Page 60 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
We stay like that—shaking, breathless, real—until the resort’s turbines hum softly beneath the suite walls and the planet’s glow shifts through the window.
When I pull back, my voice is small, vulnerable: “Don’t go.”
He brushes his forehead to mine. “I won’t.”
And for the first time, I believe it.
I slip out of my dress—leaving bits of lace, sugar dust, and worry behind. He doesn’t look away. His eyes soften, curious, unsure—but he stays.
My fingers brush the edge of his tunic, hesitant, wondering. He lifts it over his head for me, looking vulnerable and complete.
We stand in quiet. No lights. No words. Our breaths mingle in the hush.
We fall into each other with reverence. Not desperation. Not urgency. Something sacred.
I learn every ridge of him by touch and breath. He learns me—curve by curve, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Each gasp, each whisper—“Rekkgar,” “Ruby”—echoes in the stillness.
I taste him again—husky with longing, sweet with surrender. He tastes me back—soft, trembling, whole.
Time slips. Hours unheralded. Deep slow breaths. Fingers tracing scars—across jaw, shoulder, spine. Gasps when I press silk and scar tissue, knowing each one tells part of his story. He traces my scars, my burns, my lines—not with pity, but memorization. With reverence.
In the quiet aftermath, we lay together, naked and raw, plates set aside like trophies. My cheek rests on his chest. His arm is A fortress.
I tell him: “I’m yours.”
He whispers in my ear, voice deepened—no code, no vow, just promise: “And I’m yours.”
We drift into darkness. Not alone. Together.
And the world beyond the suite, with its cameras and critics and pressure? Distant thunder. Distant wind.
For now, we have each other.
The air between us is thick with warmth, and I can feel it in every molecule: the hum of the resort's nighttime generators mingling with the thrum of my heart and the distant whisper of space beyond the window. The starlight projector casts pale constellations across our naked skin, rendering us weightless in its glow.
His hands—rough as unpolished obsidian and warm like hearth-embers—trace breathless maps down my sides. Every stroke is patient, deliberate, each one asking permission. When he cups my neck, the brush of his fingers sparks the brittle arch of my spine. His touch isn’t hurried; it’s reverent, as though he’s mapping a sacred world only he is allowed to explore.
“Ruby,” he murmurs against my collarbone, voice husky with wonder. “You’re beautiful.”
I press my cheek into his shoulder, remembering how he looked across the prep station—steadfast, courageous, unspoken longing drowning in his eyes. Now, that same longing is tangible against my skin. I slide my hand up his chest, the ridged lines of his muscles like carved stone warmed by the sun. My fingertip traces the scar that loops from his clavicle to his neck.
He sighs low, a vibration I feel through my bones. He captures my hand, pressing it to his heart. “Every part of you,” he breathes, “pleases me.”
There’s no shame in how I respond. My lips part, and I meet his gaze as he gently rolls us so he lies atop me, each breath between us spiced with sweat and sweet trust. We move together slowly—his weight protective, my arms cinched around his back—and the rhythm is neither practiced nor frantic. It is intimate, soul-deep, as if the world around us has hushed and we are the only motion left.
He kisses me then, soft and searching, tracing the curve of my jaw, the ridge of my cheekbone, lingering at the corner of my lips. I part them, guiding him down to my throat, marking a path of fire behind him. His breath trembles. His hands roam over skin and curve, gentle diviners charting secret countries.
I feel both anchored and weightless—sinking into him and rising above it all. When my breaths grow ragged, he hushes me with that deep rumble again, the sound of distant drums in the bones of my chest. I arch into him, feeling the press of his hips, the promise of deeper alignment. There’s no hurry, no threat. Just us, exploring the space we now fully occupy.
His fingers splay across the small of my back, thumbs tracing the sensitive inlets above my hips before pressing inward in slow, undeniable cadence. I twist him gently, offering more, and I feel the heated iron of him, the solidity and fervor. Our bodies speak in fluid dialogue—microexpressions of need, tenderness, and sacred connection.
At the top of that wave, he stills, pressing his forehead to mine. My lashes brush his cheekbone. I can taste our shared breath—warm, sweet, true.
I whisper a stuttering “Rekkgar…” and he hushes me again with a kiss, soft and deep, feathering the warmth of his mouth across mine, telling me that this isn’t a mistake. That this—we—is found. Allowed. Belonging.
Afterward, we drift like embers cooling to coals. I tuck my cheek under the plane of his shoulder, clinging to the steady beatof his heart beneath my ear. The projector above flickers faint stars across our skin. I inhale the smell of him—woodsmoke, sandalwood, rosewater, destiny.
