Page 39 of Her Alien Neighbor

Vanessa licks her lips as she scoots up into a seated position on the bed. I place her plate on her lap, then sit on the edge of the bed, facing her as I hold mine. “Oh my god, breakfast burritos?”

I nod, chuckling at her excitement. She dips half of the burrito into the pile of salsa on the plate and takes a bite. She moans as she chews, her eyes pinched shut, and I am mesmerized. She takes several more bites with me gawking at her before I snap out of my trance and take a bite of my own.

“This is amazing,” she says. Then reaches out and places her hand on top of mine. “Thank you.”

My skin buzzes at the contact long after she removes it.

“What is that incredible smell?” Sam says as she barges into the room. Her mouth falls open at the sight of plates in our laps. “Where’s mine?”

I feel terrible. I genuinely forgot she was here, or I would have made enough for her too. Getting to my feet, I offer her my plate. “Here, there is still half a burrito left.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Vanessa staring at me as if I failed to mask my horns. But since I know for certain they are not currently jutting out of my skull, I ignore it.

“No, no,” Sam says, brushing away my offer. “I have to be heading home anyway.” She walks over to Vanessa and picks a few potatoes out of the top of her burrito. “That should do,” Sam says, her mouth full.

“Hey!” Vanessa yells in protest, but it is immediately clear she is not angry.

“Text you later, Vanilla!” Sam shouts back as she walks out of the room.

Vanessa shakes her head and giggles. “Bye, Samwich.”

I take my place at the foot of Vanessa’s bed, and we continue our meal. There is not much chatter, but only because we are focused on our food. The lack of conversation does not feel uncomfortable.

When we are finished, Vanessa takes our plates into the kitchen and refuses to let me wash them. “You cooked,” she says with an adorably stern tone. “So I’ll clean. That’s the deal.”

“Is that the deal?” I ask. It certainly does seem like a fair way to divide the tasks. I know after I have cooked a meal, the last thing I wish to do is clean up. “Can you tell my brothers about this deal?”

She laughs, and warmth spreads through my chest at the sound. It is a light, musical, unburdened sound. I long to hear it again.

Vanessa decides to shower after the dishes are cleaned, and I putter around the house while I wait. I fall into the old habit of checking little things like I used to for Lady Norton. I test the batteries in the smoke detector, look behind the blinds for spiders in the living room where the plants are kept––I find one and kill it, and check the wood pile in the basement to make sure she has enough chopped wood should the temperature drop. Once those tasks are completed, I slump into the thick, deflated cushions of the couch and scroll through emails on my phone regarding new furniture orders.

I look up from my phone the moment Vanessa strides into the living room wearing nothing but a beige towel. “Hi,” she says in a shy voice, her cheeks rosy from the shower.

“Hello,” I reply, tossing my phone on the couch next to me. Work holds no interest for me anymore. At least, not while Vanessa’s skin is completely bare beneath that towel. One flick of the wrist could have her naked before me. “Enjoy your shower?”

She bites her lip. “I did.” Her hair is brushed back and off her face, hanging in short wet strands that curl around her ears. Her skin looks so smooth, my hands flex with the need to touch her as she comes closer. “I thought, um,” she mumbles, her knee bent on the couch at my side as she climbs into my lap, “we could pick up where we left off.” She straddles my thighs, giving me a small peek at her pussy as she lowers herself, pressing her core against my cock. The only thing between us are my pants. I hate my pants, I realize. Hate them.

Then she drops the towel.

My lips fall open at the sight of her on display, so round and soft, her dusty pink nipples already pebbled, begging for my mouth. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. I reach for her, but she bats my hands away, one eyebrow raised in an arch. “You want to touch me, Axil?”

I cannot speak. Words evade me. All I can do is nod.

She lifts just enough that her nipple almost brushes against my nose, then grinds down. A groan rips from my throat as my eyes fall closed.

“You can use your mouth, not your hands,” she says, trailing a finger along my jaw. “Do you understand?”

I grunt in response as I lean forward toward her chest with my mouth open, but she stops me.

“Do. You. Understand?” she asks again.

“Yes,” I eventually reply, my voice rough, pleading. “I promise.”

Her eyes are heavy-lidded as she grins at me, and I take that as permission to proceed. My mouth is on her, licking and sucking one stiffened peak as she threads her fingers through my hair. Without thinking, I put my hands on her back, pulling closer, but she jerks away.

“Uh, uh, uh,” she says with a tsk. “No hands.” She grabs my wrists and places each arm along the back of the couch. “Keep them there. Or we stop.”

I find it surprising that she is commanding in a sexual scenario, given her discomfort with actually having sex, but perhaps it is the control that makes her feel safe. Knowing I will only do what she tells me to do, and nothing more. If this is what she needs, I will gladly play along as I continue to show her that she can trust me.

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