Page 59 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
We come together.
I feel it—him tensing, roaring into my neck as his cock throbs deep inside me, and I shatter around him, crying his name like a prayer.
When it ends, we cling to each other—panting, shaking, spent.
He kisses me then—soft and slow and reverent—and I know.
We aren’t just heat and fire and stolen moments.
We are forever.
The applausestill echoes in my ears, a distant thunder as I stare at the judges’ table. The Vortaxian critic—sharp-witted, always ready with a cutting barb—leans forward, eyes glintingwith something like respect, maybe astonishment. Her voice, low and dry, carries louder than I expect: “A couple that cooks like that is clearly bonded.”
My stomach flips. I force a smile that feels fragile as sugar glass. Not because I’m embarrassed—though it tingles against my cheeks—but because it’s true. I feel something real, something tethered and fierce, in how we moved together, how our breaths fell in sync, hardly needing words.
After the show, in the chaos of congratulations and camera flashes, I barely register the noise. I’m too aware of him—Rekkgar—standing a step behind me, the weight of that simple comment anchoring in our space between us. Beneath my skin, something stirs, stubborn and luminous.
Later, in the dim corridor backstage, he drapes a respectful arm around my shoulders, guiding me away from gossiping crews and flashing holocams. I lean into him. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. The silence is a promise, unbroken.
We ride an elevator up to our shared suite aboard the orbiting resort—a luxurious enclave of polished stone, soft light, and hydro-views of the spinning planet below. The doors open and the hush of luxury makes me inhale deeply. I close my eyes, breathing in wood veneer, ozone-cleaned air, and the faint tang of distant spas.
He lingers at the threshold, arms at his sides, stoic stance refined into regal protection. I don’t remember thinking with words. I just step in front of him and say, voice low: “Can we... stay in tonight?”
He tilts his head. His eyebrows—the furthest thing from expressive—lift almost imperceptibly. It’s enough.
I clear my throat, bring my hands forward. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”
My pulse hammers so loudly I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it. He nods, once, deliberate and grave. His stride is careful; the door closes behind him.
Inside, I reach for whiskey—old Earth single-malt amber in a crystal tumbler. I pour slowly, not daring to look at him. The amber liquid pools in my hand, warm and grounding. He doesn't comment. He just stands, silent, watching me—like he’s waiting for permission.
I turn, glass halfway to my lips. “You okay?”
He cocks his head. “I—yes.”
He steps forward, closing the distance, and the air changes. It feels like gravity shifted. His fingers brush the back of my hand—so light I wonder if I imagined it. Say something. I ask softly: “Did you mean what that judge said?”
Silence.
He sets his hand atop mine, stilling the glass. His voice rumbles low in the still air. “Yes.”
I swallow. My heart stutters around his words. “I feel… bonded. With you.”
His eyes—I don’t need his other eye to see what’s in them. His ice-blue square pools with something raw. He steps closer, closing distance until his breath brushes my cheek, stirring the hair at my collar with its warmth.
Then he says it—quiet, careful: “So do I.”
I'm shocked—no, stunned—then flooded.
I set my glass down, the clink sharp. He doesn’t move. I dare to reach up, touch his cheek—calloused, scarred, living and strong.
“You know what that means,” I whisper.
He nods slower this time. “Yes.”
He leans in, and the world dissolves. His lips brush mine—gentle, seeking. I taste him: spice, woodsmoke, cinnamon,something ancient and new all at once. My knees nearly buckle but I hold fast.
Then his arms come around me, strong but careful, and I melt against him. I sink into his chest, arms wrapping as if it’s the first safe embrace of a long war.
