Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial

by Nora Lane

  We swished through a door and emerged into a larger room. A long sleek table grew out of the floor in the middle. An equally long window stretched across one wall. Luminous orange veins ringed the walls near the ceiling. Like those tattoo tribal designs circled a bicep. A normally drunk, horny bicep from what evidence I’d gathered in college.

  Patches of slightly darker spots coursed through the illuminated lines. The glow gave the room a soft sunset feel—the warm blur of a Hawaiian sunset.

  So I’d heard.

  Noah Sinclair stood at the other end of the table. That wasn’t quite right. He didn’t stand.

  He radiated.

  The gray second skin accentuated his every carved line. His face glowed from the orange hues suffusing through the room. He might have glowed even without their help.

  He was too gorgeous. Greedy gorgeous. When God handed out good looks, he stayed in line all day. His wavy, brown hair brought out the dancing embers in his eyes.

  “Cora, may I call you Cora? I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look ravishing.”

  My skin warmed and I'm sure it would've been pink were it not for the ambient hues.

  “You were doing better with Ms. Gabarro,” I said.

  “Would you care for something to eat, Ms. Gabarro?” he asked pointedly.

  At least the guy could take a hint. Watch and learn, Cosmo.

  I could've devoured a dolphin. So yeah, I was hungry. Not that I was going to pig out in front of him.

  “I am feeling peckish, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I hope you brought more than a peckish appetite,” he said. “Because I don't often get to have a beautiful woman for dinner.” The upward curve of his lip made the meaning clear.

  My skin heated up. The familiar warmth between my legs sparked to life.

  Lord help me. He was a gorgeous hunk of man candy and my sweet tooth ached a hole in my head.

  He gestured toward the two seats facing each other at his end of the table. Two flutes with barely a drink of a bubbling liquid awaited.

  “Are you cheaping out on the good stuff, Mr. Sinclair?” I asked.

  He laughed, picked one up, and offered it to me. “Would you join me for a toast? I know it's not much more than that, but inebriates have a much stronger effect at this altitude. Trust me.”

  I joined him and accepted the flute. He raised his own and tinked our glasses together.

  “To beauty,” he said.

  The space between my legs felt like A Brazilian jungle.

  “To answers,” I said.

  “For whatever they may be,” he said.

  “For getting them sooner than later,” I said.

  “Are you always on the job, Ms. Gabarro?”

  “Are you always on the prowl, Mr. Sinclair?”

  He chuckled. “Please forgive any indecency. My seclusion has likely buried a few burrs in my once-smooth pelt. Would you mind stroking it? To clean them out.”

  “I’d sooner slice my hand petting your dog bot than stroke it for you, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He feigned injury. The arrow aimed at his heart.

  “To the moment,” he said and raised his glass again. “Can we agree on that?”

  “To the truth,” I said and tinked my glass to his. We both took a sip.

  Likely with different toasts in mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I didn't bring you here to lie to you, Ms. Gabbaro,” Noah said. “But I hope you'll humor me with dinner and conversation first.”

  Was he trying to throw me off the scent? It didn't feel like it. He had been effectively alone in space for ten years. I'd be jonesing like crazy for company too. It was a surprise he didn’t have a Wilson volleyball friend sitting at the table. A friendly dinner wouldn't hurt. I could give him that much.

  “This isn’t a date, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Ugh. Why did I find it so hard to give in to him? I wondered if it was because I didn’t know where it would stop. Say yes to a nice dinner. Ten seconds later you’re begging to squeeze your legs around his hips like an anaconda in heat.

  “But I think dinner would be great.”

  The building tension in his shoulders melted away.

  “Was that so hard?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Giving me what I want. The more you do, the more you may like it.”

  “Don’t make me change my mind, Mr. Sinclair,” I said.

  He looked at me for a moment. His eyes narrowed. Jeez! They looked so sexy like that. His eyes were like a magnifying glass under noonday sun. They ignited fire in me.

  “I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do, unless you wanted me to,” he said with an arched brow.

  “You’ll know I’ve gotten what I want when your voice is tired from talking and my list of questions have accompanying answers.”

  He shrugged. “Dinner then?”

  “I think you understand me, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He sat his flute on the table and pulled my seat out. It didn't roll or scrape across the floor. It was attached to the floor by a smooth bond. It moved like you move your arm. Like the two were articulated by underlying structure and connected like a single organism.

  This station was strange. 1988 DeLorean, Back to the Weird Future strange.

  “If you'll take a seat, Ms. Gabarro.”

  I slid into the offered seat and was instantly cupped just like the bed and the boots. Whoever designed this station sure loved the gel stuff.

  I agreed.

  “I’ll be back in a moment with our meal,” he said.

  Noah disappeared through the far doorway with a quiet swish. Astro sat by the door we entered. Her red eyes aimed in my direction.

  Was it okay to be alone with her? I scanned the smooth table for a fork or a knife. Any implement that might improve my chances for survival. Besides two intricately folded napkins that looked like clamshells on their sides, the table was empty. Maybe I could crack this flute on the edge of the table and gouge her devil–red eyes out.

