Page 36 of Nebula Hearts
With a single, fluid motion, he sheds the jacket and drops it on the chair. He reaches for mine next, unfastening it slowly, his knuckles brushing against my collarbone as he pushes the fabric off my shoulders. The touch sends a cascade of heat through me, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin. Or maybe that’s just him—the way he’s looking at me, the way the patterns on hisskin ripple with gold light in response to something neither of us is saying out loud.
His voice is low, thick with emotion. “You’re brilliant. Brilliant and brave, choosing this future with me when you could have walked away.”
“There are plenty of reasons to choose you.” I reach up to touch the markings at his temple. A pulse of gold flickers across his skin under my fingertips, a heartbeat made visible. Warm. Alive. “You came for me when I was trapped. You fought to stay in control when everything said you couldn’t. You make terrible jokes about geological formations and explain flower mathematics like it’s romantic.”
“That is romantic.”
“See? Terrible.” A laugh escapes me, and I find I can’t stop it.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his hands mapping my body through the thin fabric of my shirt, learning the shape of me, the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. Each touch makes me want more, so my own hands begin to explore, sliding under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin, the smooth, hard muscles of his back, the way he tenses when my fingers trace the markings that disappear beneath his collar. Lower.
A low, hungry sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands find the hem of my shirt. He pulls it over my head and tosses it aside. His gaze travels down, lingering and appreciative as his markings shimmer. “Incredible,” he says, his hands covering my breasts, thumbs brushing over the lace of my bra. “So incredible.”
I arch into his touch, needing more. My hands find his shirt and pull it up. He helps, shedding it quickly until he’s bare from the waist up, and I can see the full, breathtaking extent of his markings—the way they branch and spread across his chest and shoulders before disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
“I want to trace every one of these,” I say, running my fingers along the patterns, feeling them warm under my touch. “Learn where they go.”
“Later,” he rasps. “Right now I need you.”
We move toward the bed, each step feeling deliberate and heavy. My fingers tremble as I unfasten my boots, my movements clumsy with anticipation. He sees me fumbling and offers a small, reassuring smile that does little to calm the frantic beating of my heart. He pulls me down onto the mattress and follows, settling his weight over me.
“I plan to distract you more.”
And he does.
His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder, the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp. His hands slide behind me to unfasten my bra, tossing it aside before his mouth closes over my breast. In that moment, I stop thinking entirely. There is only feeling: the heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of teeth, the way his tongue circles and teases until I’m arching into him, saying his name, begging without words.
He moves to the other breast and gives it the same lavish attention while his hand slides down my stomach, pausing at the fastening of my pants. His eyes ask the question his mouth does not, a silent request for permission.
“Yes,” I breathe, my hand covering his, pressing it down. “Please. Yes.”
He unfastens them and slides them down my legs, taking my underwear with them until I’m bare beneath him. His gaze travels down my body, taking in every detail, and his markings flared with a brilliant gold.
“Your turn,” I manage, reaching for his pants.
He helps, shedding them quickly. He is magnificent, his arousal obvious and impressive, slightly intimidating in the wayalien anatomy sometimes is. It’s different from human, but not wrong. It’s just him.
I pull him down for a deep kiss. “Touch me.”
His hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet and ready. His fingers explore, learning what I like, what makes me gasp and I grip his shoulders and say his name like a prayer. He slides one finger inside, then two, crooking them just right until pleasure spikes through me—sharp, demanding, building toward something I can already feel approaching.
“Not yet,” I manage. “I want you inside me when I come.”
He groans, removing his hand to position himself between my thighs. The blunt head of him presses against my entrance. Hot. Hard. Perfect. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He pushes inside, slow and careful, giving me time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness, the absolutely perfect feeling of him filling me completely. We both freeze, breathing hard, just processing the connection.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice a strained whisper.
“More than okay.” I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. “Move. Please, move.”
He does. He pulls back and pushes in, setting a rhythm that builds slowly, each thrust deeper, harder, more assured than the last. I move with him, meeting each push, finding the angle that makes pleasure spike through both of us, the rhythm that makes him say my name and makes me dig my nails into his shoulders.
The pleasure climbs, sharp and demanding. I can feel it in him too—not just see it in his face or hear it in the sounds he makes, but actually feel it through our growing connection, his pleasure mixing with mine until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
“Aris,” he says—a warning, a question, a plea. “I’m close.”
