Page 14 of Mated to the Grumpy Alien

As if she knows what I’m thinking, she glares at me again. “Whatever. Turn around so I can get dressed.”

I arch an eyebrow. “As you pointed out, I’ve already seen you naked.”

I have more than seen you naked, I want to remind her. I’ve touched you. I’ve tasted you. Pleasured you.

Her cheeks flush a delightful pink. “Obviously. But that doesn’t mean I want you to see me naked again.”

“But you will. One day.”

chapter

nine

Cressida

I get dressed, hastily and clumsily yanking on clothes.

Keeping my underwear?

That’s a ballsy move for sure.

But the crazy thing is, I can’t tell if it’s an honest to god move or if it’s just something he wants to do. Not that he’s even admitted that he has them. Somehow, though, I just know.

And, yeah, part of me is screaming that it’s wrong. That it’s creepy. That I need to demand them back.

It’s that sane, cautious, twenty-first century part of my brain that has spent my entire adulthood balancing my budget and taking care of other people. The part of my brain that paid my taxes and contributed to my Roth IRA. The part that cared for my mom while she was ill and still worked long hours and made cookies for the nursing home staff, even when I was exhausted.

It’s the part of my brain that’s been overworked and exhausted for a decade. It’s the part of my brain that came on this trip to Europe after my mom died because I didn’t know what to do with my summers when they didn’t revolve around caring for her.

But there’s another part of my brain. There always has been.

That’s the part that stayed up late reading romance novels. The part that wanted to travel to Europe now that I have the time. No … not just travel here. The part that wanted to move here. The part that had a hundred bookmarks in her browser about how to move to another country. The part that yearned for adventure and travel and something–anything!–different.

I don’t know what actually happened to my underwear, but part of me is horrified by the idea that maybe he kept them. And another part of me is ridiculously thrilled.

That second part of me is aware of the way he’s watching me as I jerk my clothes on. Because no, he didn’t turn around. Of course he didn’t turn around. Hercules would never.

Except…

I pull my jeggings up, hopping a little to get the elastic waist up. “I don’t even know your real name,” I mutter.

“I told you. I am Irick of–”

“Right. Irick of handbags.”

“Perse,” he says slowly, his lips twisting slightly into a hint of a smile.

“Okay, Irick of Purse. What is that? Some kind of tiny country most Americans have never heard of? Like Luxembourg or Liechtenstein?”

He smirks. “No. Perse is not a tiny country.”

“Then what is it?”

“First, you tell me where you are from. You know my name, Be’lahshuk, but I don’t know yours.”

That word, the way he says it, it rolls over my senses.

Funny, despite all the weird terms he keeps throwing around, his English isn’t accented. He speaks like he grew up listening to the nightly news in Middle America. Except for when he says things like purse and bella shook. Then, the words are thick. I can’t describe the way those words roll off his tongue. The way they coat my mind, like there’s magic in them too. Like I almost know them.