Ar'Tok - Alana Khan Page 0,20
have any needs. At least I didn’t then. I discovered romance novels a few years ago. The descriptive passages awakened things in me I didn’t know had been slumbering deep inside.
It’s funny, I’ve seen myself in a mirror a million times in my life, but I’ve never really looked before. Now I’m seeing myself through Ar’Tok’s eyes. Does he see a pretty woman? Does he notice the little scar near my eye where a shard of glass cut me? Does he think my lips are too plump?
I turn on my heel and slip into the shower. Most people go through this in their teens; it isn’t healthy for me to fall down this rabbit hole.
A few minutes later, I’m clean and wearing some clothes Brianna loaned me—a t-shirt and leggings. It seems to be the unofficial uniform onboard. Ar’Tok answers his door on my first knock. He’s wearing soft, gray sleep pants and is naked from the waist up.
A little smile is playing on his features; his eye sparkles in pleasure. Why was I looking in the mirror and worrying? His face tells me so much more than a piece of shiny metal.
“Did you get a lot done?”
“Yep. I set close to a dozen programs running. There are hundreds of bots creeping their way through a thousand systems on Paragon computers, collecting data for me. Then there will be more programs to write tomorrow. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
“I’m not sure what you just said, but I heard the word easy.” His face becomes even more handsome as his smile widens.
“Yes. Easy. Now, how did you do with your homework?” Did I really just say that? I just jumped into the deep end.
He cocks an eyebrow, then says, “My roster of options? I’ve got them all right here.” He taps his temple. “Rather than give you a list, I thought I’d show you,” his voice deepened on those last two words, which made me feel something awaken deep in my belly—no, lower.
He gently grips my shoulders and presses me against the metal door, then peers down at me, his head at a slight angle. He’s looking at me, scrutinizing. His gaze is nothing like how I was looking at myself only a few moments ago. No, he’s not sizing me up or assessing me. He’s memorizing me. Actually, it’s like a predator deciding which part of his prey he wants to eat first.
Kiss me, I command from the privacy of my mind. He dips his head slowly toward me, then veers at the last minute, presses his nose to my neck, and breathes me in. Moving an inch to the right, he does it again. There’s something so primitive, so primal, about his actions it makes my knees weak.
Before he even kisses me, he’s exploring my scent. His nose travels my neck, he breathes deeply in my damp hair, then follows my neckline and stops, his chin between my breasts.
I wonder if I pass his sniff test, then decide I should conduct my own examination. My chin is close to the crown of his head. His horns flank my cheeks. My fingers itch to explore them, and I tentatively trace one finger from his scalp, along the graceful arch, to the tip. It’s hard keratin—I didn’t expect him to even feel it, but he’s still as a statue as I explore.
“You can feel this?” I breathe as my finger circles the tip.
He doesn’t answer with words—just a sexy exhalation, more like a grunt. He doesn’t move. I think he wants more.
I grip both horns firmly, one in each palm, right above the scalp. He rewards me with a deep pant, almost a groan. I follow the curve up and back, noticing every breath and huff. His shoulders stiffen when I increase my pressure. I instinctively know he likes it harder.
But when my fingers reach the slim tips, I trust my urge to lighten my touch. This makes him tremble as he rests his forehead on my chest, giving himself over to the pleasure.
I’m standing, my back against the cool metal door, some of his weight is on me as a purr rumbles from deep in his throat. If he wasn’t standing, I’d call his muscles limp.
I play with the ends of his horns the same way I caress the tips of my breasts when I touch myself in bed late at night. This makes him pant in a soft, huffing cadence.
And then I feel his fingers on my face, caressing me,