Her mouth is hot, wet, perfect. She takes me slow at first (just the crown, cheeks hollowing, tongue tracing the ridge until my hips jerk forward without permission). Then deeper. Deeper. Until I feel the back of her throat close around me and she moans, the sound vibrating through every inch she’s claimed.
I thread my fingers through her wet hair, not guiding, just anchoring myself to the reality of this: my brave, impossible woman on her knees in the steam, worshipping me like I’m something sacred.
She pulls back, lips shiny, eyes glittering, and licks a long stripe up the underside of my cock before sinking down again. Faster this time. Filthy-wet sounds fill the small room, mixing with my ragged breathing and the low, continuous growl I can’t hold back.
“Polly… gods… I’m close—”
She doubles her efforts, one hand stroking what her mouth can’t reach, the other cupping my balls, rolling them gently until my vision whites out. I come with a broken snarl, hips stuttering, spilling down her throat in thick, pulsing waves. She swallows every drop, humming like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted, then licks me clean with slow, deliberate swipes of her tongue until I’m shaking.
Only then does she let me pull her up. I crush her to me, kissing her hard, tasting myself on her lips and groaning at how perfect it is.
“My turn,” I growl against her mouth.
I lift her, spin, press her back to the cool tile wall. Water sluices over us both as I drop to my knees this time. I hook one of her legs over my shoulder and bury my face between her thighs.
She’s drenched (slick and swollen and trembling already). I lick into her like a starving man, tongue fucking her slow and deep, then circling her clit until she’s clawing at my shoulders,chanting my name in that broken, desperate way that unravels me all over again.
I slide two fingers inside her, curl them, suck her clit hard, and she comes with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around my head, flooding my tongue with the taste of her pleasure. I keep going (gentle, relentless) until she’s boneless and whimpering.
When I finally stand, she’s limp in my arms. I carry her out, dry her with shaking hands, kiss every mark I left like a vow. I lay her on the bunk and slide in behind her, pulling her flush against my chest, palm settled over the glowing bite on her throat.
For a moment, the world is perfect. Just the hum of the ship, the warmth of her skin, and the steady, golden thrum of the bond settling between us like a physical weight.
Then the ship screams.
It’s not an alarm. It’s the hull itself—a tortured shriek of metal under impossible strain.
Polly gasps, her eyes snapping open. Through the bond, I feel her relaxation shatter into crystalline alertness instantly.
“Zip!” she shouts, already scrambling out of the bunk, naked and lethal. “Report!”
“PROXIMITY ALERT!” Zip’s voice is urgent, stripping away the sarcasm. “HYPERSPACE SHADOW DETECTED. VECTOR THREE-NINE-ZERO. WE ARE BEING GRAPPLED.”
“Grappled?” I’m on my feet, grabbing my trousers. “In hyperspace?”
“They’re using a mag-tether,” Polly snarls, pulling her flight suit on over damp skin. “They’re trying to drag us out of the stream so they can board us. If they yank us out at this speed, the inertia will liquify us.”
She runs for the cockpit, and I follow, the bond flaring with her tactical focus—it’s sharp, cold, and utterly fearless. I let it wash over my own panic, grounding me.
We burst into the cockpit. The viewscreen is a kaleidoscope of distorted starlight, but behind us, a dark shape is looming in the slipstream. A metal cable, thick as a tree trunk, has latched onto our aft shields. Sparks rain down the canopy as the magnetic lock grinds against our deflectors.
“Meridian Interceptor,” Polly identifies it, fingers flying across the console. “Fast. Nasty. And they’re reeling us in like a fish.”
“Can we shake them?” I strap into the co-pilot’s seat, bringing the weapons array online. The interface feels natural now, my hands moving with a speed that surprises even me.
“Not while we’re in the stream. If I cut engines now, the backlash will tear us apart.” She glances at me, her eyes fierce. “We have to drop. Hard.”
“Dropping will put us in normal space,” I counter, reading the tactical data. “Right in front of their guns.”
“Exactly.” A wicked grin curves her mouth. “Rynn, can you hit a target the size of a dinner plate at three thousand kilometers?”
I look at the sensor readouts. I feel the hum of the ship, the hum of the bond, the hum of my own enhanced biology.
“For you?” I say. “I can hit a speck of dust.”
“Good. Because when we drop, I’m going to spin us. You target the grapple winch on their nose cone. Sever the line, and I’ll dump the engine core into their intake.”
“That is... remarkably reckless.”
