Slag: Book Four in the Galaxy Pirates Alien Abduction Romance Series (Shifter) Read online

  As his hand slowly feathers the length of his cock, the look on his face is of sheer primitive ecstasy. When he clenches himself harder and rubs himself faster, a moan of pleasure escapes his lips.

  I tried to kill myself not eight hours ago, and have been sentenced to hard labor in a toxic mine, and yet I’m horny. Not slightly excited like when I’m watching an R-rated movie. No, it’s dry-mouthed, pussy clenching, one-touch-and-I-could-come sheer lust.

  I don’t understand my own sexual responses as I feel my muscles pulse in arousal. Why would this inflame me when he could move with lightning-quick reflexes and pounce on me at any moment?

  But I’m excited beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And miraculously, he doesn’t pounce. With a strangled grunt, he tightens his grip and lifts his hips off his heels, tipping his pelvis toward me.

  His hand speeds up as he squeezes himself harder, his hips now pumping as he fists himself.

  My mouth pops open as I gasp for breath to tolerate the sexiest show I’ve ever seen. He thrusts slow and deep now, grunting with every upthrust. The muscles on his forearm are bunching with the effort as he strains to push himself to the finish line.

  He thrusts his hips closer, and with a deep, hoarse groan, his luminescent green come spatters on my abs in ropey jets. His voice is deep and hoarse as he releases with pure joy. After taking a jagged breath, he opens his eyes and stares at me.

  He leans closer, his lips almost touching mine, his gaze spearing me as he rubs his come onto me as if it’s a healing lotion, a look of proud accomplishment on his face.

  I’m frightened and aroused and baffled all at the same time. Until the explanation comes rushing to me.

  He just marked me. He scented me like an animal scents its mate. This was to protect me from the other males. To assert ownership, to give the promise of the retribution of seven hells if any of them touch me.

  He swivels me toward the wall so he can rub the sweetly fragrant liquid on my back, then pulls my shirt down to cover me. He vocalizes a deep, satisfied grunt that says, ‘mission accomplished,’ then struts to the wall with the fountain of water, cleans himself, binds his sex back between his legs, and lays down inches from me.

  The dim overhead lights flicker off and we’re bathed in the darkest black I’ve ever experienced. At home, even with everything turned off, there are dim lights everywhere. From the light cast from my smartphone to the glow drifting from the moon through the curtains, there’s always some illumination, no matter how faint. For the first time, I understand the term ‘pitch black’.

  I lay on the thin pile of rags and even though I think I’m safe, the back of my mind still wonders if there’s going to be an inevitable onslaught. I wait. And I wait. And wait. And then I hear Slag’s soft rhythmic breathing and I wonder if maybe there really is a God.

  Chapter Two

  KJ

  I couldn’t have been more than ten years old when I made one of those decisions that shape the rest of your life. I’ve come to call them ‘as-God-is-my-witness’ decisions where no matter how young you are you make a vow that stays with you forever.

  I was in the backseat, mom and dad were in the front, and we were driving the blue highways of Missouri. Blue highways are so named because the small, out-of-the-way roads that criss-cross the rural midwest are drawn in blue on most maps.

  It was hot as blazes in the middle of one of those hundred degree, hundred percent humidity days Missouri is known for. A flagger stopped us for a construction slowdown. I observed her collar and underarms ringed with sweat and how she used her forearm to wipe the perspiration from her brow.

  I either had a bit of psychic ability or a damn good imagination, because it was as if I could see her entire life flash before my eyes.

  My ‘as-God-is-my-witness’ moment was to vow to everything that was holy that I would never have that life. And I decided I didn’t want to ever toil in the sun for any reason. From that day forward I buckled down in school, got good grades and was on the college track. It was that level of focus that helped me become a 911 operator.

  I have to give my ten-year-old self credit. She knew what she wanted. Because right now, with rivulets of sweat pouring from my forehead, temples, and trickling down the back of my neck and between my breasts, I realize I was one-hundred percent correct about my innate aversion to manual labor in sweltering heat.

  It’s not even lunchtime, although that’s not a thing. The guards were quick to inform me we only get one meal a day, and that’s after our portion is weighed. I have a long day ahead of me, yet my arms are aching from wielding the pickaxe, my eyes are burning from the sweat in my eyes, and my mouth is dry as dust.

  Slag comes to my side and gently forces me onto the ore bucket as he pulls my axe out of my hands. He holds a scolding finger up at me, his silent admonition to take this enforced break, even as he speeds up his pace to extract enough ore for both of us.

  I don’t argue, thankful for the quick respite, but after a few minutes, I stand and get back to work. My grandpa used to call this ‘stoop labor’. He wasn’t kidding.

  After several more hours pass, my arms are shaking from muscle fatigue. I’m tired to the bone, and my thoughts are hazy. I wonder if I’m already experiencing the first symptoms of radiation poisoning.

