CHAPTER 35

 

TARA

 

It’s not easy to give a hand job to an alien.

Instead of a smooth, easy slide along a slicked shaft, the multiple flanges seem to catch my deliberately applied coating of saliva, wicking it away so the next stroke of my hand has more friction than I’d think he’d like.  The gap and subsequent bump of leaving one rim for the next mushroom head also breaks the seal of hand… suction.  If I couldn’t see and hear Tac’s reactions, considering these along with how this started and I’d be thinking this was the worst hand/blow job in history.

Fortunately, these are not the sounds of complaint leaving Tac’s throat.  He is very, very vocal, all of it sounds like praise—pained praise, but I think it’s a good thing.

Tac seems to love it all.

When he’s trying hard not to buck into my mouth, and his dull-clawed fingers are spreading wide before closing into a tight fist, I guide one of his hands to my hair, and he surprises me by sliding it down and cupping the back of my head.

“Thanngk Tara,” he rasps.  “Duhhhn.”

That’s what I tell him when I’m finished eating a meal.  “Thank you, Tac.  I’m done.”

My lips curve around him.  With our extremely limited word exchanges, he’s just warned me.  It’s cute.

“Sstayyy,” he groans.

I meet his eyes—careful not to drop my teeth on his tip—and they’re imploring me.  Stay?  I didn’t even know he knew my word—he had to have caught me sassing back to Brax, because I think he’s the one I’ve groused this word at when he takes things like the mop out of my hands and doesn’t want me to follow him to take it back.  “‘Bad Tara, no touchie, stay!’”

That sort of thing.  Which, by the way, Brax completely pretends to ignore.  But I’ve seen that tail swiping the air faster.  He hears just me fine.  And apparently, so does Tac.

So… stay?  Like swallow?

What if it comes out like acid or silly putty—

I deliberate too long.

Tac’s feet slam down on the bed as hot come hits the back of my throat with such force that I’m a little surprised, a lot concerned about, and I’m scared to swallow any of it.

But Tac’s abdominals tense up in glorious relief right before my eyes as he bows over me, carefully setting his claws into my hair.

I’m scared for a second that he’s going to shove me down—but this is Tac.  I get gentle encouraging strokes and with his other hand, he sweeps the come that is spilling out of my lips.  He wants to feed it to me.

I want to snicker.  Men are men no matter what planet.

Tentatively, I lick it off of his finger, not able to take my gaze from his, he’s watching me so intently.  Thankfully, despite not looking at it directly, I am beyond super relieved to note that it does not come out looking or smelling or feeling like acid or tar, or silly putty or Play-Doh—which I’m ashamed to say I got last-second nerves over as all of those possibilities bizarrely blitzed through my mind.

Tac is talking now, and the only word I really understand is my name.  It’s strange, but his words sound stilted, as well as sort of rote, the way your voice comes out when you’re trying to remember the lyrics to an old song or poem you used to know.

I’d started this off by kneeling over his thick tail, but now I realize that at some point, I not only sat back down on him, but I started rocking on it too.  His tail feels much like a man’s strong thigh and I guess I was riding it like one.  My poor skirt will never be the same.  He must feel the air hit the wet spot when I start to lift off of him because his eyes turn to a dark jade green and he gently guides me to sit back down.

This time, I do the bright thing and tug my skirt up to my hips. 

He slides his hands there, clamping over the disastrously wrinkled fabric.  When I don’t immediately begin to move, he starts to shift me forward and back.

I gasp.

Then I grind on him.  Watching this, he jams a white-strained knuckle between his teeth as he makes a choked chirrup.  And I know he’s really gone when he’s rapidly alternating between pulling and petting my hair.  I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.

When I cry out, I don’t get to bask in it; he shocks me by hauling me up, and trying to pull my sex toward his face.  He starts making little chirp noises in his throat that sound excited—elated.

Startled, my voice comes out sharper than I mean for it to.  “No, Tac!”

Even if he doesn’t understand my word, he hears my tone.

I shake my head and he lets me go so that I can scramble off of him.  He looks… confused.

“No thank you.”

Eyes glued to mine, he dips his head and cocks it a fraction, looking almost bird-like as he studies me, as if he’s trying to comprehend why I’d ever say no to oral reciprocation.  Weakly, I pat his arm.  He rolls to his side.

When he brings his hand between my legs I don’t get annoyed.  It’s Tac, and he’s so earnest, looking like he’s trying to work out a problem.  I let my knees spread a little as he slowly studies my wet labia with gentle presses of his fingertips.  Instead of forcing his fingers inside of me, he reverently slides them along my outer lips, back, back back—then he curls his fingers forward and scoops my slickness up and to his mouth.

It would be the single filthiest, hottest thing I’ve ever had happen to me if it wasn’t for his happy croaking and chirruping.

It disrupts the hotness factor just enough that I blink a little faster and shake my head at him just a little too.

But the way he assertively grabs the leather rope between us and tugs me in for a kiss?

Hotttttt.

Croaking or not.

As he wraps me in a strong hug, and cups my nape to pull me in for another uncharacteristically demanding kiss, I feel like I need to fan myself.  Swooon!  My first idiotic thought is, ‘My sweet alien has a dominant side?  We will have fun finding out—’

But we won’t.

I’m beyond relieved to know I’ll be with my girls in a few more hours.

Just a few more hours!  I’m almost there, hang on girls!

But no matter how devastatingly important my reason for going home happens to be, it won’t change the fact that I’m going to miss the hell out of Tac.