The post Doctore Video Trailer appeared first on Alana Khan.

This is also Book #1 in the Galaxy Warriors series. It’s a nice place to jump in if a 20-book set seems too daunting. It’s like a reset, a fresh start. I tell you all you need to know to enjoy this as a standalone.

Here is a very long and sensual scene between Sierra, the human who just escaped her slavery at a Synth Dreamhouse, and Torrvok, who is now responsible for her safety.

Sierra

If yesterday, before his growth spurt, this male’s equipment was praiseworthy, I don’t know what how to describe the monster in Torrvok’s grip right now.

Thank goodness I talked him out of his plan to have sex with me. It would never fit.

There’s no harm in watching, though.

I’ve never been privy to something this private. In some ways, this is more sensual, more arousing, than sex. He’s so fully in his bestial side, he doesn’t seem to know or care that I’m in the room with him, or that I’m scrutinizing his every movement.

As animalistic as he is, you’d think he would be attacking his cock, working himself fast and furious and ready to spurt. Just the opposite.

He’s handling himself as if he never touched his cock before. One hand is gripping the table, hanging on for dear life. The other is skating over the almost cobalt skin of his cock. He’s simply stroking up and down as if he’s getting the lay of the land.

Since his body seems new to him, I wonder if he really is getting to know himself again for the first time.

He’s discovering himself with his fingertips, his head lolled back in blissful concentration, his Adam’s apple in stark profile, his brill falling almost to his waist.

He must touch a particularly sensitive spot, because he sucks in a hiss through his parted lips as his perfect ass lifts off the chair. I’m so absorbed in what he’s doing, I crane my head to make note of what spot he just touched that made him respond with such raw lust. It was when he rimmed one of the light-green ridges.

His grip stays light for a while, his other hand’s fingers tightening on the table. Finally, he gets down to business, touching himself more firmly and rewarding himself—and me—with a soft moan.

His tighter grip tugs his skin up and down over the firmer meat below. He’s stroking all the way from base to tip and breathing in and out through his clenched teeth. As he works himself, he pulls his skin hard enough for his balls to lift and fall with every stroke.

Maybe to slow himself down, he sets his cock on his stomach, cups his balls, then pets up and down the underside of his cock.

I have the perfect angle to watch him. He’s still facing the steps, giving me a bird’s-eye view of every soft pat and firm yank.

The load of Synth in my system must be dissipating, because for the first time in years, I’m aroused. Aroused is such a clinical word, as if I’m a scientist making notes in a laboratory. No. I’m horny.

My nipples are hard as precious stones, aching to be touched. My clit feels engorged and needy, and my pussy is salivating for him. I mentally scold myself even as I know with certainty I’m not going to stop watching. How could I?

He’s stood his cock upright again and is tugging hard enough to pull the loose skin over part of his beautiful ocean-blue head. This must give him intense pleasure because, for the first time, he releases a deep growling moan from the back of his throat.

He varies his speed, sometimes fast, then he slows. Even in his bestial headspace, it seems clear he’s prolonging this for his pleasure.

Every breath is a deep rasp now, as his hand finds new pathways, new rhythms to bring higher levels of pleasure.

There are moments when his strokes quicken, moving so fast his hand is a blur of turquoise on deeper blue. Then he slows, so in a moment he can ramp himself even higher.

My pelvis is so tight with need I clench my thighs to stem my desire.

Although the main attraction is Torrvok’s fist on that magnificent cock, my attention is caught by his rippling abs as they tighten and furrow with each surge of his breath.

His thighs harden, ass lifts from the chair, breath quickens, then his hand slows to bring him back from the precipice.

Is he doing this for me? A few minutes ago, he could hardly speak, almost incapable of complete sentences. Does he have enough brainpower to have thought this through to entice me?

Dear Lord, I think it’s working. My teeth are clenched, my nostrils flared, and I might have to slip my hands under my thighs to keep from touching myself.

He’s moaning constantly now, obviously getting ready for the big finish as his strokes roughen and tighten.

Suddenly, his hand stops. It takes me a moment to tear my eyes from the action and look at his face. I can no longer see that beautiful profile. He’s looking straight at me, nostrils flared.

He’d tried to scent me in the back corner a few minutes ago, but had smelled nothing because I wasn’t aroused. I am now.

The white sheet still covers me. He can’t see the cream gathering between my thighs. He doesn’t have to. My scent in the air is all he needs.

Fear slices up my spine. Surely the aroma of my desire is more powerful than my words telling him to sit in the chair. Watching is one thing, but I still don’t want him to touch me.

Look at the desire etched on his face. Pupils blown, pillowy lips flattened into a thin line in his attempt at self-control. Every muscle in my body tightens in fight-or-flight mode even though I know I can’t run and I am certainly no physical match. I’m unable to resist him.

His hand slides off his cock, but instead of standing and coming to take me, he lifts the chair and turns it toward me. When he sits down again, those feral, almost-black eyes hold mine as he gets back to work.

His stance is even wider now as he works himself. Everything between us is different, though. The air is charged with lust. We have a connection now. It’s almost as if it’s my hand on his cock as he works himself to the finish line.

His head, with his thick, exotic brill, is no longer tipped back in bliss. He’s looking straight at me as he tugs and pulls and pleasures himself. Every moan, every snarl, is directed at me.

