by Alana Khan
“Blech! I can’t believe you did that, Tyree!”
“You started it!”
“You started it! You forked me with sack of shit. That was unacceptable!”
She’s laughing and licking the goop off her fingers. She finds a good fingerful and swipes a dollop on the tip of my nose.
“Kindapeanutbutter,” she announces and immediately licks it off.
I’m struck by her warmth and her proximity. This new Grace is so lighthearted and fun. I want more of this. I never want her to disappear.
My mood has changed. My heart is clenching with the sweetest yearning. My hands are sticky and dirty and I don’t care. I press them into her hair and pull her to me. I’m aware of the tacky feel and sweet smell of the goo, but then I’m totally consumed with Grace, her lips, her fragrance. I kiss her hard. I can’t get enough.
“Dear Gods, Grace. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.” I’m licking the gunk, trying to clear a pathway for more of the sensual kisses we shared on the bed. But the situation isn’t cooperating. We’re dirty and sticky, and I can see what Grace meant when she said the sacru sheswah smelled awful.
I glance down and see her looking up at me. Her eyes are shining; are they swimming with unshed tears?
“Did I do something?” My heart stutters in my chest. I’d never want to hurt her.
“No, Tyree. You just spoke the nicest words anyone’s ever said to me. It touched my heart.”
I hug her and press my lips to hers, and then I can’t contain my laughter. “Good thing there aren’t any mirrors in here, Miss Kindapeanutbutter. Because we’ve created a massive mess. Not only are we filthy, this room is a disaster. Maddie will kill us.”
She grabs my hand and swiftly kisses my sticky palm, then releases it just as fast. “Let’s clean up and go back to my room for a shower.”
We make short work of the kitchen as we silently clean. Drackhead is standing at full attention in my loincloth relentlessly teasing me with the idea that Grace just suggested we’d be showering together in a matter of moments. I try to keep my thoughts in check—not get my hopes up. Drackhead has other ideas.
Chapter Seven
Grace
We ran back to my room giggling and holding hands. For the first time in my life, I can use the word “abandoned” to describe my behavior. Giggling! Really? I don’t believe I’ve ever giggled in my life.
Tyree has peanut butter everywhere: smashed in his hair, drying on those long, pointed ears, plastered to his jumpsuit. I’m sure I’m just as bad. I press my palm on the plate to enter my room and see I’ve left a film of peanut butter in the shape of my hand. It strikes me as hilarious.
I grab some toilet paper, moisten it, and go out to wipe the plate down. When I return, I abruptly turn serious. Tyree is standing there, his hand on the autozip of his jumpsuit. He seems paralyzed. All of a sudden, I feel that way too.
Choice point. Big moment in Grace’s life. Do I crawl back into my shell, take a quick solitary shower, then wait in bed while he takes his? Do I wait, projecting sensual videos of what’s probably going on in the shower while I sit alone, my clit fluttering with desire? Or do I cross the threshold with him? Should I listen to the blood pounding in my veins, urging me to take a chance and follow my heart for once in my freaking life?
I think I might be the only woman I’ve ever met who would give this more than a cursory thought. No one else would agonize over this decision; they’d already be shucking their clothes and turning on the shower. But I’m still Grace. I need to think this through. I’d be stepping past another doorway through which I could never retreat. No going back after this.
I thought I’d go to my grave a virgin. I’d had no desire to lose myself to a man, to give up my autonomy like my mother did. But I’m not her. I have choices. I choose to follow my desires. I choose to march into the shower with Tyree.
“Let me help you with that, big guy.” Grabbing his hand on the top of his zipper, I keep my voice light and breezy like we’ve been for the past hour, but it’s a little strained.
His hand closes over mine, holding it in place as he spears me with a serious look. “You sure? We have all the time in the galaxy, Grace.”
“I want to take a shower with you, Tyree. No guarantees implied or intended about anything that might or might not happen after that.”
He smiles so slowly it seems to take a full minute from when the corners of his lips begin to lift to when his mouth is stretched into a full smile, happiness reaching his eyes.
“No pressure, Grace. We’ll take this as slow as we want.”
I remove my hands from his and move them to his shoulders, stepping closer, between his feet. I kiss him once, soft as a butterfly’s wing. “Computer, dim lights.”
My body’s flat against his. I can feel his erection pressing against my abdomen. I can feel it pulse even through both sets of clothes. His breath hitches and he tilts his head back. I’m not just in the arms of a male. I’m in the arms of the most masculine male in the galaxy. I feel his muscular pecs under my fingers, his cock throbbing against me. I observe his head as it tips back, noticing the virile planes of his face, the hollows beneath his cheekbones.
My body is thrumming with desire, too. My clit is pulsing with need, my breath has quickened. I can’t wait to touch his naked, bronze flesh.
“You smell like sack of shit, handsome. Let’s waltz into the shower.”
