12
What is going on with me?
Veta wanted to strangle herself. Or at least the part that was lusting for an alien.
She couldn’t possibly be attracted to a Rhimodian! Her enemy! The enemy of everything she grew up fighting for. She’d spent her life learning how to take one down.
Not screw them.
Regardless that he had the most amazing cock she’d ever seen. And what it felt like inside her? Holy stars, she didn’t know enough deities to thank for that one.
With that tight suit, she’d seen everything. It was only reasonable that she wanted to see what that was all about.
After all, sex didn’t mean anything—especially to her. Sex was just one more weapon in her arsenal.
The sex and the blow job, it was just her working him. Making sure he did whatever she wanted.
Yeah. That’s what she had to tell herself.
If she enjoyed it a bit, well, a bonus for her. Right? Because anything else wasn’t acceptable to consider, she had a mission after all. Fighting was a powerful aphrodisiac. And whether she liked it or not, she needed this Rhimodian to—
Wrathin.
She needed Wrathin to get her back to the rest of the ambassadors. Because this mission needed to be finished. The princesses had to be protected. She refused to believe anything happened to them—that they could have been killed.
If the other Rhimodians had followed the escape pods, like Wrathin did for her, then they would have survived.
They had to.
She shook her head.
And forced herself to remember who she was. A spy. An acquirer of information for the Terran Empire. That’s what she did.
By whatever means necessary. And if it was essential for her to get next to a Rhimodian to get what she required, then that was what she would do.
Besides, if the most laborious work she had to do was grind on Wrathin’s dick to get what she needed, well, then she might as well enjoy it.
He certainly did.
He kept watching her. She could feel it, even when she didn’t see it. One part of her felt smug about it, that she’d gotten him under control.
However, there was this tiny part that liked how he looked at her. How he seemed to watch how she moved. His gaze was almost tactile when it passed over her. And while men had looked at her all her life, there was something about the way Wrathin did. It was more. It meant more.
Like shecaredmore that he liked her.
Which was foolish because she was doing a job. Right? Wrathin was just a job she was working.
Nothing more.
At all.
Besides a great dick.
That was all he was to her.
End file.
So why would she feel a strange pang when she’d glance at him, and he wasn’t looking at her?
