Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  But I quickly learned when you’re already covered and recently dusted? Any extra from that hob is just a re-mark low-level hum. It gets you a little horny, but you don’t have to do anything about it if you don’t want to.

  Now a fresh mark from a different hob though—that’s a full dosed hit. No wonder Angie was nearly on fire.

  The silky nudge of Dohrein’s cock has me trying to ride from the bottom—but I’m not in the position for it. The best I can do is use my little bit of leverage to countershove. Dohrein’s got complete control over me.

  To him and only him, I love giving it.

  He drives into me deep.

  OHCREATORYESYESYES!

  My inner walls slickly give way, and I bite my lip and let my head fall back against his chest. His hand cups my throat, tugging my neck back, pressing my head harder over his hearts in order to lean over and kiss me.

  His wings move low to hug along my breasts, like a hot, wide belt.

  That’s the last of the softness in this ride.

  His hands land on my hips, his wings squeeze my tits, and his next thrust takes me off my toes completely.

  To accompany the sound of his flesh slapping against mine, there’s a juicy sucking noise with every pump of his hips. This is courtesy of his special cock.

  By the time I met Rein, nothing about a penis could shock me. Nothing. Compared to what I’d been taking, his was downright conservative in its alienness: no barbs, no stingers, no freaky discharge.

  To be clear, Dohrein’s discharge isn’t freaky. It’s gooood.

  The beads on his dick might be meant for giving a Gryfala something different or specific, and one of these days I’ll ask. But the nodules that run along either side of his cock leak a pre-fluid that he’ll fist along his shaft to slick me up for his great big cock—and fuck, whatever he’s spurting, it’s not just lube: its hits are addictive.

  Crack cocaine in cock form.

  It makes me wild to keep sucking and fucking him.

  This is never a bad thing.

  Until you’re in the changing room of a store. There’s probably some unwritten rule about time being of the essence like get off, get out, don’t get arrested.

  I’ll be sure to add it to the Human Customs Prep manual.

  With each of my orgasms, the effects lessen until I’m not trying to attack him for it which is probably a good thing… But we’ve never been truly pressed for time before and I’m realizing a quick shag isn’t an easy feat. “We are so walking out of here in handcuffs, shite.”

  As if in reflex, he flicks his wings open and claps them shut.

  In reaction, the force SLAMS him into me so hard I see stars. “Oh fuck! Do that again!”

  It’s as good as bracing his feet to get a killer buck in—only hob wings are strong enough to carry an alien man plus a woman. Serious power.

  He’s no longer sexing me. He’s slaying me. “More!” I whimper.

  We’ll need super hot memories to keep us warm when we’re sitting in lockup on the public indecency charges. With my record, I hope I don’t get prison.

  Just kidding.

  I’ve never gotten caught.

  This though? I catch one of his big wrists and force him to cover my mouth. Because I literally cannot keep myself quiet.

  His skin is hot and a little rough against my lips. I sink my teeth over his knuckle in a bid to try and smother the groans and screams to a bare minimum.

  His purr accelerates and his wings cage across my chest once more.

  When my muscles are quivering and he’s got enough purple-ringed, teeth-shaped bruises on his hands to feel like a badass, he shifts me, turning me around so that we’re hugging to finish—but he’s not hugging with his arms. It’s his wings that clutch me, each of the ‘segments,’ or panels as I like to think of them, connected by flexible joints. It’s like being wrapped in super long, webbed fingers—they’re flexible but strong, so strong he can hold me up.

  And he does. He fucks me up against the wall of his own wings.

  He’s marking me. I’m now wearing his full wingmarks, base to tip.

  I’m startled when he grinds himself against me—and I feel the punch of jetting heat bathing my insides.

  Dohrein finished inside me.

  We haven’t done this… we don’t do this…

  I shove back enough to look up and meet his hard, claiming stare.

  And ooh rawr, rawr: I don’t mind.

  Dohrein’s jaw muscle jumps, and seeing him so affected is making me want a Round Two, but we really, really need to get out of here.