No waltzing for us. Hercules just bends down and lifts me in the bride-over-the-threshold grip like I weigh no more than a kitten. He walks us into the bathroom, turns on the water, then comes full stop. He looks at me, his gaze so fierce, so blazingly hot, I clutch his shoulders tighter, afraid I’ll melt.
His eyes are kind and warm as he looks at me. I studiously avoid the mirror. I don’t want to see the usual Grace: slightly awkward, no fashion sense, currently painted in peanut butter. I’d rather see myself through his eyes. And if the expression on his face is any indication, the view from Tyree’s blazing green eyes is pretty spectacular.
Still in his arms, I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and can hardly recognize myself. My smile is loose and genuine, my eyes are glowing, happy. Uptight Grace has left the building and in her place is a new, calmer, happier version.
He gently sets me down, lifts the t-shirt over my head, and sucks in a quick intake of breath. “Grace, you are so beautiful. I’ve dreamed of this day. I’ve fantasized about you. I’ve imagined every ince of your skin. The reality of you is so much better than my daydreams could do justice.”
He’ll never figure out the clasp of my bra; I don’t want to interrupt this moment. I undo it. As it slides to the floor I hear his muffled moan, which is answered by an echo of my own.
I never want to forget the look of hunger, of raw appreciation on his face. His hands are fisted at his sides. He’s obviously using all his self-control not to attack me. My breathing is ragged from both fear and excitement, but I know one thing—I want to be naked in the shower with him—and soon.
His hands skim my leggings to the floor and I step out of them.
“A present,” he breathes. “I’m unwrapping the best present of my life, Grace. You.”
Wow. I never imagined a moment like this. But if I had, my fantasies could never have come close to this reality. At no time in my past did I believe I’d be precious to someone. My chest feels so full it could burst.
He strips off his jumpsuit and loincloth. In a hurry, I guess, to get in the shower. I drink in the sight of him. Struck, again, by the absolute beauty of his body. Perfection. His cock is huge, thick. It juts away from his body—proud and hard.
He moves us into the shower. It’s a tight fit, maybe five feet by three feet. “Computer, lights out,” he commands.
It’s pitch black in here. Like being in a cave, deep underground. For a split second, I mourn the loss of my sight. I won’t be able to see the water slide over him, won’t be able to see the play o
f his muscles under his tan skin. Then I realize I can focus completely on my other senses. My clit pulses in anticipation.
He turns me toward the back of the shower, him standing between me and the spray of the water. He lifts my arms and places my palms on the wall
Pulling the shower head off its holder, he sprays me from the top of the head to my feet. The water is warm and would be soothing if I wasn’t already so ramped up with excitement.
“Face me,” his voice is deep and commanding, brooking no argument. I have no intention to disobey.
I do as he says, and he sprays my hair so the water sluices down my back. I smell the kindapeanutbutter for a moment, then don’t smell it anymore. It must all be washed down the drain. The warm water showers my shoulders and collarbones, then my breasts, midriff, thighs, and shins.
“Turn around, hands on the back wall again.” He pauses, then, “Spread your legs.” His voice is less than an inch from my ear. His warm breath fans my skin. That sexy command made my insides quake in anticipation.
His arm snakes around me, pulling my hips back toward him until my ass is presented to him. His foot nudges first my right foot, then my left farther apart. Even though the lights are off, I feel open, exposed. With my ass in this position, my balance is a little off, I feel slightly vulnerable, which ratchets up my desire. Although the tepid water’s pounding down on me, it feels like hot tongues of fire are licking along my veins. I hear raspy breathing and realize it’s mine. My mouth is open, I’m panting.
Tyree sprays my feet, my heels, and slowly the water moves up my inner thighs and finally onto my open slit.
I realize he hasn’t touched me yet. He’s simply given orders and sprayed water. Just with this, though, my arousal is off the charts.
I hear him place the showerhead in its holster, then search for something. Must have been looking for the shampoo, because I hear the bottle being shaken, and the little gasp it makes when it releases product.
Now both his hands gently apply the shampoo to my shoulder-length hair. His fingers are slow and methodical, tenderly washing with care. The pads of his fingers are massaging my scalp. Part of me wants to melt into this relaxation, the other part is aware the pulsebeat of my heart is echoed in my clit. I want to be touched there by more than water.
We both simultaneously suck in a gasp of breath when his erect cock accidentally brushes my ass.
“Grace,” he hisses.
He stills for a moment, then goes back to his ministrations with my hair. The juxtaposition of incongruity strikes me—his soft touch on my scalp, and what must be going on in his mind—because his cock is hard enough to hammer nails.
I can’t bear it a minute more. I reach around to grab his erection. My hand just grazes it when I feel him jackknife back, out of my reach.
“Hands on the wall, Grace,” his tone is commanding.
He sprays my hair; I can no longer smell the floral shampoo. Okay, Tyree. I certainly must be clean enough now. But no. He’s found the soap and his hands are slippery with it when he lays them on my neck, then rubs. Strong fingers instinctively find the muscles near my shoulder blades that always carry my tension. Then his hands smooth the lather over my shoulders, down my arms; they slide to the incline of my waist, and then they still.
