My Alien Beast (Draci Alien 3)

“Use that.” My voice comes out as a guttural growl.

I relax back against her touch as the scent of wildflowers fills the steamy air around us. And then comes her touch. A Dragon’s wings are not like the rest of his body. There are scales along the ridges, yes, but where they open, they are a thick leather, and sensitive to touch when traced…

I spasm beneath her touch because she is tracing riiiiiiiiiight where we Draci are most sensitive—where the wing connects to the spiny ridges.

My fire rumbles to wakefulness inside me.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “There’s just some dried mud right here.”

She continues to work at the spot, massaging deeper and deeper into the ridge until I shudder and pull away slightly. “Woman, do you want me clean or to spill upon myself? Move on if you want the former. Happily continue if the latter.”

“What?” she squeaks. “Oh.”

I do not know if she can see that my male parts have descended, but it takes a great deal not to reach down and stroke myself.

When she next moves on, though, I am quickly cured of my problem, grinding my teeth against the pain as she hits one of the joints I fear is broken.

She obviously feels my body tense up. “Am I causing more… uh… difficulties?”

“No,” I hiss out through my teeth. “That’s just the broken bit.”

Her hands pull back immediately. “Oh my God! I was afraid you’d broken something, but then you were up and walking around…”

“After the shower I’ll go take care of the wings.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“I have a device that can help with healing the fractures.”

“You mean you’ve had something that could’ve helped this whole time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You can only get to where it is stored by flight. I was barely conscious.” And I wouldn’t have told you even if neither of those statements were true, which they weren’t, not entirely.

Even if I’d told her how to get past the shuttle’s biometrics, I wouldn’t have trusted her to actually bring back the medical device. I’m not a fool. She would have used the communication devices to attempt contact with her friends. Obviously, that’s what anyone would do if given half a chance.

“Well, I guess you’re the one stuck here in pain,” she harrumphs as she continues working down and across my large wings.

It’s a cruel mix of pain points and then agonizingly sweet caresses as she digs into the crevices of my wings to cleanse me. Finally, she makes it to my shoulders, and then her hands massage down my back. It’s only with concentration that I keep my maleness from descending again as her hands stretch down my lower back and then abruptly halt before moving back up again.

Giselle is an amusing creature, embarrassed by my nakedness. The concept of covering one's nakedness is strange to me, and yet I can begin to see the allure.

Giselle always keeps herself covered and my mind is consumed with wondering what she looks like naked, her fleshy teats and unshielded center bared to me. I want to look upon her and look my fill.

And as if in answer to my desire, Giselle steps from the steaming bathtub behind me, dripping and soaked. Her underclothes are all but see-through, drenched with water like this.

I stare without shame at her beauty. Puckered nipples with darker areolas are a stain on her pale pink bra. When my gaze drops to her lace underwear, there are shadows that call to me, a siren’s allure that makes me want to rip them off with my claws and teeth. I scent the air with my tongue and can swear I scent more than just the heavy shampoo. I scent her, as she reacts to me watching her. I am not the only one getting steamed by me gazing upon her semi-nakedness.

Then she spins suddenly, leans down to grab her silky garment from where she casually threw it on the floor, and dashes from the room.

I want to go after her, but no, I am not a youthful kit, to go chasing after a female overwhelmed. I breathe out long and slow. She has no effect on me. She is nothing compared to the beauty of our ancient dragon Queens of old. She is just an ugly human female. It is embarrassing that I react to her like this.

I turn toward the shower and brace for the steaming water upon my wounds. I pour out the soapy shampoo into my hands and roughly wash the rest of my body.

When I come to my groin, however, thoughts of her return. My mate. The way the water glistened on her chest and the rise of her teats not covered by the bra. How warm her hands were as she caressed down the ridges of my wings. The pressure she applied as she—