And I feel it. Every noise he makes rumbles through my skin. Every deep grunt of pleasure feels like those facile fingers are plucking my hardened buds. His final groan of completion is so compelling it’s almost as if that beautiful male member is stabbing into me.

He comes in thick, ropey jets that spurt across the room and almost reach me. He can’t hold our visual connection, his bliss is too intense. As he comes, his eyes shutter, squeezing tighter with every spasm.

I watch, fascinated, as he works himself through several aftershocks. No more fluid jets across the room, but the muscles in his abs and powerful thighs tell the tale as he rides through a few more shudders of pleasure.

When his lids open, his gaze unerringly finds me. The thin rings of blue have expanded, but the look in them is no less feral.

I’m glad he’s incapable of speech. What could he possibly say if he could talk? He’d have to accuse me of being the galaxy’s biggest hypocrite. I refused his touch, but didn’t shy away from watching his live porn act from the other side of the room.

He breathes in loudly through his nose. I know the words he’s not speaking—you’re busted Sierra. You loved every minute of that. Maybe he can talk, but he’s too nice to say it.

My pussy’s drenched. He may have just brought himself to completion, but I’ve gotten no such reprieve.

He palms his thighs from knees to hips, gaze never leaving my face. I try to hold his gaze, but I can’t. My eyes follow his every movement.

Perhaps this is why Numans have a galaxy-wide reputation for their sexual prowess, because before my eyes, his gargantuan cock is hardening again. Do I catch a smirk out of the corner of my eye?

He scoots his chair closer, so he’s almost close enough to touch, and begins working himself again.

I know almost every species of alien male can smell women’s arousal, but I think maybe that works in reverse. My nostrils are flaring as I take him in. He smells like aged wood and rubbed leather. It’s the most masculine aroma I’ve ever smelled. Maybe it’s magic, because it makes me want him more.

He widens his stance, showing me every inch of him, from the pillared cock in his hand to his heavy sac below.

Finally, I do what I’ve been avoiding. I slip my fingers under my thighs to keep from touching myself as I watch him reprise his previous show. I’m closer now, so I’m treated to the almost-silent snorts of gratification and the slick slide of flesh on flesh.

A pearl of chartreuse pre-cum beads his tip and I cannot tear my eyes from it despite a long internal conversation to the contrary.

He’s watching me so closely he knows what I want. His hand stops its mission as he swipes the perfect luminescent drop onto one fingertip, reaches across the distance between us, and offers it to me.

His hand is about a foot away. I don’t know how he manages, his mind half animal or more, to observe my personal boundary. But he does. His cock is standing, pointing to the ceiling, pulsing slightly with every beat of his heart, as his finger waits. It’s tiny liquid present now only inches from my mouth.

I shouldn’t. It will give him the wrong impression. We’re locked in this tiny shithole together, maybe forever. It’s a terrible precedent.

All the while I’m telling myself no, my hand is reaching toward his, our gazes locked. I swipe his offering onto my finger and bring it to my face.

I desperately want to take it, to sweep it into my mouth, but I savor it. Holding it under my nose, I sniff like it’s wine with the finest bouquet.

This. This is where that heady smell is coming from. The scent that reminds me of an empty church with wooden pews and leather-bound books.

I can’t hold off another second. My tongue flicks out, the tip dipping into the pale viscous drop. Don’t moan. Don’t moan, I chant to myself. It will only encourage him.

I moan, my eyes fluttering closed in mini-ecstasy as his taste bursts onto my tongue. It’s a complex mixture of musk and fresh greens. There’s a horrifying thought on perma-repeat in the back of my head: I could get addicted to this.

I shake my head “no” even as my gaze flicks back to his cock, not wanting to miss a minute of the show.

He’s not manhandling himself like he was before. Now his hand is softer, respectful, as it skates along his skin. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, as if he’s promising me something. Finally, his patient fondling pays off as another bead of pearly pre-cum oozes through his slit.

My tongue slips between my lips of its own volition, signaling my desires.

He slicks the bead onto his finger and breaches the distance between us in offering. When I reach my hand for it, though, he pulls it back. Tipping my head in question, his own tongue slicks between his lips. When he reaches with his offering again, he points it toward my lips.

He wants me to lick it off his finger. Every brain cell in my head is screaming at me, warning me, shouting that this is not a good idea. A bad message.

My body, though, has other ideas. Leaning forward, the tip of my tongue eagerly telegraphing my intentions, I close my eyes and wait for my gift. When he bestows it on me, I moan in appreciation.

The sound doesn’t seem like an adequate thank you, so I grab his wrist, pull his hand closer and suck his finger into my mouth. I’m so naughty, or maybe it’s his pheromones, or maybe it’s that the Synth is seeping out of my system for the first time in years and my libido is roaring back online.

Or maybe it’s Torrvok himself. Handsome, deliciously sexy, cologne-smelling, aphrodisiac-tasting Torrvok.

I give his pointer finger a blow job. Not a cursory one, either. No, I put my heart and soul into it. With full eye contact and sucks and tongue swirls and moans of pleasure. He rewards me with another finger loaded with his essence, and I reward him back with another Oscar-winning performance with my mouth.

When I lean back in my seat on this awful orange couch, I’m a different person. The old Sierra is banished and relegated to somewhere else. The new Sierra sees the error of her ways.

This magnificent male and I are locked in an underground dungeon with a limited food supply and, if I remember correctly, a finite amount of water. I’m a sexual being for the first time in years, and so, it seems, is my big blue friend.