I’m totally focused on my senses right now. The splash of the water, the sound of his ragged breathing—and my own. But mostly, I’m aware of his hands on my hips. Touch me! I command in the silence of my mind. I press my ass back an inch. An invitation? Or an order to explore.
But instead, his deep voice commands, “Turn around.” I comply.
Soaping his hands again, he starts at my collarbones, they slope to my shoulders, then down my arms, hips, and outer legs. I’m clean now, Tyree. Definitely clean enough!
“You’ve missed some spots,” I chide. I’m dying. I want him to touch my breasts and nipples so badly I want to tug his hands there. But I wait. Obedient.
Finally, his hands move. I remember this is new to him, too. His voice sounded so confident, but are his hands trembling? They hold the weight of my breasts and he moans with pleasure. “I can picture these, Grace. Lovely, so full.”
His thumbs flick the tips and I tilt my head back in pure pleasure. Catching the nubs between thumbs and forefingers, he presses and twists. A deep noise escapes the back of my throat as my hips press toward him. He continues for long moments until I’m moaning loudly and thrusting at empty air. I move toward him and hook one leg behind his thigh, trying to press my bundle of nerves against him, to feel some pressure
His hands leave my breasts and he hoists me up and closer to him. Yes, I’m riding his hip; I can feel his bone beneath my clit. The pressure is divine. His mouth is on my nipple now. He explores, first with the flat of his tongue, then the stiff tip, then the gentle scrape of his teeth.
Between the pressure on my clit and the attention to my nipples, I wonder if I could orgasm from this.
My breathing ramps faster. I snake one hand around his waist, then search for and find his cock with the other.
“Oh my God, Tyree.” My voice is so low and breathy it sounds nothing like me. I’m on overload. Sensations coming at me from so many different directions, I’m glad there’s nothing to look at. I have his cock in my fist, my fingers unable to meet. I can feel his blood pulsing under his skin.
“I want to taste you,” we both say at the same time.
“Bed!” he commands. “Computer, dim lights.” He turns off the water, slides me to the floor, opens the shower door, and grabs a white towel. He spears me with his molten gaze as he dries me with quick efficiency.
“I’m going to have my mouth on you in less than two minimas, Grace. If you don’t want that, you have to tell me now. I’m on fire for you. I want to taste your cream. I want to hear you come.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ve never been so ready.” I explore my thoughts and feelings once more, searching for any part of me that isn’t ready. Nope, I think all my multiple personalities are on board for whatever comes next—gee, I hope it’s me!
Tyree
I take a few swipes at my skin with the towel and call it good, then I pick Grace up as if she’s the most precious thing in the universe—she is. I lay her on the sheets and memorize the sight of her.
“You’re the loveliest female I’ve ever seen. I want to pleasure you in every way imaginable. I want to make you happy, Grace.”
I can’t tell her I want her to be my mate. I can’t tell her she’s already my truemate—it would terrify her and make her doubt my true attraction—but I can treat her with all the affection and tenderness a male bestows upon his truemate.
I join her on the bed, and a bolt of worry slashes through me. I’ve never kissed anyone before today. I haven’t been a sexual being for even one lunar cycle. I wonder if I’ll know what to do, if I can please her, if I’m male enough or skilled enough.
Then I look at her naked body. I notice the pounding hunger thrumming through my veins. I connect with all the desire and devotion I have for her. I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure this out together.
I lie next to her and I kiss her, stroking her tongue with mine. My hands skim from shoulders to waist.
“I’m wet for you, Tyree. I want you.”
She’s ramped up. She needs no more foreplay. I move both knees between her legs and she opens herself to me. I catch the briefest peek before she tells the computer to turn the lights out. Better this way—we’ll both just feel. I kiss from her navel to the patch of hair above her sex. I can smell her deep, musky arousal. My heart squeezes in my chest knowing her body is so ready for me.
I explore with my fingers, touching the small nub at the top of her cleft. This evokes a gasp and a roll of her hips. This is the button the males talk about, the spot the females like the best. I press and roll it, which garners moans of pleasure until she pulls away with an “ow.”
Too hard, okay I got it. This is a better job for my tongue. I bend over and tou
ch with the tip of my tongue. The hiss I hear and the way her muscles melt into the bed tells me I’m on the right track.
I swirl the little bud; she bucks her hips. I scoop my arms under her thighs; my hands on her hips so I have her pinned and can press my mouth against her as hard as she wants. But I have to taste her. My tongue follows her folds to her core and I stab into her. Dear Gods, she tastes so good. It is such a foreign flavor, and at the same time, it’s like coming home.
Her fingers thread through my hair and she pushes me even deeper into her. I press my tongue as far into her channel as I can, and her hips roll again. She is chanting my name like it’s a command—or a prayer. I’m trying to focus only on her, only on her pleasure, but Drackhead is frustrated and demanding release.