  She sat motionless. Abnormally still. She looked just real enough that the absence of subtle breathing and moving startled me.

  Maybe I could use the napkin as a tourniquet. Staunch my blood if she got passed the jagged glass.

  The other door swished open and Noah returned carrying a large circular tray with a lid. Puffs of steam escaped from the top. What did he chose for dinner? How did you come up with what to serve a guest in space? Was it exactly the same as back home? Or were there other protocols to observe? Like maybe Martians were hyper sensitive to garlic and so Spaghetti Aglio was out.

  I could never be friends with a Martian if that was the case.

  Noah sat the tray on the table. He grasped the handle on the lid.

  “I hope you like it,” he said. “It came a long way to impress you.”

  He lifted the lid and the most succulent, sultry smell swept over my senses. Heavenly, red juices swam across the top. Flaky crust circled round and held the wonder together.

  Deep dish pizza.

  Chicago style.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I breathed deep and my stomach grumbled at an embarrassing volume. My mouth ached as saliva glands kicked into gear. I was famished. Hold up. This wasn’t just any deep dish pizza. I recognized the unique scent. The perfect combination of dough, marinara, and cheese.

  My mouth dropped. Not out of hunger. Out of surprise.

  “Is this—“

  “Yes,” he said. “Deep dish cheese from Lou Malnati's. I'm not technically inside their delivery zone. But the owner owes me a favor or two.”

  My favorite pizza. In the world.

  Technically out of the world at the moment.

  Of course he knew. He'd probably hacked my media accounts.

  I’d been to Chicago a few times and deep dish pizza became my favorite food on the first day. By the end of the first trip, Lou Malnati's was my favorite pizza place in the world. Chicago was worth visiting for that place alone.<
br />
  Did I say peckish?

  The sweet, floral smell from the flute wafted up. “Champagne with pizza?”

  Noah laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “Not the most appropriate pairing, but beer wasn't fancy enough for this occasion.”

  I laughed in turn.

  I raised my glass and smiled. “I salute your sense of propriety. I'm happy to finally see you have one.”

  He grinned and took a sip. He licked the wetness from his lower lip and speared me with bedroom eyes. “I have much for you to uncover, Ms. Gabarro.”

  “A rather weak, underdeveloped sense of propriety,” I said, “but you can work on it.”

  “I enjoy the effort. In the end, my reach is strong and sure.”

  I so wanted him to reach for me. To take me. Here on the table. Pizza be damned.

  We could scoot the tray over. No reason to waste it.

  “Perhaps you've never reached for sufficiently lofty goals, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He raised his arms to the room. “Look around, Ms. Gabarro. You’ve come for me beyond the stars.”

  I didn’t like how much I liked how he said that. The too familiar warmth flowered between my legs. My nipples ached in the smooth suit. Was it pinching them? A swirling agony spiraled in my belly.

  “I’ve done no such thing!”

  It came out too panicky and desperate.

  “And yet here you are.”

  He had a point. That wasn't the point he was originally making. But I wasn't going to point that out because then he’d know he made it.

  I shook my head, a little too drunk on the tall drink of water in front of me. I coughed because I didn't know what to say.

  “Let's eat,” he said. “I haven’t had deep dish in years.” He cut off a big slice and handed it over.

  I accepted it and looked for something to put it on, like a plate, from Earth. “No plates?”

  “No plates are necessary.” He tore off a crumb and dropped it on the table. The surface wavered and the crumb sank. The table shimmered again and it was like it never happened.

  What the hell?

  I rapped the spot where the crumb disappeared with my knuckle. The dull thud told me the surface was solid. It couldn't have been solid because it just swallowed a crumb.

  It reminded me of the gel, in my bed, in my boots. Seemingly everywhere.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I should've remembered plates. It's been so long since I've use them. I don't honestly know where to look.”

  He stared toward the ceiling in the distant corner. “Cos, do we have plates?”

  “Yes, Noah. The galley is equipped with one hundred full sets—“

  “Thanks.” He turned back to me. “I just have to find them now.” He stood to depart.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Pizza is the highest form of finger food yet invented.”

  I looked up at him and almost fainted. He was seriously seven feet tall. Huge. And ripped. Sexy as muscled up sin. What was that gray suit made of? It didn’t have the same artificial sheen that mine had. It looked alive.

  I rubbed the surface of the table and looked at Noah. “What is this stuff?”

  “My best estimation is that it's an organic transformable tissue. A protective epidermis that can change states according to environmental stimuli or higher-level decision making.”

  I narrowed my eyes in disbelief. “You mean like smart skin?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  I rubbed the table some more wondering where the crumb went. Did it get digested?

  “So if it’s like skin, but isn’t. Then what is it exactly?” I asked.

  “I wish I knew.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I didn’t let that comment go. Okay, I did. But I didn’t have a choice. Deep dish pizza sang in hot, sultry tones.

  We feasted with barely a word exchanged. Noah’s hunger reflected in the rarity of the dish.

  To say we feasted like kings would've given something to kings they didn't deserve. We loved that pizza like a family member. Like it was our last pizza on earth.

  Maybe it was.

