Page 8 of Topping Off the Alien

The part of me that has spent a lifetime maintaining posture and distance stops trying, and I let him do what he wants.

His thumb finds one of my marks and traces it, then slides to my nipple and flicks.

I bite down on my lower lip to suppress the gasp, but he feels it where my back rests against him.

He presses harder, lifts his other hand to the opposite nipple, thumbs working both. I moan, my cock stiffening under the water, and there’s no hiding it from him.

Weston’s breathing has gone ragged, too, his ribs dragging against me on each inhale. With surprise, I realize he’s getting hard against the small of my back, and it sends fresh heat into my belly.

I turn in his arms, the water shifting around us, sloshing over the rim. He’s looking at me with his pupils wide, black swallowing most of the brown.

“Does it always feel like this?”

“No, not always.”

It never has, but he doesn’t need that part.

The restoration is coming faster than any sanctioned ritual ever managed. I can stand, thank him, and walk away without swaying. Instead, I’m becoming greedy, calculating how much more I might take.

Getting the words out takes considerable effort. “You should leave now, Weston, or I won’t stop.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand comes up instead, fingers threading into the wet hair at my nape, and he pulls me the rest of the way in and kisses me.

4

Solverian

Weston’s mouth moves against mine, hot and insistent, and I open for him though I told myself I wouldn’t. When our tongues meet, the sound that comes out of me isn’t one I recognize, and he answers it with one of his own.

No one has kissed me like this before. The partners chosen for me kissed with technique. They knew where the ritual required their mouths and moved there without hesitation, and I let them without thinking too much about it. But Weston is careless of technique, and it loosens a knot in my chest I didn’t know existed.

Then I remind myself he’s doing this because I told him I was starving and he took pity on me. That isn’t desire, only kindness, and I have no right to keep drinking from it.

I break the kiss.

“Why did you stop?” Weston’s voice comes out rough, his hand still resting at my nape, not letting me pull away too far.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“But… it feels good, right?” His thumb strokes once along my hairline. “I know you like it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to force yourself.”

He shifts under me, the water sliding around us in a small wave, and his hips rise until his hard cock drags against my stomach.

“Does it look like I’m forcing myself?”

I study him, the flush climbing his throat, his pupils blown wide in the dim light.

“Look,” he says, when I stay silent too long, “we don’t have to do anything either of us feels uncomfortable doing. Can we just… go with what feels good? We can stop whenever you want.”

His face is open and nervous, waiting on me.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But only kissing. Nothing more.”

“Fine.” His hands come up to cup my jaw, and he pulls me back in, crashing our mouths together again.

I meet him with the same intensity, my hand sliding around to grip the back of his neck, drawing him closer, parting my lips to push my tongue into his mouth. He tastes faintly of the drink he must have had earlier, sweet with a sour edge under it. When I suck on his tongue he groans, and my hips press down before I decide to move them.