Page 17 of The Alien Warlord's Fated Mate

And still, she could not resist the lure of his body, or the curiosity rising in her. The need to learn him, to retake some measure of control over her life. What would he feel like? How would he react to her touch? Would this shower be the end of it, or was this the beginning of an elaborate seduction on his part?

He waited patiently, expectantly, as if her cooperation were a foregone conclusion.

That steadfastness moved her as much as the knowledge that she was wasting precious water by stalling. Tentatively, she placed her palms on the slopes of his shoulders and rubbed, lightly tracing the ridges of long-healed scars and tautly defined muscles. The bathing scrubs lathered under her hands, and that somehow made it so much easier for her to justify running them up his neck in slow circles, to tangle her fingers in his short, silky hair, to glance the back of her hand across the edge of his horn, just to see what it felt like.

A low moan rumbled out of him, and he dropped his head back, resting it against her stomach. “More.”

Instinctually, she rinsed one hand off and ran it gently over the horn curving around the right side of his head. She’d expected the toughness of bone, and it was that. But it also had different textures, rough hatches in the larger part attached to his head near his temple, smoother at the tip.

The latter fascinated her. She ran her fingers over the sharp point, and he sucked in a breath and turned his head into her hand, murmuring soft words she had no hope of understanding, even with the wrist device he wore acting as a translator. She wanted to ask him to speak louder, loud enough for the device to pick his words out over the patter of water.

It seemed too rude, so she asked cautiously, “You like that?”

“Your touch feels…” He paused for a long moment, nuzzling his horn into her palm. “Electric.”

Her heart fluttered. Yes, electric. That’s exactly how it felt to touch him.

He shifted below her, widening his knees, and that jerked her back to reality. Right. They were wasting water. Quickly, she leaned forward and filled her palms with what passed for soap among his people, then she scrubbed him briskly, kneeling to reach the hard curve of his back, daring to run her hands over the firm curve of his bottom. Asking him to lift first one arm then the other, watching, fascinated, as his muscles flexed and bunched the way they had during the training exercise.

Once done with his back, she scooted around him, laughing breathlessly at the tight space, and he accommodated the change in positions with a measure of the patient good humor she’d come to expect from him. She smoothed her hands over his chest, took a moment to examine his tattoo—round in shape, the lines oddly broken, obviously ritualistic in nature—and filed it away for future questioning. He lifted his chin for her, allowing her to cleanse the thick column of his throat, and she slowed down long enough to make a brief study of the masculine lines, the hollow at its base, the warmth pervading her just from watching him swallow as water cascaded gently over his face, wetting her as much as him.

She shifted once more and ran her hands down the tight skin over his ribs, counting one more than human males had. Evolution? Devolution? She shook her head and scrubbed his abs, an eight pack of defined muscle that made her drool despite the distinct lack of a happy trail. No one had ever accused her of being a man chaser, but boy, was Zoran turning her into one.

Then his upper body was clean, and she had no more excuses to postpone the inevitable. Quickly, she gathered her courage and urged him to stand, and nearly got a face full of his jutting erection.

“Oh, my God,” she gulped, her eyes wide.

“It will not bite,” he chided gently, and she laughed helplessly and gathered more bathing scrubs in her hands.

Yet it was his hands that cleansed himself there, in brief strokes over his length and between his thighs, his hands that encouraged her to soap down the long, muscled length of his legs and across each foot in turn as it was lifted for her. His hands that urged her to stand and tilt her head back into the water’s thin stream.

His hands that slid under the neckline of her robe and pushed it off, baring her body to him from throat to feet.

He stood there for a moment, gently cupping her shoulders, his heated gaze molten on her skin. Finally, he rasped out, “The Fates have bestowed a great blessing upon my clan.”

A strangled laugh worked its way out of her throat, and she found herself again helpless when he reached behind her and soaped his hands and bathed her as methodically as she’d bathed him. More so, she thought dimly when he spread her thighs and worked two fingers into the folds of her femininity, sliding them along her skin until the tingling warmth gathering there stole her breath and her heart thudded against her sternum and her knees trembled, forcing her to lean against the stall’s slick wall.

And the way he looked at her, like he never wanted to stop touching her. His hands slid up her hips and over her ribs, his thumbs flicked across her nipples, and she gasped and held onto his shoulders and prayed both that he’d never stop and that she’d find a way to resist the need he stirred so easily within her.

He scrubbed her hair, gently scratching her scalp with his claws, and rinsed her off, then she blinked and they were out of the shower and he knelt before her again, rubbing a towel over her skin. A brush appeared in his hand, and he turned her and brushed her hair until it was nearly dry, holding her upright with a firm hand at her waist, the tip of his erection brushing wetly against her spine. Then he lifted her into his arms, carried her to his bed, and tucked her into it as if she were five.

Only, she wasn’t five. She was a grown woman, and he was a grown male, and as he curled himself around her, the rigid length of his erection pressing into her bottom and lower back. She was sure now, oh so certain, that he’d press his advantage while she was helpless and weak and needy, that he’d shift his hips and push that hard length against her core and take her then and there, promises be damned.

He whistled the lights off and rubbed the tip of his horn against her temple. “Sleep, littleklika. The transition comes soon.”

She gazed at the clock on the screen above the bed, watching it count down as he relaxed behind her and fell into sleep like he hadn’t just given her the single most erotic experience of her life. Like she wasn’t still tingly and needy and aching for his touch, as if some part of her weren’t waiting for him to roll her over and take her.

As if she weren’t beginning to want that from him, and more.

“So much trouble,” she whispered, then fatigue washed over her and sleep caught her in its merciful grasp.

Chapter Five

Zoran woke by habit, his senses automatically searching for enemies. He found his mate instead. During their rest, she had rolled into him and draped herself across him. Her slight weight now pressed him gently into their bed. Her hand rested on his abdomen, just above his erection, and the dark spill of her hair fanned across the arm he’d protectively curled around her in his sleep. He ran a hand down her side, lingering on the sharp indention of her waist, the lush curve of her hip, the generous bloom of her ass. The middle two fingers of his free hand touched his forehead, mouth, and chest, then lifted to the heavens as he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving to the Pjorii.

For the Fates had truly blessed him with her presence, a gift beyond any he had ever received. He wanted to explore every inch of her, from the fascinating intelligence shining from her jewel-like eyes to the soft beauty of her skin. He wanted to dive into her, to bury himself within her tight heat, to breathe her in eternally, forever joined as one.

If not for duty, he might have awakened her then and found a way to ease her into taking some part of him now. But he had promised her time, his shift at watch was nigh, and much as he wanted to join with her, much as instinct demanded he claim her, the honor embedded in his bones since childhood would not be bent.

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