My pussy is dripping wet for him, and it’s obvious he’s dripping wet for me, too.

Why not act on my desires? I can’t think of a single reason.

The look on his face could be smug right now. He has to know he just won our battle of wills, but he’s not gloating.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, plants his feet firmly on the floor, and gets back to skimming the length of his cock with a feathery touch, base to tip and back again.

“Clothes off,” he rasps. His inability to speak in full sentences tells me all I need to know about his ratio of humanoid to beast. Instead of turning me off, my crazy brain lights up with even more desire.

I hesitate a moment, but my ability to argue with myself is decimated. I take my time, though, teasing us both. The only clothes I have are a belt and the sheet. No matter how much I play with the belt, it doesn’t take long to remove. Sadly, it isn’t much of a striptease. After I pull the sheet over my head, I watch him.

Although I didn’t think it was possible for his eyes to dilate more than they were, they do. His blue irises have all but disappeared. He’s huffing my scent in gusts, making no pretense that he’s reveling in the smell of my arousal.

I thought he’d fly off his chair, accost me, put his mouth and hands all over me, lift me over his shoulder like a caveman and toss me on the mattress. Instead, he’s glued to his chair, simply eating me up with his gaze.

“Open,” he says. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Was it just yesterday I’d thought he was shy and gentle?

I don’t comply. Maybe some primitive part of my mind wants to see more of the caveman part of him. I’m beginning to remember who I was back on Earth what seems like decades ago. I used to be spunky, fiery, feisty. Is that part of me making a reappearance?

“Open!” His jaw tightens, his chin dips. The meaning is clear—Open or I’ll do it for you.

I experience a moment of clarity and decide I don’t want to poke the beast. Not yet. Not today.

Holding his gaze, I slowly move my feet apart one inch at a time. The better to watch him. I notice every flare of his nostrils, every muscle that tightens in his thighs as he uses his self-control not to leap the distance separating us.

When I stop, my knees maybe a foot apart, he orders, “More.”

A frisson of excitement thrills through me with the dominant tone of his voice. I’d been waiting for it.

One more inch.

“More,” his voice is firmer this time.

I grant him maybe half an inch when he thunders, “More!”

With this, cream moistens my thighs. By his widened eyes and obvious sniff, the state of my arousal isn’t lost on him.

He must be at the end of his tether, because he breaches the distance between us and instead of touching my pussy, which is aching for him, he arranges me so I’m sitting tailor fashion.

“Touch,” he says as he settles onto his chair and strokes himself.

I’m swimming in a haze of lust so deep and powerful it takes me a long moment to realize what he wants. He wants me to touch myself. Perhaps I was too clear when I told him I didn’t want his touch. Or maybe he’s just punishing me.

Whatever the reason, it looks like mutual masturbation is on the menu. Sounds delicious.

He provides the eye candy as he works himself for his enjoyment and my own. I need no foreplay. The last few minutes have been all that’s necessary.

Instead of pleasuring myself the way I normally do, though, I perform every operation in exaggerated detail for his entertainment.

After swiping my juices, I circle my clit. Normally, I do this with my eyes closed, so keeping them open adds an additional level of difficulty. But watching Torrvok, forearm tendons bulging, abdominals straining, cock bucking under his grip, is worth the price of admission.

For a moment, this seems surreal. I’m in an underground prison with a gorgeous male with thick, luxurious brill and skin the color of the ocean after a storm. I’m slated to die and we’re mutually masturbating when he’s no more than four feet away.

Instead of chafing against my circumstances, I find a way to embrace them.

My pulse is pounding through my veins, prominent in my pussy and nipples. My channel is clenching, quivering in need. I’d given up hoping I’d ever feel this way again.

“Torrvok,” I start, but there’s nothing more to say. My fingers work faster. I press harder. Then I back off, wanting to come at the same moment he does.

This luscious feeling of desperation, of need so immense I wonder if I can live through it, is so powerful and pervasive. Even in this underground tomb, I feel blessedly alive—and connected to another person.

I watched him a few minutes ago and know his tells. When the muscles in his haunches hollow and his abs flex, I know he’s close. That’s when I get back in the groove, place my soles on the edge of the couch, knowing I’m showing him every inch of my most private spaces. At just the perfect moment, I let myself fly over the edge.

He releases in hard jets, pointing his cock at me. When his hot sperm hits my chest, it sets off an orgasm of seismic proportions. My body is out of my control as I moan in pleasure, then grunt, then moan louder as every muscle in my body seizes, then spasms in bliss.

Somehow, Torrvok’s name spills from my lips as my release blazes through my body like wildfire. Just when I think my orgasm is over, I manage to coax another round of ecstasy that pulses through me, rolling with a slow, exquisite burn.

When I look at him, his eyes are shining. His blue irises are almost back to normal, and a small smile lifts the edges of his lips.

He now bridges the space between us, lifts me into powerful arms, carries me to the sink in the rear and sets me on the cool porcelain. I guess he’s going to wash me, but before he turns on the water, he opens my legs as if I’m a ragdoll and he has ownership of my body.

He swipes his finger through my folds—this is his first intimate touch—then puts it in his mouth and moans in enjoyment, all the while his gaze never leaves mine.

“Sierra,” he says in a tone so reverent it belongs in a temple.

He manages to reach between my legs to get access to the water, then washes his cum off my chest and splashes the cool water between my legs.

