Page 144 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
“Why?”
He lifts his eyes—red flecks glowing gold in the dim light.
“Because I think you’re finally seeing yourself the way I do.”
I press a gentle palm to his chest right over that steady, unshakeable heartbeat.
“Not the soldier killed by war,” I murmur, fingertips caressing the rough texture of his shirt.
“Not the woman haunted by ghosts.”
“But the woman who turned every blade into a shield… and every echo of fear into a song of joy.”
He watches me—not with lust. Not with need.
With wonder.
Because this isn’t desperation.
It’s celebration.
Slowly, with intention, I cradle his face in my hands—fingertips ghosting his temples, thumbs tracing warmth beneath his eyes.
“You deserve this,” I whisper.
He smiles—a real one.
Not guarded.
Not measured.
Not half-offered.
Whole.
“I didn’t always know that,” he admits softly.
“Then let me show you.”
His breath catches when my mouth trails down his neck, slow and hot, each kiss a salute to the battles we’ve survived. My tongue flicks lightly over a tender spot beneath his ear, and he shivers in a way that makes my pulse spike.
I trail my lips down his throat, over the powerful expanse of his chest, savoring the heat of him, the alien grace of his musculature, the way his skin almost seems to hum under my touch. I can smell him—warm, a little smoky, and utterly intoxicating—and all I want is more.
His hands grip my hips, steadying me, grounding me, and I feel his cock harden beneath the fabric of his trousers. My breath catches.
I slide my palms under his shirt, dragging them up his back, over rib and muscle, and he exhales—low, deep, unguarded.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against my lips, but there’s no force in it—only truth.
I laugh softly, a sound that trembles between want and joy. “Not tonight,” I whisper. “Tonight, I’m yours.”
His eyes darken—red turning molten gold—and he picks me up with surprisingly gentle strength, depositing me onto the edge of the plush penthouse bed. The sheets rustle as I sit up, and he stands between my knees, towering over me in that breathtaking 7’2” frame—black leathery skin gleaming, bone spurs catching the light like strange carvings, and eyes locked on mine with uncontrollable intent.
I reach for him—hands on his thighs, slipping over the hard planes of muscle.
His cock strains against his pants, obvious and needy, and I can’t help the hungry smile that spreads over my face.
“Let me,” I whisper, sliding a hand beneath the waistband.