  That, and I have to be able to walk. As he turns me loose, I stutter a laugh. “Shite! I’m literally wobbling.”

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I pretend to backhand his wing, the big curved claw of which is thankfully still clutching my shoulder and therefore is almost solely responsible for me keeping my feet. “Oh don’t think I can’t hear the smugness in your tone. You fucked me stupid, are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t hesitate.”

  He catches me with both wings. “Not when it comes to you.”

  I feign a droll look. “Don’t you mean when you come in me?”

  He runs his nose up the side of my face. “Does it bother you?”

  “Nah, what’s a little glitter-infused craft glue running down the legs between friends?”

  I work my hand between us. “I bet you’d love to see. Maybe I should obtain a sparkly sample for your visual inspection…”

  He groans and drops his forehead onto my shoulder. “Don’t. Not if you want to leave this place on your own power.”

  I press my hands to his chest until he eases us apart. “We really do need to get out of here before they take us away in handcuffs and a cop car.”

  Dohrein cocks his head. “Why would they dare?”

  Seeing a spot on his shirt where he managed to wingmark himself, I lean in and lick it off. “This is considered indecent. Illegal.”

  He looks torn between heated fascination at what I’m doing and outrage at what I’m saying. “To make love?”

  “To make love in public,” I confirm distractedly, because I just caught a glimpse of us in the mirror.

  Dohrein can’t believe what he’s hearing. “This was private! A Gryfala requires servicing often. It’s not as if we mated out in the open in front of broods of fledglings. This wouldn’t be improper on any planet.”

  “Earthlings won’t see it that way.” We look like we were pinned down in a paintball war with glitter bombs. Glitter cannons.

  Before I can even comment, Dohrein’s breaking out a rag and a shimmer-remover formula he developed. It works slick, but it really messes with his head to watch me washing his marks off, so I push at his shoulder until I succeed in getting him to stop watching. He doesn’t let go of his train of thought though. “You say they film sexual acts and sell them to humans. Why does this particular jurisdiction frown on sex?”

  I push at him when he starts to turn around. “Not done yet, hang on,” I tell him before I answer his question. “It’s not just this town. It’s a cultural thing. It’s hard to explain.” This stuff works great. Works fast too, which is a happy bonus since we should really skedaddle.

  “By the by: what the hell was that, Rein?” I’m smirking now. “The guy barely said two sentences to me.”

  Dohrein’s serious though when he answers. “You were frightened. The combination of a rival male’s scent of interest and the stench of your fear… I lost my sense.”

  I reach back to squeeze his hand. “If it helps—and your psychology-loving mind will be all over this—you claiming me gave me my confidence back instantly.”

  He tugs on my hand until I’m stretched into his space enough that he can see my face. He leans down, and being careful not to touch me with the sexy-danger-side, he strokes the silky back of his wing across my cheek.

  When I’m clean of my temporary Dohrein-tattoos, I go to
work on him where his dust spread, but that only helps so much: his freaking wings are showing. What he needs is a new cape. Since we don’t have a spare, he clamps his wings to his back, the talons resting like planter hooks over his shoulders. It has to be tiring to keep them squeezed like this; I imagine it’s like if I tried to hold my hands to my body. It’s easy, right? But not comfortable to keep up for too long.

  Luckily, the cloak’s color blends with the black of his wings so the ripped areas may look a little ragged, but no one’s going to see and shout, Oh wow, that man has WINGS! and now that he’s calmed down, the blue is dull enough not to set off too distinctly.

  When we step out, we find our hobs are holding shopping bags trailing long receipts, and our group has fanned around the clothing area as they enjoy chatting up every woman in the vicinity.

  I’m not really in a position to complain since we’ve no doubt scandalized these women who would otherwise be bound by civic duty to hail down security.

  It doesn’t mean security isn’t already on their way though. Some stores really keep an eye on their cameras. I grab Dohrein’s hand.