After cleaning himself, he towels us both dry, then carries me to the mattress. He lays down behind me, slides his arm around my middle, and nuzzles my neck.

“Sierra.”

I hope you enjoyed this. Buy Your Copy Here!

The post Torrvok Sneak Peek appeared first on Alana Khan.

When I sat down to write the fourth book in this series, I wanted the hero to be ugly–terrifying, actually. (I guess you figured that out by looking at the cover).

Maya is thrown into The Game, which is horrifying in its own right, and then winds up locked in a room with A’Dar–the big, the bad, and the ugly all rolled into one.

Then I made him into the sweetest, most protective marshmallow on the planet.

The backdrop of this book is the galaxy-wide spectacle that is The Game, a combination of The Running Man, The Hunger Games, and Spartacus. Under the guise of entertainment, people of many different species from all over the galaxy are thrown into The Game with the mandate that only one can make it out alive.

The Alanaverse isn’t often filled with rainbows and unicorns. It’s harsh out there in the wilds of space. But my Galaxy Games series is harsher than any others. If action, adventure, and dystopian hellscapes are something you enjoy in your sci-fi romance, join me for the ride of your life.

This book was so fun to write! It has all the feels, all the excitement, and smokin’ hot sex.

I hope you enjoy it.

P.S.–There’s a lot of sex and violence in this one. Skip it if it’s not your cup of tea.

Here’s the First Episode

Episode One: Welcome to The Game

 Maya

“The Game will start in one standard hour. If you wish to select out, you can assemble at the roped area at the rear and be terminated before this process begins.”

What crappy movie was I watching when I fell asleep?

I feel like shit. My head is killing me like the world’s worst hangover except I haven’t had a drink for months and that was a glass of wine. Why do I feel a sharp pain below my left ear?

Forcing my eyes open, I blink hard, then try to figure out how I managed to lucid dream. In my early twenties, I read about the technique of being aware while dreaming and tried to lucid dream every night for several months with no success. Now I’m awake in my own dream. Cool.

“The Game will start in fifty-five standard minutes. If you wish to select out, you can assemble at the roped area at the rear and be terminated before this process begins.” The words are intoned by a female AI voice, just like in the movies.

Speaking of movies, I’m in a very cool sci-fi flick. There must be forty different kinds of aliens milling around in a large white dome. It’s probably thirty feet high, two-hundred feet across, and looks like it’s made from thick white plastic.

Rubbing behind my left ear, I feel a small scab covering a tiny lump.

Wait a minute. This is too real. In the past, I’ve never felt pain in a dream, noticed cold seep through the plastic flooring, or had something inserted into my body. The overhead words aren’t in English. The thing behind my ear must be a translator. Terror races through me, causing my hands to tremble.

I turn onto my knees, stand, then wobble a moment. My fear spikes when several alien females catch my movement and look at me like I’m their next meal.

“You’re awake? Come with me,” says a human. Her no-nonsense face is somehow softened by dozens of freckles, but there’s nothing soft about her grip as she pulls me to the edge of the all-white tent-like structure. Her grasp is so firm it’s painful.

“Am I dreaming?” I ask, not even giving her eye contact. I’m too busy panicking as my gaze flicks from one scary alien species to the next.

“Not unless it’s a shared dream,” the female with shoulder-length brown hair and a furrowed brow says. “My name is Emily. I’ve only been awake a few minutes. I noticed you and hoped you’d wake up soon.”

“I’m Maya. What’s going on?”

“I think we’ve all been abducted. Even the aliens seem to be prisoners. Look!”

A couple are still comatose on the floor and a few are shaking their heads as if they’re as surprised to be here as I am.

Two other human women have spied us and are jogging over, their eyes huge in their faces, looking as terrified as I feel.

“The Game will start in fifty standard minutes. If you wish to select out, you can assemble at the roped area at the rear and be terminated before this process begins.”

A male voice that doesn’t sound computer-generated booms through hidden speakers. “We have transported you to planet Earth to participate in the fourth season of The Game.”

A picture of one of the polar ice caps appears on one of the four enormous TV screens being held up by drones.

“We have injected each of you with a translator chip. This production will be filmed and broadcast throughout the galaxy. We’ll follow your progress as you make your way to the flagpole we’ve planted on the bridge of the ancient Xenon vessel located just outside this holding facility.”

Although I’m listening intently, my scrambling brain is having trouble following his words. It’s too much to absorb.

“When all but one of the two hundred original contestants are confirmed dead, the winner must touch the flagpole and will leave one million credits richer.”

All but one of us confirmed dead? Dear Lord, how do I wrap my mind around that?

“We will issue each of you a backpack supplied with bottled water, nutrition bars, shoes our computers measured you for if you do not have them, and a computer pad loaded with a map of the ship.”

I’ve never felt terror like what’s racing through me at this moment. My arms have reflexively surrounded my stomach as I hold myself tight. My eyes squeeze shut as my breath rasps through almost-closed lips.

Forcing my eyes open, I scan the room more closely. Several of the aliens are shark-colored gray with mouths equipped with several sharp rows of teeth almost slashing from ear to ear. Many of the females are over six feet tall.

A contingent of them looks like walking cockroaches. There are sleek red ones, shaggy blue ones, and some are so shockingly ugly they’re terrifying.

Each one of the aliens is female, and every one seems to be more adapted to surviving than any human could ever be.

