and the contrast between his lethal hands and his devastating mouth makes me whimper.
“Cetus—God—right there—”
He flicks his tongue—quick, precise, the ridged surface catching and dragging across the swollen bundle of nerves. Once. Twice. A third time that makes my spine try to leave my body. Then he seals his mouth over me and growls, and the vibration rockets through me in subsonic waves I feel in my teeth, my nipples, the soles of my feet.
His fingers replace his tongue—two, careful of claws, sliding inside me. The heat of them makes me moan—they’re scorching, warming me from the inside, and when he curls them the pads of his fingers find the spot with a scientist’s precision and stroke. His mouth returns to my clit. Tongue flicking that maddening texture while his fingers work me open, and the dual sensation—heat inside, ridged friction outside—is unlike anything I’ve ever processed.
“I can’t—it’s too—” My hands fist in the sheets. My thighs clamp around his head. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare—”
I come the first time with his mouth on me and his fingers buried deep, screaming his name, clenching around the heat of him in waves that leave me shaking and wanting more, not less, because the emptiness afterward is unbearable.
“More,” I pant. “I need—I want to—”
I push at his shoulders. He lets me guide him onto his back and I slide down his body, pressing kisses to his markings along the way. Each one flares under my lips and he shudders, fingers threading into my hair.
I wrap my hand around the base of his cock. The basal ridge throbs against my palm—thick and hot, a quarter-inch of raised flesh that pulses in time with his heartbeat. I lower my mouth to the tip and taste—salty, faintly sweet, the slick warmth of his natural lubrication that coats my tongue like honey and heat. Addictive. I lick my lips and his cock twitches, a fresh bead welling up, and his scent hits me—concentrated, intoxicating, a pheromone trigger that bypasses my brain entirely and speaks to something primal. Wet. I’m so wet from his scent alone it’s slicking my thighs.
“You smell like home,” I murmur against the head of his cock, and his entire body jerks.
When my lips stretch over the first ridge, his whole body bows off the bed. The node swells against my tongue—responsive, alive, pulsing hotter than the rest of him. And through his skin, I can see it—his glow bleeding through the teal flesh from inside, illuminating the veins, the ridges, making his cock shine faintly gold. I’m watching his pleasure light him from within.
“Dove—” His hips jerk. His hand tightens in my hair—not pushing, gripping, hanging on. “Your mouth—the ridges—they can feel your tongue—every—”
I drag my tongue along the underside, tracing each ridge individually, and his patterns go supernova. The room fills with gold, pulsing in time with his ragged breathing. He’s magnificent like this—spread out beneath me, all that discipline cracking apart, his body broadcasting pleasure in wavelengths I can see.
I take him deeper. The ridges drag against my lips, each one a bump of texture that makes him curse in Lividian—harsh syllables I don’t understand but feel in my chest. His cock pulses in my mouth, the ridges swelling further, and I realise with a lurch of want: this is what they’ll feel like in me. This texture. This fire. This responsive, reactive, alien biology designed to make its partner come apart.
“Stop.” His voice is wrecked. “Dove, stop, I need to be inside you when—I need—”
I release him. Crawl up his body. Straddle his hips with my knees braced on either side.
From this angle, looking down at him—teal skin flushed darker across his chest, markings blazing, yellow eyes molten and desperate—he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen seventeen star systems.
“You’re sure?” he asks. His hands find my hips. Trembling. “It will be—the ridges—”
“I want to feel every single one.”
I position him at my entrance. The head of his cock is blunt and hot, slick with his own lubrication and my mouth, and the first point of contact—just the tip, just the heat of him pressing against where I’m open and aching—sends a shudder through us both that I feel in his hands, in the tremor of his thighs beneath mine, in the way his markings blaze bright enough to turn the room to gold.
His fingers tighten on my hips. Not pushing. Not pulling. Waiting. Trusting me to take what I want.
I begin to sink down.
14
Signed Sealed Delivered
Dove
Thefirstridgebreachesme.
I gasp. I stretch around the node—a bump of textured warmth that drags against my inner walls with friction that shorts out my thoughts. It catches on nerve endings I didn’t know existed, pressure and depth and a sweet, burning stretch right on the edge of too much.
“Oh God.” I grip his chest, fingers pressing into the patterns. They flare under my palms. “That’s—I can feel—”
