Wrage (Galaxy Gladiators #11) - Alana Khan Page 0,37

up for in creativity.

I make love to him standing up and from five feet away. I thrust my pelvis toward him, blow him kisses, face away from him, bend down, and wiggle my ass at him like he did to me on the bus at the shore.

When he gets to the final stanza, repeating ‘I’m in love with you’ over and over, I wriggle out of the sparkly blue dress that clings to my curves, then pull off my panties and throw them at him. My homage to the man and his voice.

“Scent me, Wrage. I want to belong to you.”

He visually inspects me, controlling himself from asking if this is truly what I want. No, his gaze flicks up and down my naked body, then lodges at my face as he takes my full measure. I beam him all my love, and he smiles a sexy close-lipped smile, telling me he believes me.

He stands and hums the song as he does his own striptease for me. His hips slide from side to side as he pierces me with his gaze and pulls off his t-shirt. This male has trained all his life to be a warrior. He’s muscle from the tips of his toes to the top of his handsome horned head.

His upper body is a beauty to behold, rippling with hard, defined muscles that writhe under his skin with even his slightest movement. He pulls down his pants and toes off his shoes while gyrating his body, spearing me with his gaze and humming the love song.

The sparkly blue fabric he’s tied at his throat which drapes down his chest, the only piece of clothing he still wears, is sexier than if he were completely naked.

He strides the few steps separating us, his gaze predatory as he devours me from afar. Wordlessly, he presses my shoulders against the wall, then slides his toes against mine until my heels are pressed against the baseboard. With one foot between mine, he gently kicks his foot back and forth until my stance is wide.

As I wait for his next move, a jolt of electricity sizzles up my spine. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’m surprised when his knees hit the floor between my feet.

Looking up at me, his eyes almost completely golden, he holds my gaze for long seconds.

“You’re sure Elyse? This can wait.”

“Yes,” I say, the finality in my voice leaving no doubt.

He bends and presses his lips to the little bone on the inside of my ankle. It’s not a kiss really, it’s . . . I think he’s paying me homage. He plants soft kisses up the inside of my leg, confirming with his lips what he’s been singing to me all night.

His path is slow and languorous, as if we have all the time in the world. When his nose hits the apex of my thighs, he gives me the sweetest kiss and swiftest lick on my clit. Although he knows exactly how to delight that little nub of flesh, that’s not what he’s doing. He’s bestowing affection.

Then he bends lower, dipping his head to the ankle bone where he started, and nuzzles me. I feel his buttons pressing against me as he retraces his path up my inner leg.

Sometimes it’s the buttons from his temples, sometimes his cheeks, or the ones on his collar bones that rub against me. I picture the scent as a smokey purple emanating from his mreen, I imagine the color marking me. I like the image of being claimed one square inch at a time.

When he arrives at the juncture between my thighs again, he skips across my sex and mimics his actions down and up and down the other leg.

His ritual takes the better part of an hour as he lavishes me with his scent and his . . . there’s no other word for it than adoration.

I want to touch him, to snake my fingers through his hair, or grab his horns to hold on, but this seems almost like a sacred rite. I don’t want to interfere.

At times he’s silent except for the muffled sounds of his kisses. At other times, he hums or repeats the refrain about loving me. I like that the best.

Maybe it’s his scent. Maybe it’s the kisses or the reverence or the physical and emotional intimacy, but I notice my arousal is ramping.

“I want to mark you, Elyse. Not just on the outside, but on the inside,” he husks.

My knees bend