One of the humans I haven’t been introduced to groans. She’s a cute brunette in just a t-shirt and panties. “I’m Lila.” She simply points to a light gray female with long spikes on her browridge, wrists, and ankles. One kick or backhand would maim or even kill.

Just as I glance down at myself in my shorts and t-shirt, the male announces, “There is a pallet of coveralls in the center of the structure. Equip yourself if you do not have proper clothing.”

We’re at the polar ice cap. None of us Earth girls are adequately dressed, but it will be a feeding frenzy—or a clothing frenzy—just to grab a pair of coveralls.

“We can do it if we stick together,” Emily says.

“I vote we wait till everyone has grabbed what they want,” a tiny blonde with a short crew cut says. “Let them fight over the triple X clothes. We’ll want the small ones anyway. I’m Anna.”

“I’m Maya, this is Emily. So it’s agreed. We run as a group and grab four coveralls after the mob leaves,” I say.

As we wait, watching as everyone else picks through what they want, I ask Anna, “Are you military?”

“No. Are you asking because of my hair? I just got so tired of fighting my curls, one day I cut all my hair off. I did such a bad job I had to use a razor after that.”

Well, shit. I thought she might bring some experience to our ill-equipped team.

What I’m watching isn’t pretty. There are several skirmishes, one of which leaves a yellow, feathered avian humanoid dead, sprawled on a pile of blue clothes.

“I’m not cut out for this,” Lila moans.

“We can do this together,” I urge. “Let’s just grab the stack under that poor unfortunate bird-girl and carry them back here. We can help each other roll up our cuffs while we watch each other’s backs.”

We all hold hands, as if that will save us, then run straight for the stack of blue clothes.

It seems every eye in the place is on the four of us weak Earth girls with our lack of fangs, claws, spikes, or any other visible sign of defense.

I’m at the head of the line as I snag the entire pile and dart back to where we started. My hands are so full I’m no longer able to hold anyone’s hand.

When an agonized scream pierces the frigid air, a shock of fear bolts up my spine. I don’t have to turn around to know that was one of my human companions.

The post Down to Earth Sneak Peek appeared first on Alana Khan.

Avania

I dreamed of this. Although I’m a virgin, I’m not completely naïve. I know what happens between males and females in bed. I could never imagine, though, who I would want to do these things with.

Valeris is perfect. My Valeris. So handsome and thoughtful, but so much more. Every aspect he reveals of his character makes me like him more, want him more, desire him more.

His scent, of primal rainforests, beckons to a more primitive part of me. My fingers splay as they comb through his mane.

Something releases inside me as I grow bolder, initiating kisses, invading the warm cavern of his mouth, and dueling with his tongue. Our burred tongues, when they meet just right and with just enough force, make the softest sound. It’s rough and intimate. I practice so I can make the sound almost every time our tongues tangle. It’s like music. The Avania and Valeris duet.

We kiss for long moments as I learn not only the feel of his mouth and tongue, but I notice what makes his fingers tighten in my mane, what causes him to chuff or flick his tail. Tails usually lash in irritation, but Valeris isn’t irritated. I think his tail lashes to curb his desire to mount me.

He wants to take me, of that I’m certain. I feel his hard rod pressing against the place between my legs. He positioned me like this, my knees on either side of his hips as I kneel on top of him. If we weren’t legally mated, it would be indecent.

It frightens me and ramps up my desire in equal measures. I experiment. Settling lower on him so his thing presses against my sensitive nub. I immediately realize how impulsive that was. It did something magical to my body, like turning a light switch from off to on.

He told me to keep my eyes closed, but they fly open. I search his face, expecting him to explain what just happened. It’s an absurd thought. How can I expect him to know what’s going on inside my body?

“Feels good?” he husks. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he tries to focus on me.

I lean to whisper in his ear, not wanting him to see the open desire that must be painted on my features. “It feels amazing.”

He slides a reassuring palm down the channel of my spine, then purrs for me.

“We’re going to do many amazing things together, my Queen, and we have the rest of our lives to discover them. Take your time—or don’t. Do as much or as little as you’re comfortable with.”

It’s as though he just gave me a ticket to an amusement park, only there’s only one ride. Him. Just to make certain I understood correctly, I lean back and ask, “I can do what I want?”

He nods, his gorgeous face serious. Even though he’s not smiling, somehow all four fangs are exposed. There’s something about this configuration of his features that doesn’t look happy as it usually does. The way he’s looking at me now is undisguised lust. It makes the desire pooling in my belly twist into a tight, demanding coil.

“You can do whatever you want, stop when you want, start again if you want.”

“Touch what I want?” I ask. My mom always urged me to be a barrister. She said I was the queen of questions. How funny. Now I’m simply a queen.

“Y-yes,” he says through suddenly dry lips.

“See what I want?”

He nods.

“I want to see you Valeris. All of you.”

I’ve gotten an eyeful from the moment I woke that first morning and all he was wearing were those thin silken trousers. His torso is masculine and strong and perfectly furred. My fingers have itched to do just what they’re doing now as they trace along the hills and valleys of his thick shoulders and muscular biceps.

Now I want to see the parts below his belt that he’s kept hidden from me. He was naked that first night, but I was too fearful to look. It was a missed opportunity, although it sounds like it isn’t too late for me to catch up.

I’m in his arms as if I weigh nothing, as he strides with me to our bedroom. He sets me on the foot of the bed, with my feet on the floor. Standing in front of me, his gaze flicks up and down, drinking me in.