  Just then, Kio rushes up to us. His shirt’s half-tucked into his tight pants, and his hair’s all fucked up in back. Mum looks equally screw-happy disheveled, but there’s terror on her face—until she sees her kids are safely in the cart.

  Or being carted around and used as Ovary Bait.

  One of the hobs’ hands is being held between a human woman’s—she’s writing on his palm.

  He’s staring down at her with such a heated intensity she could be giving him a blow job.

  She’s giving him her number. Tucked into his elbow, he’s cradling an adorable kid. The kid offers the woman a piece of chocolate, and it’s obvious the lady is totally, one billion percent smitten with this hob candy.

  A look around proves she’s not alone. All the women have fallen for the hob package: Brains. Beauty. Brawn. Babymakers.

  Human catnip.

  I snort.

  Dohrein’s sends me a curious glance.

  I wave to the hobs. “These guys are neophyte pros. They’re using chocolate and babies to score. It’s unreal!”

  The mum hugs her kids, and her face flames when her babies ask her where she went without them.

  Her reply?

  “Kio needed to show me something.” She bites her lip, tomato red up to her hairline even as a dopey grin of humongous satisfaction spreads across her face.

  I round on Kio but dial down my disbelief, because as I said: kinda feeling like a hypocrite here. “You had one job.”

  Kio flinches back as if I’ve slapped him, and Mum and kids look horrified.

  I hold my hands up. “The alien is fine.”

  That dopey grin curls her lips up again as she agrees, “Yes he is.”

  Now both lovebirds are making gooey faces at each other.

  “Did you at least pull out?” I furiously whisper to Kio.

  Kio looks confused and horror fills me. Stomach sinking, I clarify, “Did you fuck her without any barrier around your dick? Dohrein, I thought your school covered this. Make a note we need to add a section for sex-ed—”

  “Hm,” Dohrein murmurs. “We are taught, but an addendum covering human sexual customs would be interesting.”

  Kio rears back. “I pleasured her with my mouth.”

  I blink at him. “That’s all?”

  He grins like the Cheshire cat. “Then she pleasured me.”

  I feel weirdly proud for him. I shake my head, but I crook two fingers at him until he bends down. I pat him on top of the head. “From the look on her face, I’m going to say you did a good job.”

  Now it’s Kio’s turn to flush dark and look bashful. These guys soak up praise like sponges. I clear my throat and start grabbing shopping bags—which the guys relieve me of just as quickly. I don’t fight them because fuck it’s fun to be treated like a princess.

  I carry my own supply of candy though, including chocolate-covered coffee beans which I’m keeping in easy-reaching distance in a bag slung over my wrist. Dohrein had been so cute when he’d examined them in admiration. “How clever of humans to pair both their necessary foods in one.” He was marveling at this like you would if your dog suddenly managed to design his own a spill proof water bowl.

  “Downright genius,” I’d agreed—and I’d wholeheartedly meant it.

  Still, I should probably eat something more substantial. “Anyone curious to try human food?”

  One of the kids in the shopping trolley shouts “Waffles!”

  I give the toddler an appraising look. “You there: I like your ideas. Waffles sounds da—darn—good.”

  And it’ll be a cinch: I saw a little eatery when we made our way in.

  The hobs squint, even Dohrein, as they try to make sense of whatever mental picture is popping into their heads via their translators.

  “Oh guys,” I groan. They’ve never had waffles. “You make me sad.”

  CHAPTER 6

  GRACIE

  Exiting the store, we see there’s a crowd gathered by the eatery’s outdoor seating area, everyone looking in the same direction.

  “What’s stirring the humans?” Dohrein queries.

  I grimace. “I don’t know, maybe there’s no connection, but there’s a whole lot of cell phones out. Let’s play it cool, skip food for now, skip our other stops, and just get our arses back to the ship.”

  As we move our party to the crowded crosswalk, it feels like everyone is staring.

  I glare around. Everybody is staring.

