Page 33 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
He nearly chokes on the sip of water he’s trying to take.
I slap his back helpfully, maybe a little too hard. “I’m serious. Look at these beams. Sturdy. Ideal suspension points. We could get one with Reaper-grade tensile strength and?—”
“You are deranged,” he growls, wiping his mouth.
“And you love it,” I say, flipping my hair. “Imagine the possibilities.”
“I’m tryingnotto.”
“You could heal faster with regular cardio. Think of it as physical therapy.”
His nostrils flare. “Georgia.”
“Say it,” I purr. “Say ‘Georgia, please install the sex hammock.’”
“I’m going to throw you out an airlock.”
I grin, pleased to have cracked the stoic bastard even a little. But the grin fades when he looks away again, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the far wall like it personally offended him.
And just like that, my mood snaps.
“No,” I say, standing. “Uh-uh. You don’t get to go all emotionally constipated on meafterrisking your life to save mine. Nope. Talk.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Lanz.” My voice sharpens. “Why the cold shoulder?”
He sighs. Long. Painful. And I feel the weight of it settle in the room like a storm cloud.
“I almost died,” he says finally.
“I noticed.”
“And all I could think was—what if I did? What if you ended up collared by someotherReaper? Someone crueler. Someone who didn’t care?—”
“Oh my god.” I drop my head into my hands. “You’re pulling back because you care?”
“I’m scared,” he admits, voice raw. “I don’t know how to do this. I know rage. I know war. But you? You’re fire and wit and chaos and compassion. You’reeverything.And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to loseyou.”
My throat tightens. Emotion surges in my chest, a tidal wave of relief and fury and—yeah—love. Stupid, overwhelming love.
I cross the room in two steps and grab his face in both hands.
“You idiot,” I whisper. “I’mright here.”
Then I kiss him so hard he forgets his name.
It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s messy and hungry and full of every feeling I don’t have the words for. He kisses me back with equal desperation, his good hand tangling in my hair, his lips devouring mine like he needs this more than oxygen.
We break apart gasping.
“Better,” I say, chest heaving.
“Still want that hammock?” he croaks.
“I want a wholeroomof hammocks. And mirrors. And maybe a fog machine.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. A real one, rough and rusty but beautiful.
