Page 27 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
“Say it.”
“I want to taste you,” I whisper. “I want tofeelyou.”
His eyes flare crimson.
Then I take him into my mouth.
And he groans—deep and raw and unfiltered. His hips twitch, but he holds still, letting me take my time. Letting me learn him the way he learned me.
I savor the weight of him, the texture, the way his breath hitches when I swirl my tongue just right. My fingers curl around the base, stroking as I move, and every growl that escapes him is another victory, another pulse of heat low in my belly.
I want to feel him. To experience him. To taste him all over.
I take him deeper, savoring the stretch of his cock against my tongue, the way the ridges pulse subtly under my lips, warm and strange and utterly addictive. He growls low in his throat, hand fisting gently in my hair—not to control, but to anchor himself.
“Stars,” he grits out. “Yara… your mouth…”
I moan softly around him in response, letting the vibration roll through him.
He twitches.
“You keep doing that,” he warns, voice tight, “and I’m going to come down your throat like a goddamn warhead.”
I pull back slowly, licking the tip like I’m reluctant to let go. “Maybe I want that,” I murmur, my voice thick with arousal, lips swollen and slick with him. “Maybe I wantallof you.”
He stares at me like I’m dangerous.
Or sacred.
“You have no idea what you’re inviting,” he says.
“Then show me.”
He lunges.
I’m on my back before I can blink, pinned beneath him with a force that’s all hunger, no harm. His mouth is on mine instantly—hot, deep, claiming—kissing me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my moans.
My legs wrap around his hips without hesitation.
“Now,” I breathe, nails dragging down the ridges of his back. “I need youinsideme.”
He doesn’t tease.
He doesn’t wait.
He thrusts in, hard and smooth, and I cry out—half in shock, half in pleasure so intense it steals the air from my lungs. He fills me completely, the fit impossibly perfect, the weight of him pressing into my bones.
I cling to him, head tipping back, lips parted in a gasp.
“Oh my god—Grau?—”
“I know,” he snarls into my neck. “Fuck, Yara. You weremadefor this.”
He moves.
Deep, punishing strokes that drag the edge of every nerve, that split me open around him and leave me raw and radiant. Our bodies slap together in a rhythm that feels ancient, fated, holy.
He shifts his angle.