  Although I have no way of telling time, I imagine it must be close to the blessed relief of the gong. But several more hours pass before I hear the signal.

  I’m slightly unsteady on my feet and having trouble thinking, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice that Slag filled over half my bucket. I’d be heading toward a lashing if not for him.

  He doesn’t carry me today; he carries our two buckets. I shoulder our axes. I may be fuzzy-headed, but I pay attention at every spur, making certain we’re not accosted by some males more interested in raping me than turning in their quota. A few approached, but with one sniff of me and a growl from Slag, they steered away with a grumble.

  At the scales, we both pass muster, are given our food rations, and then head back toward our den. Halfway there, Slag bends to invite me to ride his back as I did yesterday, but I can’t rely on him forever and press forward on my own.

  I stumble, though, so bleary-eyed I trip over some loose rock. He doesn’t ask my permission this time, just hefts me onto his back as he carries me and the axes to our den.

  The water tastes different this time, tinnier than it did yesterday. When a wave of nausea hits, I give up eating my bar before I’m even half done.

  I know nothing more about radiation sickness than a person who’s watched more than my share of sci-fi movies, but I think I’ve already contracted it. From what I remember, depending on the dose, it’s fatal.

  Shit.

  Slag lifts me and gently sets me on the bed of rags. He sits next to me, leans to my level, and tips his head, inspecting me.

  I push him away just in time to avoid barfing all over him. Not much comes out. I barely ate any of my bar.

  Slag picks me up and carries me to the dripping water. He cleans me, his huge hands surprisingly gentle. Although my translator tells me he’s not saying any words, he’s vocalizing, like one would talk to a kitten. Soft little syllables to indicate concern. If I wasn’t worried about my imminent death, I’d think it was one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me.

  He cups water in his hands and dumps it on the floor to clean it, then sits on the little pile of rags with me in his lap. And then this huge mountain of a man, an alien slave in a devilishly hot mine on a nightmare planet, rocks me back and forth in his lap like a child comforts their dolly.

  I tip my head down so he won’t see the tears brimming from my eyes. Maybe this isn’t the sweetest thing I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it’s just that I need a crumb of kindness right now, and it’s coming from the most unlikely source. I’ll take it.

  I order my muscles to relax as I melt into his granite-hard chest and allow the wave of concern he’s expressing to p
ermeate my barriers. A tiny bitch in the back of my mind predicts this is what humungous green aliens do before they rape you, but at this moment, I refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  I lean forward and dry heave, my hands on the stone floor holding me up as wave after wave of nausea hits me. Bile burns the back of my throat as I try to come to terms with the fact that I was right about the radiation poisoning.

  Was it only yesterday in Sooma Ryone’s living room that I tried to kill myself? Because right this minute I don’t want to die. Not really. And at the rate things are going, I won’t live to see Ryone again. Which, come to think of it, is the only small blessing to this scenario.

  When the lights go out, Slag gets up, then settles me back onto his lap, my back against the muscular wall of his chest.

  I’m drowsy, maybe sleeping a bit, when I’m woken by flute music. I wonder for a split second if they play flutes in the hereafter instead of the harps you read about, but I immediately realize I’m still alive and Slag is playing a flute.

  That must have been why he got up a moment ago. He must have one possession to his name and he keeps it hidden in a special hideyhole.

  I’ve never heard anything this beautiful. How could I think he was just a big, dumb alien when those thick fingers can perform magic on what has to be a handmade flute?

  I rearrange myself so my hip nestles against his abdomen and press my cheek against his chest. Listening, I allow the lilting notes of the music to take us soaring on a journey far from the death in these mines. Is this how he’s kept a modicum of sanity for his time here?

  Stroking my palm on his pec, I pet him gently, wanting to give him something in return for his performance.

  I read that this is how Native American males wooed their women. In my imagination, it wasn’t particularly masculine. Or sexy. In person, though, it’s seductive as hell.

  No matter how many times he’s played these tunes for himself, to keep himself amused or from going insane, tonight he’s playing for me.

  Maybe it’s not a courting ritual, but it is a gift.

  His concert goes on for a while, giving me what will probably be the only comfort I’ll get in this shithole. The flute’s last musical note hangs and reverberates in the air, then disappears. The wooden flute makes a soft tap on the rock when he sets it on the floor at my side.

  After he places me on the stone floor in front of his crossed knees, I hear him unbinding the rag that holds his sex. He rises to go to the wall to wash. He returns to his original position and I sense the movement as he strokes himself. I guess this is to be our nightly ritual.

  In the blackness, I picture what I watched last night. First, I imagine him sensually stroking up his inner thighs, then gripping his thickness in his huge palm. I hear the almost-silent slide of flesh on flesh and remember the look of growing ecstasy on his face.

  This visual journey catapults me into the territory of pure lust.

  I’m dying. I’m convinced of it now. Even though the nausea has abated I know this reprieve won’t last. Why shouldn’t I act on my desires? I might be dead by morning.

