SAFIR: The Warlord's Bounty: Scifi Alien Abduction Romance (Alien Romance, Alien Invasion Romance) (Astral Guardians Book 1) by Rosette Lex
Authors: Rosette Lex
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around and his eyes fixed on her, and that strange sense of the rest of the world falling away returned again to distract him.
The woman hesitated in front of the door, pushing her tousled hair from her face and looking around worriedly. When she saw him she froze, surprisingly soft brown eyes widening as she took him in.
He saw her swallow, and draw a shuddering breath, like a nervous dancer at an audition. Her ruby lips parted slightly, and he saw her chest heave again, more gently, and her bare belly flutter just over the sequined belt that held her filmy panel skirt to her hips.
“Hi there,” she managed, putting on a smile that looked a little too innocent and nervous for a woman in her position. Unless he was somehow mistaken? But no, she was too close to the images he had been given for it to be a coincidence. She wasn’t an innocent. She was Bogdanovic’s gun moll.
“Hello there,” he replied, keeping his tone playful. There was more lust in it than he had intended, however, and she smiled slightly and lowered her lashes, almost...yes, she was, she was blushing. Flustered.
The demure look stoked his desires up to another painful peak, and his smile wavered as he slowly stood. His eyes narrowed. Focus. “Come here,” he said smoothly. “Let me look at you.”
She approached slowly, the platforms teetering her walk and drawing attention to her hips, but the rest of her strangely hesitant, as if she might cross her arms to hide herself if she didn’t keep them forced down.
He saw her shiver, and there went that blush again. She is either a master manipulator, or she’s fucking Bogdanovic out of sheer naiveté. If it’s the latter, it would be fortunate--an innocent in over her head will be easier to manipulate myself.
He smiled at her gently, letting her see a glimpse of his curiosity and desire, and then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you. At least that you don’t want.” He winked, and saw her shiver. Inwardly he sighed in relief, feeling a modicum of control of the situation slip back into his hands.
“Shouldn’t you...sit down?” she asked softly, her San Francisco accent making her sound even more uncertain.
He smiled slowly, and lowered himself back onto the bench, spreading his arms out along its back, his legs spread insolently--and dear God, to give himself some room. The trousers flattered, but they didn’t leave him much slack when he became aroused. “Is this better?”
She came over, her hair hidden by her face, and he glimpsed nervousness in her eyes before she tossed her mane back over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she said softly, and straightened, reaching up to tap instructions into the MP3 player set into the wall. The speakers let out a low thump, and he heard the back-beat to some exotic-sounding EDM track kick up.
She hated the platforms; it was terribly clear. She could dance, but not in them; as she started her routine he saw how they hobbled her, how her legs strained to pick up her feet, and gyrate, and pop her hips, with something tall as paint cans strapped to her soles.
Yet every movement of her body captivated him. She could have been painting a wall in battered jeans, and his eyes would have been drawn to every tiny movement of her hips, every toss of her hair, every lift of her breasts from her breathing.
She had grace and rhythm; she had even something resembling showmanship, despite her obvious nerves and the awkward footwear. He sat, low tremors going through him, a tingle from his groin spreading outward and his mouth going dry as she tottered around the small dance floor.
She drew near, until they were almost touching, and swept her hands up through her hair, stretching her body for his admiration as she writhed softly in time to the music. He could hear his heart, louder and louder until it drowned out the music.
The bench was wide and low. He could jam the cameras and pull her down with him.
The woman hesitated in front of the door, pushing her tousled hair from her face and looking around worriedly. When she saw him she froze, surprisingly soft brown eyes widening as she took him in.
He saw her swallow, and draw a shuddering breath, like a nervous dancer at an audition. Her ruby lips parted slightly, and he saw her chest heave again, more gently, and her bare belly flutter just over the sequined belt that held her filmy panel skirt to her hips.
“Hi there,” she managed, putting on a smile that looked a little too innocent and nervous for a woman in her position. Unless he was somehow mistaken? But no, she was too close to the images he had been given for it to be a coincidence. She wasn’t an innocent. She was Bogdanovic’s gun moll.
“Hello there,” he replied, keeping his tone playful. There was more lust in it than he had intended, however, and she smiled slightly and lowered her lashes, almost...yes, she was, she was blushing. Flustered.
The demure look stoked his desires up to another painful peak, and his smile wavered as he slowly stood. His eyes narrowed. Focus. “Come here,” he said smoothly. “Let me look at you.”
She approached slowly, the platforms teetering her walk and drawing attention to her hips, but the rest of her strangely hesitant, as if she might cross her arms to hide herself if she didn’t keep them forced down.
He saw her shiver, and there went that blush again. She is either a master manipulator, or she’s fucking Bogdanovic out of sheer naiveté. If it’s the latter, it would be fortunate--an innocent in over her head will be easier to manipulate myself.
He smiled at her gently, letting her see a glimpse of his curiosity and desire, and then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you. At least that you don’t want.” He winked, and saw her shiver. Inwardly he sighed in relief, feeling a modicum of control of the situation slip back into his hands.
“Shouldn’t you...sit down?” she asked softly, her San Francisco accent making her sound even more uncertain.
He smiled slowly, and lowered himself back onto the bench, spreading his arms out along its back, his legs spread insolently--and dear God, to give himself some room. The trousers flattered, but they didn’t leave him much slack when he became aroused. “Is this better?”
She came over, her hair hidden by her face, and he glimpsed nervousness in her eyes before she tossed her mane back over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she said softly, and straightened, reaching up to tap instructions into the MP3 player set into the wall. The speakers let out a low thump, and he heard the back-beat to some exotic-sounding EDM track kick up.
She hated the platforms; it was terribly clear. She could dance, but not in them; as she started her routine he saw how they hobbled her, how her legs strained to pick up her feet, and gyrate, and pop her hips, with something tall as paint cans strapped to her soles.
Yet every movement of her body captivated him. She could have been painting a wall in battered jeans, and his eyes would have been drawn to every tiny movement of her hips, every toss of her hair, every lift of her breasts from her breathing.
She had grace and rhythm; she had even something resembling showmanship, despite her obvious nerves and the awkward footwear. He sat, low tremors going through him, a tingle from his groin spreading outward and his mouth going dry as she tottered around the small dance floor.
She drew near, until they were almost touching, and swept her hands up through her hair, stretching her body for his admiration as she writhed softly in time to the music. He could hear his heart, louder and louder until it drowned out the music.
The bench was wide and low. He could jam the cameras and pull her down with him.
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