Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,22

my head down my body, slow and sensual. I doubt he’s even aware of the little noise he made in the back of his throat that sounds like he just ate the best bite of food he’s ever tasted.

“Say ‘anything Wrage’,” he commands.

Oh boy, we’re going to do this. All in one moment, I’m both scared and ready to rip my clothes off.

“Anything Wrage.”

He nods once, as if he just agreed to enter into this unwritten agreement.

“Take care of anything you need now. Piss? Shit? Food? Drink? Sleep? Once we start we won’t stop until we reach Wryth’N. Agreed?”

Oh my God. My stomach swoops and dips at the sound of this. I think my core is gushing in readiness. And I’m sure he smells it.

His voice is deep and commanding. And those eyes—now I’m certain they’re hypnotic. Between that and the pheromones he’s shooting at me, how could I resist?

He reaches into the cubby behind our heads, grabs the pack, and after rummaging around in it, tosses me two nutrition bars. “Eat.”

I devour them, wondering what we’re going to do that he thinks will consume that many calories. Dear Lord, I can’t wait to find out.

As I take my last swallow, he exchanges the wrappers for a water bottle. “Drink.”

I have no idea why the fact that he’s gone completely monosyllabic caveman is making me horny as hell. I just can’t wait to get started.

“Anything?” he asks again after we’ve taken the quickest bathroom break ever recorded in the history of the universe.

My answer is a firm nod.

“Sit.”

We sit up, facing each other cross-legged, both still clothed. When I move to pull off my t-shirt, he simply says, “No.”

I mimic him, sitting, legs folded, hands in lap, palms up.

“Look at me.”

I stare into luminous eyes that are already staring at me.

A full minute later, he says, “Breathe with me.”

It takes me a while to fully sync with him. With effort, after long minutes, it becomes second nature, then it’s easy. I don’t know how long it takes until I feel floaty, dreamy. My eyes are focused on his, but I can see the rest of him out of my peripheral vision.

This must be what people describe as a spiritual phenomenon, because somehow the barriers between us begin to slip away. After long minutes, or maybe five hours, I don’t know, I don’t feel fully in my skin. As more time goes by, I can’t see his exterior anymore. I don’t see the golden orbs of his eyes, or the mottled blue skin, or his buttons. I see his soul.

I’d be terrified if we weren’t safely enclosed in this little box. But in here, it’s just Wrage and me. It’s supremely safe.

I can’t see any differences, only similarities.

We’re soul to soul. No longer alien and human, friend or foe, present or past. We’re just here. Connected in a manner that’s deeper than anything I’ve experienced before.

I feel a jolt of panic as he presses inside me. My fear pushes him out. Somehow he invites me inside him. I explore for a moment, stepping around bright red pulses of residual anger and a heartbreaking amount of pain. Then I find the tender heart of him, my senses blown back by the fullness of the generosity he has in reserve.

With trepidation, I invite him back into me, allowing him to see my mountain of vulnerabilities and fears and even the prodigious amounts of anger I’ve tried to sweep into the corners.

All I feel from him is a wave of calm acceptance at what he finds.

And then we dance. I don’t know where we are, but we’re not in our little malta anymore. I think we’re flying in the universe and our souls are dancing. It’s surreal! Glorious!

And then we merge. I’m in him and he’s in me. My body is long forgotten, with its needs and hormones and hunger. It’s so much bigger than that. The universe is bigger. Our connection is bigger.

Finally, his hands reach over and grip mine. It grounds me and reminds me I have a body to return to. When I slip back inside it, I feel awkward and gawky and like I don’t quite fit. My breathing gets out of sync with his, and the universe falls away. I’m back in my little malta with Wrage.

Everything is exactly where we left it, yet nothing, absolutely nothing, is the same.

“Water,” he says as he hands me a full bottle. His gaze on me is bright with . . .