Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  Kio curls a finger under the female’s chin, and even her offspring go round-eyed as he leans in and says softly, “If you don’t want to come, you should keep it anyway.”

  Breathlessly, she says, “I want to come.”

  “I bet she does,” Gracie mutters. Loudly, she grumbles, “Well, I tried. You guys are going to end up adopting half the women in this town like friggin’ strays. You saps.”

  She shakes her head, a myriad of implications apparently running through her mind because she begins to release an expletive. “G—” she starts, before looking at the youths and biting off her word. “Gorram,” she tries again. “There’s not going to be a woman under eighty left by the time we’re done.”

  Frankly, I’m on the side of females who would want to evacuate—we’re learning aspects of this planet that sound deeply unsavory and we’ve not been on it a full rotation.

  Wait a click... “What happens when the women here reach eighty?”

  Gracie holds up her hands, her eyes widening and her brow furs rising. “Nothing. They’re shuttled off to care facilities and I’m sure it’s really nice there.”

  My curiosity surpasses rapt and glides to an acute intensity. “This sounds wonderfully reassuring. Tell me more about women secluded in ‘really nice’ care facilities. Please.”

  Gracie ignores my words, choosing to threaten the other hobs instead. “Do not cause trouble. Do not leave the store. Rein and I are going to be just a few isles away. Don’t use your hot-powers for evil—no more hugging babies,” she warns them.

  “But holding these offspring is pre-approved?” Tiral seeks to clarify.

  Gracie makes a nettled noise, but I see that the group takes this for consent. Jonohkada presses forward with a charming smile, saying, “I would like to hold one also.”

  To Gracie, I murmur, “If they’re able to adopt any portion of the women on this planet as you say—when we arrive planetside, they’ll be lauded as heroes.”

  Gracie huffs a laugh. “That’s nothing. These guys keep flashing their muscles and jewels—”

  Her voice relaxes as she sends me a smirk. “The hard gemstone kind, not the hot stones in their pants.”

  But her voice—and her manner—returns to a straining half-shrieked whisper as she finishes, “And holding babies—!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “We’re going to have to beat women off the ship with sticks!”

  Ah, the female-to-female violence you’d expect from a Gryfala. I pat Gracie, because I enjoy the sound of her human growls when I do it. “You are kind to give us that much credit. Are human males so bad that females would swarm on an alternative and leave?”

  Gracie shouts, “YES!”

  If my wings were free, I could have clasped her and blocked her view before she saw the hobs’ reaction to her announcement.

  Being as I’m unable to do so, Gracie does see, and as expected, her growls of agitation intensify.

  It’s interesting to note that Gracie makes this vocalization far more often than the other humans on the preserve. Thus far, this female we stand with has not growled once.

  I pull out my tablet to make note of this.

  When I glance up, it’s to see Gracie waiting patiently for me to finish. When I do and I’ve returned my tablet to my pocket, she snatches my hand and addresses our posse. “BEHAVE. Do not get into trouble, or when we get our Rakhii back we’re having a bonfire, and we’ll be using hobs for s’mores!”

  CHAPTER 5

  GRACIE

  We make it to checkout without further incident—but only because we’ve lost our hobs. “I told them not to leave.”

  “Then they didn’t leave.”

  I run my hand through my hair. Alien Comm devices get great reception, or so says Dohrein. “They’d message us if they need us, right?”

  It’s weird to have Dohrein’s hands on me so much—not that I mind. It’s just that I’ve gotten used to the feel of being gripped by his wings. “Female, yes—for the third time, yes. Your adopted hobs will send a Comm if they need us.”

  “You’re patronizing me.”

  “I know.”

  I elbow him.

  The idiot kisses the top of my head. “I love your smile.”

  I pretend to gag. “This isn’t for you.”

  “No?”

  “Fuck no, your ego’s big enough already.”

  “It’s not ego if it’s the truth. Besides, you love the way I utilize my immenseness, yes?”

  “Absolutely not, you vain hotmonster.”

