WarDog: Book Twelve in the Galaxy Gladiators Alien Abduction Romance Series by Alana Khan (large screen ebook reader txt) 📗

judge me or decide I’m crazy, but finally I blurt, “I dreamed this, Bayne. I dreamed every detail of this. The sun dappling through the leaves, the thick trees, even the rich smell of the loam and decomposing leaves.

“Mostly, though I dreamed of you.”

His eyes flash to mine, alight with an unspoken question, I’m certain he sees the sincerity written there.

Although we’ve devoured each others’ bodies a dozen times in the last few days, I feel shy, but not too shy to share, “That morning, before we left the ship for Aeon II, when I . . .” I scold myself not to give up now, “pleasured myself. It was after the dream where I met you for the first time. I called you the huntsman in my mind.”

He stalks to me, his footsteps silent on the carpet of damp leaves. He places his palm at the nape of my neck and pulls me to him—almost rough, but not harsh. He’s full of passion. “What did this huntsman do?” his voice is gruff, almost a growl.

“He didn’t speak at all. We came together without a word. Our bodies spoke to each other. It was magnificent.”

With his hand on my neck, he walks me backward until the quiver on my back hits a tree. After shrugging it off, I feel the rough, cool bark through my leather tunic.

“He took you? Here in the woods?” his tone is breathy, his expression earnest, as if he wants to know every detail in order to get it right.

I nod.

“Without a word?”

I nod again.

He slants his mouth and takes my lips so hard my head knocks gently against the tree. His grip on my neck is tight, slightly uncomfortable, a silent reminder that he’s in complete control. Just this kiss and his rigid hold on me, and I feel my arousal spiraling higher.

He bends his knees so when he grinds his hips against me the hard ridge of his cock presses right where I need it most.

Much of the time he keeps his teeth hidden behind his perfect lips, but not now. They’re on full display. My channel clenches in desire as I recall the faint sting the sharp tips of his fangs make as they scrape along my delicate flesh when he’s in the height of passion.

Maybe it’s the primitive setting, but he’s discarded the trappings of civilization we usually cling to onboard the Fool. He is my huntsman!

His hips grind rhythmically, his fangs graze me, and he’s making low growling noises in the back of his throat. If he had done this the first time we had sex, I would have freaked out. Now, just a few days later, it makes me want him so badly I sink my fingers into the pelt at his shoulders, pulling him to me so tightly he won’t be able to walk away.

I jump up and straddle him so he doesn’t have to bend to press himself against me. This allows him to thrust and grind, adding so much to both our pleasure I find myself mimicking his eager noises from the back of my throat.

His tongue penetrates me in the same rhythm as his hips and I wonder how many more thrusts it will take, even through the layers of our clothes, to bring my release.

His snarl is louder now, a different timbre; it’s distinctive. He snakes his hands under my tunic, then slides them up my midriff until he cups the full weight of my breasts in his palms. Although we haven’t been lovers long, he’s already learned how anticipation makes me want him all the more. His thumbs make hot figure-eights on my ribs, promising so much pleasure when he decides to drag them higher.

We both realize at the same moment that something isn't right. I don’t know if we heard a noise, or just felt a shift. He slides me down so my feet are on the soft carpet of decomposing leaves and twirls to look behind him.

Not twenty feet away is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. My first thought is that it’s a combination of a tarantula and a scorpion. It’s four-feet tall and disgustingly shaggy with the gross hairy ick-factor of a huge spider combined with the pincers and deadly tail of a scorpion.

Its deadly front pincers are strong and large enough to snap my neck. Its high, flat tail is cocked threateningly. Its circular black mouth opens side-to-side instead of up and down.

I can’t control a shiver of revulsion while at the same moment fear slices through me. The hideous thing clicks its pincers and then scuttles straight toward us on hard black insectoid feet, all six of them.

Bayne stands staunchly between the thing and me, using his back to press me against the tree trunk. He’s already pulled his bow off his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. It pierces the animal through its shoulder. There was no way to aim for its heart because it’s standing with its chest parallel to the ground.

I fumble with my bow and am still scrambling to pluck an arrow from my quiver when the thing hisses, then spits. Bayne isn’t deterred, he just lets another arrow fly, this time piercing the thing directly through one of its two beady eyes. It lets loose a high piercing whine, takes two steps toward us, then falls to its side—dead.

At least I think it’s dead, who knows how alien tarantu-scorps’ bodies function? I don’t see its chest moving, but on other planets can things reanimate?

Bayne unsheathes the knife on his belt and strides toward the thing. With the six-inch knife in one hand, he pulls his arrows out with the other. The wet-squishy sound the arrow makes when he removes it from the animal’s eye makes me swallow hard. I shake my head as if to