Page 82 of The Alien in the Archive

“What–?”

“I don’t want to come before you have,” he grits out. “Is this too much?”

“No, not too much,” I stammer. “I want that…I want the rest of you.”

He locks eyes with me, and somehow manages an amused, lust-hazed smile. “It’s called the knot.”

“The what?”

He thrusts slightly deeper, stretching me. The noises I’m making are inhuman, unintelligible. We both have to stop for a moment and steady ourselves at the new sensations as I close around him.

“Borean anatomy…” he trails off, groans as he continues, one centimeter at a time. “This will…swell. Lock me inside you. I won’t be able to pull out until well after I’ve finished.”

Some logical part of my brain, the part that works like an encyclopedia, reminds me there are other species with similar features. But in that moment, my instincts take over.

I hook my feet around his waist and, taking him by surprise, I pull him the rest of the way.

I bite my lip so hard I’m sure I’m bleeding. Thorne moans, deep and throaty, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them again, I can see the shocked desire in his gaze, and I relish the power I have over him in that moment. He cups my face and rests his forehead against mine, whispering, “My bold, beautiful beloved.”

And then we start to move.

I rock against him, slowly first, then building momentum. The motion makes him just barely move inside me. But the texture, the ridges, the knot; it makes it a full, agonizingly pleasurable experience. The euphoria is overwhelming, stimulating places inside me that no human man ever could.

“You are perfect,” he praises me, brushing his lips to mine. “You are everything.”

My fingers dig into Thorne’s shoulders as he grips my hip, guiding us both into the perfect rhythm. His thrusts are powerful, each one sending a vibration from my core to the tips of my fingers. I arch my back, reveling in the feeling of him inside me, every hard inch. I look into his eyes, our bodies intertwining like two halves of a whole, our minds twisting together.

And I know he feels it too.

Our hips begin to move in sync, filling the room with the obscene, divine sounds of our coupling. With each thrust, I feel his knotswell inside me, stretching me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced, both strange and remarkable. I’m lost in bliss, my mind focused on nothing but him—and even if I wandered, he would be there, pulling me back, promising an eternity.

And before I can stop myself, I’m saying something I know I shouldn’t.

“I love you.”

I open my eyes, suddenly anxious about how he’ll respond as he almost grinds to a halt.

…but then he’s kissing me, and he’s whispering, gasping, “Yes, beloved,beloved…” And I know then that he’s been saying it for days—and even if this is too new to really know, Iknow.

I cling to him, my heart pounding hard against my chest as he continues to thrust, as I continue to rise to take him. The intensity of our emotions gives color and texture and heat to the joining of our bodies, and I feel like a watercolor painting, like we’re melding together. We’re wild and uncontrolled, but undeniably right.

He pulls back, black eyes shining, the silver more pronounced than ever. “I need you to say it again,” he rasps.

“I love you,” I offer, no hesitation. “I love you…”

His smile is triumphant, his eyes gleaming with desire as he leans in and claims my mouth in a desperate kiss. “I love you, too,” he says as he pulls back. “Mine…”

Then we’re unable to speak, our bodies, our minds impossibly entangled. I can feel the end coming, the desperation of Thorne’s thrusts intensifying. He buries his face in my neck, breathes me in, plants messy kisses to my pulse.

We climax together, perfectly in sync, careening into oblivion. Thorne’s knot expands completely, locking him inside me, and the heat of his spend is like a drop of ink into water, changing me forever. My nails press divots into his back, time standing still as I struggle to suck in air.

The room goes quiet, save for our breathing.

Thorne isso warmagainst me.

He moves his face from my neck, gazing down at me, and we kiss…long and slow, lazy. We’re both spent, but he is—as promised—still locked inside me…and fuck, it somehow feels good. Normally I would be anxious to get out of bed, clean up, have a moment to myself.

But I don’t ever want to leave his side.

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