Page 13 of Taken By the Crab King of Atlantis

I push back my shoulders, remember I’m doing this for Aya, and walk into the office, still holding the ice-cream.

As soon as I see him, I stop and stare. Karkinos doesn’t look like a grandfather.

Eight pack.

That’s the idea that my mind, and my gaze, snag on as I take in his naked torso. I was prepared for alien, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and looks no older than 30.

Dark blue ink tattoos swirl around his shoulders and the top of his chest, emphasizing shoulders a linebacker would envy, that narrow into hard ridges along his stomach that slip into a perfect V into the waistband of his pants.

Instinctively, I lower my gaze, which isn’t much better. Figure-hugging fish-leather pants sit low on his hips, clinging to muscular thighs.

I scan back up, taking in the red armor plating that looks like it’s growing from the skin of his right shoulder and pectorals, refocusing on his face, and the black antennae atop his tangle of long black hair.

The flush I thought I had under control escapes me. I move my gaze anywhere but on him, while the ice-cream drips onto my hand.

KARKINOS

I didn’t know what to expect from Yen Ching, but it wasn’t to be holding a melting krill ice-cream. Images of her online portray her as poised and composed, appearing with academic and music awards, or relaxed with her sister. Even while laughing and comfortable, she’s reserved.

She comes in off-guard, eyes widening in surprise as her gaze roams my chest before lowering to the floor. A flush colors her cheeks. It’s effortlessly charming.

She comes in bearing ice-cream. It’s Marina’s sign of approval for a rare few of my guests. I wasn’t even aware Yen had crossed paths with my granddaughter.

There is an awkward beat of silence, with her eyes averted, and the ice-cream dripping onto her hand.

I step around the desk towards her. Still avoiding my gaze, she visibly stiffens, so I slow down.

She’s beautiful, of course. The softness of her lips, the roundness of her cheeks. Full breasts straining against her dress, thick thighs on full display. Her almond eyes are a lighter shade of brown than they look online.

I feel our size difference viscerally as I approach. She’s tiny. Curvaceous but petite. Our size difference must be scaring her. Her gaze stays down. She’s retreated to a place of safety, and I need to draw her out again if this is going to work.

She’s so perfect, my heart skips a beat before my brain can catch up. But that is the way of the chosen.

But first… I take the ice-cream from her, immediately transferring the dripping onto my own hand. Am I working on instinct when I lick the tasty liquid from my hand? Or do I want her to see how long my tongue is? Longer than a human man’s, capable of so much pleasure.

Yen stares at my tongue, inhaling sharply, and for a moment we stare at one another.

A smoky, jasmine scent rises from her body — sweetness rolled with lust.

The urge to claim her immediately stalls my thoughts. The heat that rushes me takes my breath away. This is why most sacrifices only last one night. Waiting is challenging.

But I need to make sure our bond is strong, and for that I need more time. I need her to want all that I am, and all Atlantis is, to ensure the city survives.

I force myself to step back. I return to my desk, licking at the ice-cream as I hand her a napkin. She takes it and wipes at her hands, and I gesture for her to sit in one of the chairs before my desk as I take my own seat, throwing the rest of the ice-cream in the bin.

It’s harder than I was expecting to sit with a desk between us. Now she’s close, and her smell is so divine… but I don’t want her afraid of me. I look at the picture of Marina, grounding myself. The only home she’s ever known is Atlantis. This quiet torture is for her.

Yen seems relieved at this return to normality and takes a seat closer to the large picture window, eyes downcast. My people dressed her, so she’s wearing a style popular in Atlantis. Like the world above, fashions come and go, but the 60s have left an impression.

When she’s done wiping her hands, she tugs at the hem of her dress. My eyes catch every movement, every small expression on her face. The dress barely covers her generous and shapely legs, which are pressed together tightly. She’s uncomfortable.

“You don’t like your dress?” I ask.

She looks startled, and her gaze flies up to mine. “No, it’s fine…” she speaks in a hushed whisper, and her gaze flits to the window beside my desk. It overlooks the city and has a good view of the dome's surface in the distance.

“A more suitable stylist will be available after this meeting, but they were unavailable earlier. You are an honored guest while you stay with us. I recognize your generosity in giving an extra day of your time, beyond the standard sacrifice contract.”