When She's Married: A SciFi Alien Romance Novella by Ruby Dixon

Author:Ruby Dixon [Dixon, Ruby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: www.rubydixon.com
Published: 2020-01-09T16:00:00+00:00

I wake up to sunlight streaming into the bedroom, my cock an aching bar of heat, and my body ready for another round with my frisky, delicious little human.

The bed is empty, though, and Piper’s nowhere to be seen.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Right. The sun is up, and farmers tend to keep early hours. I’m not much for that kind of thing, which is another strike against the whole “farming” career. I like to wallow in bed. I’d especially like to wallow in bed with Piper, and my cock’s more than ready to sink into her sweet depths again. I’d love to see that look in her eyes again when I make her come—that startled pleasure as if she never expected to be touched like this.

Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe the only touches she’s ever had are clinical and cold. I think of how quickly she rolled on her back and held her legs apart, and how she wouldn’t look at me, and it fills me with a sick sense of helpless rage. Someone was cruel to her in her past, and for that, I want to keffing hurt them.

I get to my feet, and even though the bed was cramped and small, I feel good. Amazing, really. I don’t even mind the birds chirping outside the windows. My mood’s far too pleasant. I wash up in the wash room, and put on the clothing she’s laid out for me, even though it’s all far too small. The crotch rides up, the cuffs on the sleeves are short, and they’re just clothing made for the tiniest of mesakkah—or a huge human. I make the bed before I leave the room, because it seems like the polite thing to do, and then poke my head out, looking for a familiar face and brown hair.

Piper’s in the living area, seated before the window. At first it looks like she’s at a desk, but when I approach, I see that it’s not a desk at all, but a craft station of some kind. She’s embroidering things onto an enormous length of fabric, colors and swirls added by every stitch of her needle. She’s so absorbed in her work that she doesn’t notice me approach, so I clear my throat. She immediately sits up, a hot blush on her cheeks, her gaze skimming over me before dropping. “Good morning.”

I like that fiery blush of hers. Is she thinking about last night? I can still feel the furrows her short little nails dug into my shoulders, and they fill me with masculine pride.

She immediately gets to her feet. “Would you like breakfast? Your people like noodles in the morning, right?”

“Noodles are good for every meal,” I agree. I reach out to touch her, wanting to breathe in her scent, but she sidles away before I can and heads into the small kitchen. Someone’s a bit shy this morning, it seems. “I can make my own food. You don’t have to do it.”

“You’re a guest.”

“Am I back to being a guest, then? I thought last night changed things.

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