Page 7 of Mated to the Grumpy Alien

So why am I not afraid now? Why am I not freaking out that I’m in some mysterious, dark and smoky place–that’s admittedly warm and cozy–but still… I’m completely naked with the big gold guy, yet, I’m not scared.

Before I can answer that myself, the voice speaks again. “You are here.”

This time, his voice is more confident, as if the words make more sense to him. I’m still confused though because here is not an actual location.

“Where is here?” I clutch the blanket to my chest. The room is too dark for me to see him, but I have no way of knowing whether or not he can see me.

“Here is …” There’s another pause. “...home.”

“Right, buddy.” Wherever here is, it’s definitely not my home. “I can’t see you. Step into the light.”

I don’t really expect him to obey my command, but he does.

Except not really. It’s not so much that he moves into the light, since the only light in the room has been the faint, flickering embers in the fire alcove all the way across the room. But as soon as I say the word light, the glow of the fire seems to expand, casting light over more of the room.

I scan the room–which is as large as my art room back at my school, with stone walls hung with furs–before my gaze lands on Mr. Golden Pecs.

He’s crouched on the floor a few yards away, in a squat that would make an Instagram fitness guru proud. His feet and chest are bare. Whatever fabric his pants are made of, it molds to his massive thighs. His forearms are propped on his thighs in a way that makes his biceps bulge. His bare skin gleams golden in the firelight. His dark hair hangs around his face in long, tangled locks.

The whole look is very Oscar statue meets animated Tarzan.

Surprisingly, it’s a good look. And also, I clearly have some sort of latent fetish for cartoon muscle men.

If this is all a dream and I’m in a coma or something, then I have to give my imagination props, because … just. Wow.

Yeah, I’m an artist. And I tend to think of myself as having a pretty good imagination, but everything about this is next level. The stuff-of-pure-fantasies next level.

The craziest part–of this admittedly bat-shit-crazy experience–is the way he’s looking at me.

I’ve been studying him, and he’s been studying me right back. His intense, hooded gaze roaming over every inch of my exposed skin with a kind of greedy hunger that I’m not sure I could imagine.

Sure, I’m pretty enough, I suppose. My bright copper hair is definitely my best feature. But between my curves and my take-no-bullshit attitude, I’m not the kind of woman men go out of their way to pursue. I’m not exaggerating when I say I have never had a man look at me like this.

Like he can’t wait to touch me. Like he wants to lick every inch of my body.

A shiver runs down my spine, making my skin prickle despite the warmth of the room. Heat unfurls in my belly and in the folds of my pussy. Moisture floods me in a way that makes me all the more aware that I’m completely naked.

Oh crap … If I’m naked, that means someone undressed me. That means he undressed me!

I clutch the blanket even tighter. “Where are my clothes?”

He stands in one smooth motion. My gaze drops to his crotch—not on purpose! I swear! That’s just where it naturally lands when he stands up—where there’s an obvious, sizable bulge in the front of his pants.

And if I thought those pants stretched impressively over his thighs…

I jerk my gaze back to his face to find him smirking.

With the kind of arrogance that probably comes natural to any guy who looks like this, he reaches down and gives his dick a squeeze and a stroke through the fabric of his pants.

A full body shudder courses through me, like I just had a tiny orgasm.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

What is happening to me?

chapter

six