  The hobs think this is great; for them, this is like having zoo animals looking back at you. Like thirty otters suddenly taking notice of you and finding you really, really special and interesting. So yeah—the hobs are happy as larks in this moment.

  But I’m getting an itch on the back of my neck, a sense that says, Get the alien out of Dodge.

  The light changes, and my muscles heat with the urge to run. Play it cool, play it cool, just go.

  Something small, antennaed, and working too many legs skitters past our feet.

  One of Kio’s new kids screams.

  The scream—and the hobs’ reaction to it—attracts even more attention.

  I have exactly half a millisecond to think: This is okay. Really, it’s fine—no one’s going to see us and immediately think, Aliens!—when Kio pulls out a laser pistol and obliterates it.

  Pew! Makes it disappear.

  “What the hell was that!” someone shouts.

  “Dammit, Kio,” I growl, and I have to leap up twice, my sandals clopping loudly, before he dutifully bends down so I can grab his shirt collar. “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know: that’s why I shot it.”

  The crowd is barely moving and I’m not waiting through another light. I steer him in front of me by his collar. It works way better than I expected.

  Conversationally, I engage Dohrein’s brain. “For future study, if you want gawkers to move, walk a beautiful man.” I gesture around us, snickering when Kio, still obediently bent to allow me easy hold on him, gazes around in curiosity so he can people watch the behavior pattern happening around us too. “Look at them part. This is a reenactment of the crossing of the Red Sea.”

  Kio waves to his woman and the munchkins. “Was the creature they killed before their crossing very fierce?”

  I pat him on the head before I release him so he can reunite with his brand-new family. “There might have been a mention of plagues of creatures before they crossed.”

  For the kids’ sake, it’s unfortunate that we’ve got no car to lug everybody and our purchases from point a to point b. There are too many of us to fit into taxis. It’s no big deal, and except for the addition of children, we expected this. Besides, the hobs find walking everywhere to be ‘quaint.’

  ...Which I find kind of adorable. Wingless humans’ main mode of transportation is a novelty for my posse of aliens to experience.

  Dohr
ein’s face fills my vision.

  His lips press over mine—and just as suddenly, he’s gone.

  I blink up at him. “What was that for?”

  He smiles down at me. “You look so happy.”

  Well… wow. I do feel happy. I was so tense, worried about everything that could get fucked up, could go sideways, but all in all, this morning has been a success.

  Everyone’s loaded down with supplies like a string of my very own pack mules—yeah, I’m loaded down too, but these are my aliens, I’ll call them whatever I please—but we’re clipping along well.

  Even though the sidewalk is even busier than before.

  And even though we’re still attracting a whole lot of eyeballs.

  Wirav—the hob trotting alongside us hefting the camera—is doing such a convincing job, he’s got people pointing at us and snapping pictures like we really are movie stars out filming on location.

  I sneer at them. “Bunch of bellends. They have no idea who we are, yet they’re idolizing us.”

  “We do make an impressive caravan,” Kio murmurs in a hushed tone, one of the kids dead asleep on his shoulder.

  A voice boldly calls, “Hey!”

  I look back to see a girl daring to approach one of the guys. She’s starry-eyed. “What movie are you making?”

  “You... wouldn’t know it,” Wirav hedges.

  Would you believe his statement sounds an awful lot like he’s trying to keep a blockbuster-in-progress low-key?

  At least, that’s how the women all respond.

  “Do you have enough extras?” someone shouts.

  “I volunteer to be your extra,” a woman offers, and the suggestion in her tone seems to spill into the crowd. The mood shifts from curious and awestruck to… predatory.

  “Dohrein…” The hairs on the back of my neck lift. I’ve seen this on TV before, with crowds mobbing celebrities, ripping at their clothes, their jewelry, hoping to get keepsakes. They’re going to get alien coins, precious metals, and a shiteload of chocolate—

  You know what? Fuck that. I’m not sharing. They can get their own damn chocolate. And for that matter, they can go find aliens on their own time. I’m not letting my crew get picked over.