  “Meaning: I absolutely do, Dohrein.”

  I make a ‘pffft’ noise. “You know you’re insufferable, don’t you?”

  Dohrein pretends to peer down at me in thought. “I believe I just heard, ‘You’re perfect, and I love you, Dohrein.”’

  I hug him to me because I do love him and I’m a sap.

  To shut him up, I set my teeth on his bicep.

  His voice holds real warning. “Bite me in this house of wares,” he says low, “and this cape comes off and my wings come out.”

  I pull back just enough to speak. “Are you trying to talk me out of this or talk me into this? I’m confused.”

  He growls. “You lie. Now who needs to behave?”

  “Ha, if you thought you were getting a well-behaved woman you—”

  I stop speaking when Jonohkada pulls up behind us with the cart of kids.

  Sans Mum.

  Sans Kio.

  Mindful of tender ears, I use creative hand gestures in order to demand an explanation for the missing couple.

  A missing couple who’ve gone missing in a family-friendly supercenter. Come on! Have some control! Do these people have no sense of decency!

  “He took off his cloak…” Jonohkada says slowly, wincing at the daggers of outraged disbelief my eyes are shooting at him.

  “NOOOooo…” If I was Rakhii, flames would be shooting out of my mouth along with my words. “Tell me that did not happen here!”

  Reluctantly, he nods. “He was trying to prove himself not a human, and he told her not to touch but she reached out for the colors.”

  “Attracted just like a Gryfala,” I hear another hob murmur.

  “—She was extremely distressed to leave her offspring, but when she learned what was happening to her, she told Kio they could go to the Earthen equivalent of the B.C.U. for privacy.”

  “The loo. Or the bathroom,” I unthinkingly murmur, because Jonohkada is my hesitant pupil: he knows all our human terminology because he’s studied the pamphlet we put together for our aliens front to back, but it’s like this poor guy has no confidence that he’s correct.

  I don’t know if it was his sires, or his dam, or a prick instructor at the hob Academy—but if I ever find out who made him this way, I will kick their alien ass.

  But back to the current problem. Mum and Kio strolled off hand in hand to the loo.

  In this store.

  For. Privacy.

  I’ve definitely, definitely been hanging around Rakhii too long, because I’m expecting smoke to come pouring out of my nose and mouth any second now.

  Because no one will notice a freakishly tall hot model with wings following a woman into the loo for a shag! Way to keep a low profile, team!

  NOT.

  I stomp off by myself to cool it. And I really need to cool it. It doesn’t mean I have to do it quietly. “What does don’t take it off mean?! What about blend? Did he not—”

  “You have a cute accent.”

  I look up sharply and see… a human man. It’s almost weird how weird it feels to see one, but these last couple months I’ve been surrounded by women, and aliens. So it’s not completely ridiculous.

  “Where are you from?” he asks, taking a step closer to me.

  What is completely ridiculous is the flash of fear I feel. A combination of the direct eye contact or the moment he ate up the space between us, but I’m instantly struggling to subdue panic and what’s the very, very first thing I do?


  Do I tell him to back up?

  Do I tell him to bugger off?

  No, I take a step back—and I look for Dohrein.

  And you know what? I’m really okay with that. It’s like a game of tag and Dohrein’s my safe zone. When I’m with Dohrein, nobody can hurt me.

  When I’m with Dohrein, I don’t feel all afraid and vulnerable—because nobody would dare hurt me.

  My step takes me right into Dohrein’s chest, and his arms clamp around me.

  My brain sighs in relief: Safe.

  The accentophile gets lost, so I’m ready to straighten up and get back to business finding Kio and making little sparkly Kio s’mores—but I’m stuck.

  “Dohrein?” I test his hold.

  I get nowhere.

  I give him an impatient shove.

  He doesn’t budge.

  An awareness creeps in. A sort of peculiar animal-sense, a female-sense where I’m hit with a certainty: Dohrein’s switch has been flipped.

  In human males, a term exists for this, what he’s doing right now, holding me: mate guarding.

