Page 17 of My Alien Bughead
“You have a big mouth for such a littlezeeva,” he rasps, his breath fanning me. My hand is the only thing separating us now and I can feel the tension between our bodies, like a deadly charge of static electricity, ready to unleash an apocalyptic-level event.
“Yeah?” I retort breathlessly. “Been thinking about my mouth a lot, eh, bughead?”
His antennae angle forward, closer to my head, as if reaching out to touch me. Their tips are glowing bright red, a color I haven’t seen them turn before.
For the most part since meeting D’Aakh, they’ve been orange. A color, I assume, that indicates their owner is a perpetually pissed-off jerk. They’ve occasionally flashed blue or green when he isn’t acting like a totalcabrón, but red is a new one.
It feels significant, while also…not. Not when he’s right up in my face, his kissable lips a hair’s breadth away from mine, his fuckable…well, everything, just a touch away.
I stare into D’Aakh’s surprisingly humanoid eyes. No longer challenging me. Or maybe, a different kind of challenge.
My body trembles in anticipation, my hand on his chest pulsating as if touching a live wire. The pressure builds to dizzying heights, ready to explode and send us both tumbling into nothingness.
Then someone clears their throat nearby, snapping us both back into the present.
“Um, guys?”
Recoiling at the sudden sound of Astra’s poorly concealed amusement, I step back, D’Aakh’s motion a mirror image of my own. What the fuck just happened?
“Can you perhaps sortthat,” she waves her hand between us, “out later? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”
D’Aakh’s expression blanks, his antennae going back to their usual pissed-off orange glow. “There’s nothing to sort out later,” he says, disgust dripping from every word.
“Yeah,” I add quickly. “Nothing to sort out. Like I said, the last male in existence, plasma cutters and all that.” Shaking my head as if that alone will chase away any wayward thoughts involving me and thegilipollas(idiot) alien. Coming back to my senses, I look around and realize where I am and why. Alien mantises, broken ships. That’s what I should be focusing on. Not, how D’Aakh’s lips taste or how his cock would feel deep inside my desperately throbbing pussy.
“Uh-huh, sure,” Astra giggles.
My cheeks flush red. Everyone is staring at me. Not just Astra, Tareq, and Zarkan, but the Serramorphs, too. They observe with what appears to be unbidden curiosity, clicking and clacking between themselves.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Shoving my embarrassment aside, I march over to the mantis-like aliens. “Let’s just talk to these bugs.” The actual bugs, not the sexy jerk with head antennae.
Standing by Zarkan’s side and facing several creepy blue mantises whose heads reach up to my chest helps to snap me out of my daze. Up close, the Serramorphs look even more dangerous than they do from afar. The way they click their pincers and flex their sharp claws has me acutely aware of the fact that they could gut me in an instant. Talk about sobering thoughts.
Astra doesn’t seem worried. She stands on Zarkan’s other side, her smile wide and earnest. “Hello, guys. Long time, no see, right? I’m glad you’re okay. When the slavers disabled life support in this section of the ship…” She shudders at what sounds like a terrible memory. “We were really worried about you.”
“Hiding from bad people,” Cai translates the Serramorph’s reply to Astra. “They say they needed to protect…something?” The AI exchanges more clicks and squeals with the insects before humming thoughtfully. “They’re afraid of you. I can’t make out every word, but their fear is pretty obvious.”
Indeed it is. The Serramorphs might look scary, but their behavior is anything but hostile. In fact, they’re acting almost deferential.
Slowly, Zarkan crouches until he’s nearly eye to eye with the insects. He holds out his empty hands. “We mean you no harm,” he says in his deep, rumbly voice, Cai translating his words. “We only came here to talk.”
The Serramorphs look at each other, clearly unsure what to do. Then another Serramorph emerges from behind the pile of scrap metal that’s been welded together to resemble a pile of rocks. This one is slightly larger than the others and clearly their leader, since they all get out of his way. Or, rather, her way, I correct myself when I remember they’re supposed to be matriarchal.
The female bows her head to Astra, then focuses on Zarkan as she chirps and squeals.
Cai sighs. “This was a bad idea. My database of their language is extremely limited and I lack the capability to provide an accurate translation.” She sounds so guilty it makes me wonder again whether Zarkan isn’t communicating with an actual person rather than with an AI.
“We don’t need a precise translation,” Zarkan says. “Just give me something to work with, Cai. Anything.”
“But I can only guarantee eighty-four point—”
Zarkan growls. “Cai. Eighty-four percent accuracy is excellent. Continue.”
“As you wish, Captain. This is …” I cringe at the sound of the Serramorph’s name. There’s no way any of us can even repeatthat. “I do believe her name means something like Tinkerer the Great. She’s the only female here and the leader of this group.”
“Let’s just call her Tink,” I suggest, half joking.