When he moves to remove his belt, I grab his wrists and look up into his eyes.

“May I?”

He ekes out the word “yes” so poorly, his mouth dry with desire, that he nods to make sure I understand.

It takes me a while to unfasten the belt, a thin contraption meant to be worn with the silken trou he likes to wear. I pause, then release it one loop at a time. The fabric slips to the floor with a whisper.

He’s wearing a loincloth which is stuffed with his arousal. Now I’m the one with a dry mouth. My gaze darts to him, silently asking his permission. He nods, his face still serious.

When I go to unwrap the silken fabric that binds his sex, I see the folly of my ways. It’s wrapped in a complicated manner I can’t figure out.

“Should I use my knife, or will you help me?” I ask.

His fingers fly as he unbinds himself, then that material, too, slides to the floor.

My mouth pops open as his manhood springs free.

I’ve avoided watching pornography on the Intergalactic Database, although others in my class at school giggled about it. I’ve looked at diagrams and explanations, but I have to say, nothing looked like this.

It’s majestic, with a tan shaft and lightly furred balls underneath. It’s big. It couldn’t possibly fit inside my body.

I realize I’m holding my breath, so I resume breathing in shallow, hard pants.

“You don’t look excited, Avania. Disappointed?” His voice is raw. When I gather the courage to look up at him, his face is surprised, eyes flared wide.

I nod.

He opens his mouth and snaps it shut as the expression on his face changes from surprise to pain. His nostrils flare and his brow furrows.

“If I read things right, my mate will put his thing in me. After the past few days with you, I was looking forward to it. But… I don’t think it will fit.”

His breath leaves him in an amused chuff and instead of furrowed brows and flared nostrils, his four-fanged smile is back in place.

“It will fit, my Queen. Never fear. Want to touch it?” His gruff voice dipped on that last question. It was so filled with lusty promise it made my stomach flutter.

Although I’m still not sure it will fit inside me, I definitely want to touch it. Reaching out one finger, claw retracted, I trace upward from the root to the head. It’s the oddest combination of hard and soft.

I ring around the crown of it and can’t ignore the hiss escaping his lips and the loud clack of his teeth as he snaps his mouth shut. There’s a bead of liquid dripping from the little slit at the top. It’s pearly white and some unseen force inside me arrows my attention to it. Without noticing it, I lick my lips, even as I wonder what it will taste like.

A week ago, the thought would have disgusted me. Right now? I have that swirly feeling that results in dampness flooding my panties.

Touching him this way changed something in my body. Something is gathering low in my belly and my nipples aren’t just hard, they’re throbbing and needy. When I glance down, I see them poking so hard against the stiff fancy gown he could see their reaction from across the room. But he’s not across the room. He’s a few handspans away, and his attention is fully focused on them.

I grip his shaft, noticing my hand won’t fit all the way around it, and slide up from base to tip. My mate’s organ is enthralling, like velvet wrapped around steel. It moves! Like it has a mind of its own. It jerks, then pulses, then settles. Still holding him tight, I slide the pad of my thumb back and forth across the tip, feeling the moisture there.

“You’re beautiful, mate,” I say as I gaze into his eyes. “What comes next?”

“You,” he says with a laugh.

I raise an eyebrow in question, but he doesn’t see it as he tells the computer to turn off the lights.

Moonlight streams in through the gaps in the curtains. It’s just enough for me to watch my mate. He’d stood, almost stoic, at the foot of the bed, but now with the lights off, I can see the raw hunger in his gaze.

He steps closer, his feet between mine, and slides to his knees. The dizzying realization strikes me that the King of all Ton’arr is kneeling at my feet. This country girl, who never in a million annums would have even dreamed of such a thing, has been courted by the ruler of the land. And now he’s at my feet. If the look in his eyes is any indication, he’s about to worship me.

My chest feels so full and warm. It blooms with an emotion I’ve never felt before. Yes, I’ve loved my mother and my pets. But this? This is beyond that. Times a thousand. I want to shout it from the rooftops and weep with the fulness of it.

Instead, I place one finger under his chin to ensure he’s looking at me and say, “I love you, mate” at the same moment he says the exact same words with the exact same punch of emotion.

My affection bursts even hotter and higher, like fireworks on Zaypien Day. It’s too much, too big, too overpowering. I don’t want him at my feet. I want to be in his embrace, so I slide to the carpet and wrap my arms around him so tight it’s a wonder I can breathe.

I cup his cheeks in my palms and he mirrors me. When we kiss, it’s nothing like those we shared a moment ago in the dining room. Where those were sweet and exploratory. This? This is fiery hot and cataclysmic.

I’m consuming him so powerfully I have to gasp as I come up for air. Our kisses are noisy with smacking and moaning from pleasure. The clash of eight fangs is uncoordinated until something clicks into place and we develop an intimate dance that never falters in its grace.

I wanted him a moment ago, with my pricked nipples and swirling belly. Now I desire him, am on fire for him. Then it crosses from desire to need—desperate, intense need.

My palms can’t get enough of him as they roam the swells and dips of his muscular torso and arms and legs. When I grip his bottom, the sheer muscular power of him defies belief. It is hard and so masculine I can’t get enough of it, enough of him.

I was so busy touching him, learning him, in awe of him, I forgot to pay attention to my own body as his hands explore me. I’m still wearing the beautiful cobalt gown he bought me, but his hands are exploring me all the same.

