There was no shame in this. No, people would not understand, but they didn’t know and did not need to. After all, it wasn’t like they were fucking.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Her eyes shot open at the thought, a thought she had been trying really very hard not to have. But really, it was just a thought, not a terrible one, it wasn’t like they were going to act on it. The thought didn’t send any warm flush between her legs, didn’t make her cheeks grow hot.

But still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

How would that even work?

Humans are inventive. You’ve said it yourself. Humans will fuck anything.

This thought should be revolting, but now that she was beginning to humor it, she couldn’t help but think, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He’d be gentle, he’d be considerate, he’d likely be a quick study. Unlike Bill or Frank or Chad, he wouldn’t use her, he wouldn’t be centering his own pleasure.

Brain, brain, please, I am begging you, stop these thoughts please stop stop stop.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Where the hell are these thoughts coming from?

“You are agitated.”

“No . . .” Her lie was so bad, even a space alien wouldn’t be convinced by it.

“You are anxious.”

Okay. Strange how speaking for him and effectively being the diplomat for his words hadn’t made speaking diplomatically to him any easier. “I’m just thinking about, um . . .”

Getting fucked by a space monster.

She winced. “You’re not doing anything wrong, I’m not made uncomfortable by you, but the idea of . . .” She dared a glimpse down her body, how close they were, the way his arm had her tucked near him like she was an egg he was incubating. “Someone seeing us like this. I don’t think they’d understand. I guess I have some shame at the idea.”

“I understand.”

She drew into herself, worried she might have offended him. “Please, don’t think I don’t like being with you. I do, but it’s . . .”

“I have shame, as well.”

Her eyebrows popped, and she looked up at him as he raised his head so he could look down at her with his big almond eyes. Those beautiful amber gems that glowed softly in the dim light filtering in from the parking lot outside. She never would have imagined he would admit to experiencing something so, well, Catholic as “shame.” “What are you ashamed of?”

“I desire you.”

At this, she felt like she might implode, like her eyeballs were sinking back into her sockets to avoid the conversation, her eyelids trying to slink off her skull. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“I desire to know you.”

“Oh,” she said, relaxing a little. “You mean . . . high language?”

“Yes. I desire to know you. You are a natural, an alien, an animal, but you are my symphyle all the same.”