  The tips of my nipples are tight, needy points. My channel is clenching in empty desperation. It seems he wants nothing more than to protect me. Why not return a gift to this male who has received nothing but abuse and derision for who knows how long?

  Placing my hands right above his knees, where he likes to start, I slide up his rough skin, noticing the heat of his flesh as my fingers glide higher.

  Although not the effect I was going for, every muscle in his body freezes. He swallows and breathes, but otherwise is still as a statue as he waits for my next move.

  My fingers slip higher, my thumbs on his inner thighs until they collide with his balls. This pulls a soft “Mmm,” from him.

  “Like that, Slag?” I ask as I cup them from beneath in one palm.

  “Mmm.”

  A spike of fear slices through me as I realize how impetuous this was. It’s wonderful and sensual and arousing when I’m in charge, but what if he takes the lead? What if he wants to do things I don’t?

  But he’s sitting still, waiting for me to proceed.

  “You’re a good male, Slag.”

  I lean and breathe on his cockhead and am close enough to know it pulses in response.

  His thick fingers feather through my blond hair. I think I know him well enough by now to know he won’t force my mouth onto him. He waits, panting in little huffing exhales.

  “I want you to feel good, Slag.” I lick his slit with the tip of my tongue, somehow having the unerring radar to touch him on the right spot.

  He can’t control his grunt or the upthrust of his hips.

  My mind flies in a hundred directions, reminding me how sick I am and how long this humongous green alien male has toiled in these mines. I wonder about mortality and the fairness of the universe and even question whether there really is a God. Then I succeed in shutting all those crazy thoughts into a steel box lined with lead so even Superman can’t get in.

  All I want to do now is feel.

  I rim around the head of his cock, swirling with the tip of my tongue and then the flat of it until he can’t contain his hiss of pleasure.

  His appreciation spurs me on and I decide not to draw things out. This poor male has waited far too long for this. I try to take him into my mouth, but can’t do it, it’s too big of a stretch.

  Grasping around the base of his cock, one palm on top of the other, I take up a rhythm as I circle his head with the flat of my tongue.

  He can’t stifle his moan, which incites me to move faster, squeeze harder. He’s panting louder and swifter now, as he thrusts his hips toward me. In my mind’s eye, I see him throwing his head back in pleasure, thick muscles straining in his neck.

  One of his meaty hands surrounds mine as he squeezes tightly and propels himself into ecstasy, aiming his release at my throat and upper chest.

  Pulling me onto his folded legs, he rubs his come on my exposed skin, then lies back and pulls me next to him, readying us both for sleep.

  A jolt of outrage sizzles through me as many expletives float through my head, all preceded by the word “selfish”. Then I have the sweetest awareness that he has no idea what to do with me.

  A green seven-foot-tall virgin. What I’m going to do next will be more fun than worrying about my impending death.

  His equipment is far too big to invite inside me, so after pulling off my clothes, I snuggle my ass against him. Interesting, his cock is getting ready to reprise its role. I rest my foot on his thigh and lift my knee so he has complete access, then grab his hand and rest it on my belly.

  He doesn't move a muscle other than to sniff. That’s right, big guy, this woman wants you.

  “Make me feel good, Slag.”

  His hand tentatively moves between my breasts to find more of his moisture and rub it onto my upper chest. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll chalk it up to first-time jitters.

  Just when I’m debating whether to take things into my own hands, he makes the tentative journey downward, pauses between my breasts, then explores one of them.

  He cups the fullness, then probes until he discovers the peak. I suck in an aroused breath and press my ass against his now-hard length.

  His tentative movements are banished. He realizes he has a willing bed partner and moves into hyperdrive.

  Flipping onto his back, he pulls me on top of him, facing him in a sitting position, and cups both my breasts in his palms. He rubs my hardened nubs between thumbs and forefingers and doesn’t miss my appreciative response as I throw my head back in a hiss.

  Leaning up, he eagerly sucks one nipple into his mouth as he plucks the other. Fast learner, Slag.

  As one hand is plying my tight peak with pleasure and his mouth is learning just how hard I like the tip scraped, his other hand rearranges me so my dripping core is perched on that monster cock of his.

  I should have reviewed the ground rules.
How do I tell him that what he probably wants more than anything in the galaxy is off-limits?

  Maybe later. I’m too busy riding him. I’m so wet it takes only two trips up and back, my lower lips sliding on his length, for both of us to be drenched in my juices.

  His hand abandons its post on my breast and grips my ass cheek in the same position as its mate. He’s moving me now, I need do nothing other than hang onto his shoulders as he drags me up and down that lovely shaft.

  “Oh yes,” is all I have to say, and he presses me against him harder.

  “A girl could come like this,” I pant.

  I lean closer to him so my nipples drag against his pebbled pecs. The perfect angle to pour accelerant on my libido.