His palms cup my scant breasts, sweep down my sides, then squeeze my bottom.

“Undress me,” I say, barely recognizing my voice. It’s breathy, urgent.

He stands, then lifts me from where I’m kneeling. The passion in his gaze and his roaming hands made me think he’d rip my dress off, but he doesn’t. He controls his movements as he turns me toward the bed, lifts my mane, and touches the autozip at my nape.

Leaning over my shoulder so his warm breath rustles my mane, he uses one claw to trace from the hollow of my throat, across my collarbone, and toward my shoulder. He drags the silken fabric with him until it crests my shoulder. The weight of the gown pulls it down as it tumbles to my feet.

The chuff that explodes from his lips can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is—wild desire.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, my Queen,” his voice is full of growl and gravel.

Valeris

I feel like a kit with his first female. I can barely control my lust, yet I don’t want to scare my mate. I’m trying to go slow, although my thoughts are racing ahead to the thousand things I want to do to her. We have a lifetime, but my greedy cock wants to do them all tonight.

When he bucked in her hand a moment ago, I worried she’d run from the room screaming. But she wants me. That’s clear.

And she said she loves me. If I hadn’t wanted to lay the world at her feet before, I certainly do now.

I didn’t rip her dress off, fearing it would scare her, but I can’t wait a moment longer to get her naked. With one extended claw, I slice through her bra and watch it fall to the floor. A moment later, her panties, nearly cut in two, join the heap of clothes at her feet.

Stepping close, I press myself against her, letting her get the feel of me, of our bodies close, fur to fur.

My palms grip her hips and tuck her against me, my cock riding against her back. She sucks in a harsh breath. Her trepidation is replaced by desire, because instead of being shy and cautious, she reaches behind her, wiggles her hand between us, and grips my cock.

I smile. I should have known my little knife-wielding, bow and arrow toting mate wouldn’t stay shy in our shared bedroom for long.

After turning her in my arms, I step back and drink her in. Our species has small breasts, and my mate’s are smaller than most, barely a handful. But I have no doubt her tight, butter-colored tips will be responsive when I finally get them in my mouth.

“I’m going to touch you until you come. Unless you tell me to stop,” I say, my voice a deep rumble as I lift her onto the bed and join her there.

“I want to share everything with you, Valeris.”

I’ll make certain she does.

Avania

I’ve touched my breasts a thousand times in the shower or getting dressed. But when he simply runs the pad of one finger from my collarbone down my fur, over the slope of my breast, and flicks my nipple, I feel like I just dropped into this body for the first time.

When he strums and flicks and plucks, his nails sheathed, I mewl and toss my head, lost in the pleasure of his touch.

“Valeris!” I say when I’m capable of coherent speech. But he says nothing, just adds another hand to the mix, working his magic on both straining tips at the same time.

I didn’t know my body was capable of this level of pleasure. When he dips his shaggy head and licks his long, burred tongue across my nipple, I can’t control my urge to squeeze his shoulders as I press my thighs together.

He lays me on the bed and lies next to me. It takes me a moment to recall how to breathe as I realize how big he is next to me, how warm his skin is under his soft fur.

Now I’m treated to a whole new menu of touches to my breasts, from streams of his hot breath, to licks, to nibbles, to little bites with his flat front teeth.

Something is building in my pelvis. It’s hot and full and makes me feel desperate.

My head thrashes against the pillow, but my mate doesn’t let up his attack. Am I getting a moment of reprieve? No, it’s only for him to lean so he can switch sides. Now his mouth is attacking my other breast as his talented fingers relentlessly pleasure the original peak.

I wiggle next to him, not knowing what I want, but knowing I want more. When he lifts himself and slides his leg between mine until his knee almost touches the apex of my thighs, I realize what it is I’ve been wanting.

I press upward, a wanton act as I crush my sex against his softly furred leg. I’ve explored my little lump of flesh at night when Mom was asleep. It was sensitive, but I never played with it, thinking instinctively that it was forbidden.

That was nothing like this. I’m squirming on him, my body dancing against him, pressing harder every time he nips the tip of my engorged nipples.

“Please,” I say, not knowing what I’m asking for.

He pulls his head away. Did he think my plea was for him to stop?

My mate kisses and licks his way from my sensitive peaks across my furred ribs, then dips into my naval. When he slides lower, my fingers curl into his mane as I try to stop his journey. Certainly he’s not going to move lower.

My unspoken request for him to move north instead of south does not stop my intrepid mate. He simply sinks slower, licking and lapping as he moves toward the seat of my femininity.

“Valeris, no!” It feels divine, but this couldn’t be right, could it?

“Don’t tell your king no,” is all he says, his voice too gritty to pull off his attempt at a joke—if it is a joke.

Trying to shut my legs is futile, especially when his firm grip spreads me wider and he leans in close. His tongue dips into my channel.

After a second of mortification, not only my shock, but all higher thoughts slip away. I’m just a body. A body receiving pleasure.

My fingers, which a moment ago were trying to pull his head up and away from between my legs, are now keeping him right where he is.

He’s groaning with delight as his burred tongue delves into my private spaces. It feels filthy and delicious at the same time.

He lifts his head long enough to husk, “You taste like the nectar of the gods,” then he slides his tongue into me again and I’m lost in a vortex of pleasure.

When he slides his tongue along my petals toward my bundle of nerves, he has my full attention, and when he arrives there and takes one hard flick, then another, I know I’m lost to him for all eternity.