  There was no higher use for cheese then being melted in a gooey marinara mess. For cheese, it was like a human achieving Nirvana. Or Enlightenment as the wise Gouda laid out.

  I didn't know if cheese thought that much about the afterlife, or if elevating pizza to salvation was blasphemy. I did know the drowsy warmth in my belly was a welcome, grounding change. I popped a last bite into my mouth and the buttery, light, flaky crust melted on my tongue.

  This was seriously pizza heaven.

  I swallowed the last morsel with more than a little regret. I would have swallowed more regret but I was stuffed. I dabbed the napkin over my lips, to hide the evidence of my eager eating.

  Noah raised his glass.

  “To Italy. May her boot always kick culinary ass!”

  “This is from Chicago.”

  “It’s all down there.”

  I giggled and held my glass to his, softly touching in the silent air. My giggle squelched to a stop as his eyes caught mine. He snared me with a look.

  It wasn’t like the trap was tricky. I leaped into that damned thing like I didn’t need a leg. The food in my belly lit an earthy fire. A lusty, woodsy desire that wanted to mate with the male sitting across from me. My pulse quickened and throbbed in my earlobes. I wanted to ride him. Grind my body on his until one of us lost our minds.

  He drove me crazy. Emotionally unstable was putting it kindly. It took every ounce of resolve I had not to climb across the table and mount him. It took that much and then I had to take a loan out for a few more because it was that hard.

  He was that hard.

  I had to change directions. I was a rabbit running in a straight line from my pursuer. I wanted to be caught. I wanted to feel his mouth sink into me, even if it also brought my end.

  I took a deep breath and sipped the remainder of my glass. It wasn’t much, but it had an effect. My thoughts swirled lower, my brain balked at losing control.

  I had to get my brain back in charge, steering the ship.

  Only one question came to mind.

  "Mr. Sinclair, why did you choose me? Surely there were ten thousand others more qualified. Why me?"

  The fire in his eyes wavered. The spell on me broke. Okay, it didn’t break. It cracked. Some air got in. Enough for me to catch a breath. That was the important thing.

  "With regard to your reporting credentials," he said, "you wouldn't have stood out from the crowd."

  And things were going so well.

  I dropped my glass on the table. I tossed it roughly enough to get a satisfying spill out of what little was left. It teetered over and should've gone the rest of the way. Instead, it righted itself and and came to a stop. The table underneath the round base shimmered for a moment before it went solid again.

  Apparently this gel skin was about as smart as Cosmo. Or dumb. Because it didn't get the nuance of my throw. I wanted the drama of an overturned flute!

  I grimaced. This station was trying to control me just as Noah was. I shot him my best snarl.

  "Thanks for being honest. So nice."

  "I don't think I'm telling you something you didn't already know," he said.

  It must've been in one the missing chapters from his how to relate to women handbook.

  "This might be news to you, but a girl doesn't want to hear how she's middle of the pack. How nothing about her stands out enough to draw attention."

  Maybe he wasn't missing pages or chapters. Maybe he had an ancient edition. One printed in medieval times when it was standard for a man not to give two shits about a woman. If we were going to get anywhere together, professionally I meant, he was going to have to get the update.

  "I never said you didn’t stand out, Cora."

  "And I never said you could call me Cora, Mr. Sinclair."

  "You do stand out."

  My temper flared. The thump in my temples
had nothing to do with the fading heat between my legs. Gorgeous or not, I wasn't going to sit here and be insulted.

  "I do stand out, Mr. Sinclair. And mostly because of this hideous, hot pink unitard you forced me to wear. Did you think that maybe I'd like more than a single choice? You are aware that making a choice implies more than one option?"

  He laughed. "It looks hot on you."

  "It looks hot because this particular shade is a slap to the eyeball."

  "You misunderstand me, Ms. Gabarro. You make it hot. The color is superfluous. Your curves are the cause."

  I was going to need a high-speed elevator to keep up with the highs and lows of this conversation.

  "You didn't answer my question. A girl likes to have choices."

  "Every choice is still yours to make, Ms. Gabarro. I'm surprised you haven't understood that already."

  Were we talking about the hideous pink unitard?

  "Why does every word you say sound like hot pink in my ears?"

  "Why aren’t you asking the right questions?"

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "What's your favorite color, Ms. Gabarro?"

  "Periwinkle. Why?"

  "All you had to do was ask Cosmo to change it for you," he said.

  "Change it to what? There were no other outfits in the closet."

  "Humor me, Ms. Gabarro. You did with dinner and I think you'll agree it turned out wonderfully."

  He had a point there.

  I looked up at the ceiling, off to the corner, wondering if it mattered where a looked when I spoke. "Cosmo, can I get this in periwinkle?"

  "The requested alteration is a nonstandard hue. Referencing the Pantone color palette—," his voice echoed through the room.

  Noah rolled his eyes. "Give it your best shot, Cos."

  "Yes Noah."

  An electrical tingle skittered across my chest like a spider on bare skin. It wrapped around my back. I froze in panic. The suit shimmered and swirled like a moving ink blot test. Light purple wavered and crested over hot pink, washing it away. It spread from my torso and down my arms and legs in expanding waves.

  A moment later, I was swathed in my favorite color.