  I’m hyperaware that I’m not dealing with a human.

  My chin touches my neck, and I gently curl my fingers over his forearms. “Come on, D. It’s all right, the bad man’s gone.” My grin falters when he still doesn’t move—and I’m feeling a rumble against my back I’ve never, never heard Dohrein make before.

  He’s actually, literally growling.

  Not like a man-growl, but a full-on, very alien growl.

  “Dohrein! We’re in the middle of a store, surrounded by humans, remember? You need to get a grip!”

  Being gentle isn't working, but gentle has never been our style.

  So I pinch him.

  (Before you go all How dare you hurt the hot hob! on me, you should know that hobs get each other’s attention by whacking each other in the back of the head with a wing. It’s a brain-thump.)

  (They also wingslap. And wingslaps look like they hurt.)

  (You should also know that Angie still complains about the times Dohrein pinched her to get her attention. She’ll be so happy to hear he got a little of it back.)

  I feel his arms relax a fraction. With a grateful sigh, I crane my neck to look up at him. “You good now? Because we should probably find Kio.”

  The moment I say his name—another male’s name—I know I’ve done mucked up. This close, I get to watch the vibrant color of Dohrein’s irises disappear as his pupils dilate.

  My stomach bottoms out.

  Two strong walls punch forward and try to squeeze around me—his wings. His wings are straining his cloak.

  I have never, not once resisted the wonder that is Dohrein’s wingpowder. But here, now? “Get ahold of yourself!” I hiss.

  His growl only intensifies. His cheekbones are sharp angles, his jaw is hard, and a rattle starts up—the jagged bottoms of his wings shake much like a rattlesnake’s tail, with a noise just as threatening.

  I realize why it’s started when I hear a male voice call, “Gracie?”

  It’s Barjali, and he’s eyeing us warily. “Humans are beginning to take notice.”

  My gaze darts around us, confirming that, indeed yes, people are starting to notice the supremely tall, stunning man who’s making the kind of sounds that a member of the pit viper family and a sabertooth cat would appreciate.

  And heed.

  Fuck, even I’m concerned. Dohrein’s reached some sort of primal meltdown. He’s aiming his aggression on a fellow hob for alien’s sake—what if a human man shows up next? I have to get him out of here. I toss Barjali my purse so he can get the ball rolling on paying for our stuff. They know what the American ‘green papers’ mean because of that guidebook they insisted we humans put together for them.

  Seems that was a damn good idea.

  To Dohrein, I adopt a coaxing voice. “Okay tiger, just relax…”

  I try to shove free again to no effect whatsoever.

  No, wait—his wings try to readjust their hobbled grip around me and his body tenses even more.

  Oh shite. I can feel he’s going to snap. I don’t know how else to reach him.

  So I reach for his dick.

  Annnnd… I have his attention. All of it is now focused on me touching his cock.

  Silence.

  I didn’t even realize how loud he’d gotten until the rattling and rumbling stalls. I don’t let the opportunity lag. “Rein, listen closely: there’s a thing called a changing room just ahead of us. We’re going there for a very quiet speedfuck, hear me?”

  In answer, he lifts me and in half a dozen strides, we’re at the changing room, and I cringe at the voices raising in alarm behind us. “Let me go,” I growl low.

  Dohrein’s mouth presses against my hair as he growls right back—so, so, so much more intimidating than I could ever manage—“Teveking. Never.”

  Two things: hobs aren’t supposed to give females a hard variation of ‘no.’ Granted, that’s within their own species, but still; it’s not really done between hobs and humans either. So… there’s that abnormality.

  And second: his being crazy scary (emphasis on the crazy) should not be a turn-on. It can’t be a normal response.

  But hell, I’ve never been normal. We can be happy abnormals together.

  Happy abnormals who are about to experience a semi-public tryst.

  How naughty.

  The changing room sign clearly reads that you should inform an attendant of the number of clothing items you wish to try on, and wait for them to provide you a stall key, but there’s no attendant—not that they’d be likely to let us both in anyway, especially with the way he’s looking all sexed up at the moment.