I slide my knees up, my soles flat on the bed so I can buck up against his amazing tongue as it licks and flutters against me. When he surrounds the hard bud and sucks, I come apart.

Noises erupt from my mouth. My fingers contract, clutching his silken mane, and every muscle in my body convulses in the most delicious spasms. I’m grunting and thrusting myself harder against his mouth as all thought is lost. All thought but pleasure. Swirling, aching, all-powerful bliss.

As I return to this room and this bed and my mate, my body so well and truly pleasured, I’m filled to the brim with love.

“That was wonderful,” I tell him, sad that my puny words can’t begin to express how truly amazing that experience was. “Thank you.” I assume now he’ll stick his thing in me and then our bed-play will be over.

“That was just the beginning, Love.”

Is that a smirk on his face?

Over the next hoara, he teaches me a thousand things about the body I was born with. I learn the cues of when I’m going to come, and I discover how to stave it off, if only for a little while, which makes the explosion even more powerful.

He forces me to ask for what I want, and it only takes me a little while to warm to my task. Talking dirty doesn’t seem so filthy when it makes my mate’s thing get hard as steel.

“Your cock is beautiful,” I say, which makes him smile, because I’m no longer calling it his thing, although when I mess up and call it that, it makes him smile, too.

My mane is sweaty and there’s a pool of my slick cream under my bottom. My muscles are tired from coming so many times.

“Is it time for you to put your thing in me, my love?” I ask as we take a break, my fingers combing through his messy bronze mane.

“We can wait,” he husks.

“Why would we do that?”

His claw is drawing circles around first one nipple and then the other, making me want him again, even as he teases me.

“I’ll wait as long as you wish,” he says.

“Good,” I say with a toss of my head. “I want you to wait until you make me come one more time, then I want this thing inside me.” To emphasize my point, I grab it hard, stroking it firmly enough to squeeze the meaty core of it.

“You’re a quick study, little Avania,” he says as he slides between my legs again and attacks my little bud with his mouth. When I’m about to come, he enters me with one finger, his claw sheathed. My lids fly open in surprise at the incursion, then slam shut with the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

I move in time with him as he slams his finger into me, then adds a second finger. When he sucks my little clit and flicks with his tongue, I fly over the edge, calling his name over and over.

I’m barely done spasming when he places his cock at my entrance and pulses there. Was it only a few hoaras ago I worried he wouldn’t be able to fit? I’m still not sure it will work. His cock is a lot bigger than his tongue or two fingers.

The emotions of fear and desire war inside me, but ultimately it doesn’t matter, because I’ve given the decision over to my mate, and he’s working his way inside me.

I watch his beautiful face, eyes shut in, I don’t know, is it concentration or intense pleasure?

“So tight,” he croons. “So perfect.”

He’s chuffing from the effort of holding back, trying not to hurt me. The pressure burns as his manhood stretches me. Instead of focusing on the discomfort, I focus on the pleasure I’m giving my mate. The pain feels inconsequential.

My hands clutch the meaty muscles of his ass as they flex and release with each pulse as his cock burrows deeper inside me. The discomfort turns to pleasure when I focus on the feeling of fullness as I allow him into my body.

“You’re inside me, Love,” I say with wonder.

“We’re one,” he says on a groan as he presses all the way home.

Now he’s rocking inside me, little presses in and out as his hands lodge on my upper arms and his gaze holds me tenderly.

Pleasure is a pathetic word. It’s like a pastel color compared to the vibrant crimson of a pellum flower. What’s happening now, between us, is so far beyond pleasure it’s incomprehensible. And it has nothing to do with his cock inside me.

The connection we feel is bigger than sex or mating. It’s our souls twining. It’s a melding on the most elemental level.

The ceremony was a travesty, a sham, a joke. This? This is the true mating a male like Valeris and I deserve.

Then his gentle rocking changes into deep thrusts, and all my philosophical musings scatter like petals in the wind because all I can pay attention to is our bodies.

Little snatches of awareness: fur on fur, his soft grunting noises, his smell, no longer piney forests, but something richer, more like damp, fertile soil. My fingers roaming his back, then clutching his mane, then squeezing the beefy cheeks of his ass. My nipples dragging against his fur. Then it’s just my clit and my channel and his cock and the delicious slide of him inside me and the pressure of his pelvis against mine.

My need builds and swirls and doubles and then peaks just as his pace quickens and he pistons into me, grunting each time he thrusts home.

I fly apart as he comes with a roar so loud I’m sure every person inside all four boats surrounding us can hear. In case any of them missed it, he roars again. As I’m coming, I’m laughing—I can’t understand how I can even manage it—as I imagine every light in every home in this rural valley turning on wondering if their neighborhood is being attacked.

My laughter disappears when he places his mouth over my shoulder and his body stills.

I’ve seen my mom’s mating mark a thousand times. As a youngling, I couldn’t wait to grow up and have my own. Throughout the whole journey from standing in the Alagan with my crimson pellum flower in my hand, though, I never thought about this moment.

He looks at me, his mouth poised, ready to bite, but still giving me the power to decide if I’m ready.

I’m absolutely not ready. Totally unprepared. Yet there’s nothing I want more than to complete our connection with this.

“Bite me, mate,” I say, my voice forceful in its intensity.

His fangs press through my fur and into my flesh as he roars again, louder this time even though his mouth is full of… me. And totally unexpected? I roar, too.

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