  Dohrein grips a stall’s door handle and torques it until it pops off.

  I’m a bad person. We’re in the middle of a big box store and most of me thinks jumping him right now is a swell idea. “I doubt we’ll have the opportunity to repeat this ever again, so I want to take a moment to inform you that your arms look fucking amazing when you rip off door handles.”

  To that, Dohrein grunts—then we’re in the room and he’s kicking the door shut.

  The entire line of stalls rattle from the force. “Heyyy…” I caution. “Take it easy now. We’re together. We’re fine. We’re about to fuck.”

  He slides my body down, not waiting for my feet to do more than whisper-kiss the floor before he’s spinning me to face the wall. “Yes. We are.”

  Words! He’s using words! This has to be a good sign.

  My body jolts as he takes hold on either side of my pants and rips them down my legs.

  Can I get any wetter?

  The heel of his other hand smooths down until he’s cupping me, and his fingers skim along the gusset of my knickers and find me soaked.

  This discovery makes him grind himself against my back.

  The answer to my question is YES.

  He drags the fabric to the side, the friction making my clit his very biggest fan.

  His fingers slide in, seeking, stroking, finding my happy spot along my front wall, and no matter how caveman he’s acting, he’s careful to take the time to make magic happen and damn is he good at making magic. He essentially declawed himself expressly for the purpose of fingering me.

  As a side note, it’s hot to watch him filing all those deadly claws down to a smooth, rounded, vag-safe edge.

  It’s hot to have him look over at me and know exactly what he’s thinking about as he does it.

  It’s even hotter to be captured between his hands and experience just what he was planning.

  The muscles in my legs are shaking, I’m leaning back against him and holding myself up using his arms, and his breaths tickle my ear before he kisses it. “Come for me, veetling.”

  Ohhhh, I do.

  His big hand plants between my shoulders and presses down.

  I follow my crazed alien’s demand and I bend over and grab the surprisingly well-built shelf made to hold a lady
’s purse. Leverage! Something tells me I’ll need this.

  His hands go to work on the fastenings at the front of his trousers.

  As his hands brush my back, I bite my lip. Because this plan is all well and good—I’m all for it. But I believe he’s forgotten one tiny problem.

  Dohrein’s too fucking tall.

  Fine. The truth?

  It’s me. I’m too fucking short to make this easy—

  His cock springs free and presses against my spine, hot, hard, awesome.

  —But by God, we will make this work.

  Dohrein starts to sex-purr; not the about-to-knock-you-out one but the about-to-bang-you-hard. My eyes roll back in my head.

  I’m in really cute platform wedge sandals and they’re great for my outfit but not the best for traction. My toes slip as he hauls my ass higher to line my pussy up to meet him, so he ends up supporting me at the hips. I feel him shift, widening his stance and bending his knees to drop himself down that much more.

  I grip onto the shelf ledge, already panting. Good news: my footwear is not an obstacle. He will hold me up if he has to. Probably going to be murder on his arms and his back, but this Aston Martin rumble he’s making is not a protest purr.

  I arch my back, moaning, “I feel like such a hypocrite. Us running off to shag means I lost the right to crisp Kio and squeeze him between graham crackers.”

  Dohrein’s wing talons shred his cape and his wings bust free.

  I sneeze as walls of color clap around me.

  Glitterdust up the nose. It’s a hob hazard.

  Everybody wants to know what it’s like to get hobdusted.

  Hottest. Rush. Ever.

  Heat streaks up the backs of my legs, my toes curl—I’m on the edge, and we haven’t even started yet.

  Prior to my foray into HobSex, I’d heard dire warnings of what the powder could do. When Dohrein and Crispin thought Angie was claiming them for her service and popped her some wing, she reported that she was just about instantly fuck drunk as well as massively horny.

  It sounds almost like a bad thing.

  It’s so, so far from a bad thing.

  At first, I was like, “How do Gryfala even function?” because they walk around with eight or nine or fourteen layers of wing marks overlapping on them.