Maybe worse, because at least they had the excuse of longer missions. I’ve only known Rynn for a few hours, and I’m already fantasizing about what those elegant hands would feel like exploring parts of me that have nothing to do with ship repairs.
“Hand me that plasma welder,” I say, not looking up from the tangle of burnt circuitry I’m trying to salvage. Maybe if I focus on the work, I can ignore the way he moves with predatory grace in the cramped space, or the subtle scent of expensive spice and something uniquely male that makes my mouth water.
Rynn passes me the tool with practiced precision, his fingers brushing mine during the exchange. Even through our work gloves, I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Everything about him runs hot—his touch, his scent, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
I wonder what that heat would feel like against my bare skin. Wonder what those strong, elegant hands would feel like tracing patterns along my ribs, my thighs, between my—
Focus, Polly. FTL initiator. Critical repairs. Not thinking about what his mouth would taste like or how his voice might sound when he’s lost in pleasure.
“This compartment is getting unbearably warm,” he says, and when I glance up, he’s already reaching for the hem of his expensive shirt.
Oh no. Oh fuck. Please don’t—
He pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, and my brain completely short-circuits.
I’ve seen attractive aliens before. Hell, I’ve even dated a few—back when I was young and stupid and thought I could handle casual flings without complications. But Rynn shirtless is a religious experience that should come with a warning label and possibly its own shrine.
His deep olive skin gleams with a faint metallic sheen, and I can see what he meant about the micro-scale plating—delicate patterns that look like armor worked in silver thread, following the contours of his chest and shoulders. The scales shift and shimmer with each breath, creating a hypnotic display that makes me want to trace every line with my fingertips. With my tongue.
I imagine running my hands over that beautiful skin, feeling the scales flutter and warm under my touch. Wonder if they’re sensitive, if touching them would make him gasp the way I did in the galley earlier. Wonder if he’d let me map every pattern with my mouth, if he’d make those low, rumbling sounds while I explored the elegant line of his throat, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the treasure trail of scales that disappears beneath his belt—
“Better,” he says casually, completely unaware that he’s just destroyed my ability to form coherent thoughts.
I force myself to look back at the wiring, but my hands are trembling slightly as I activate the plasma welder. “Verypractical,” I manage to say, proud that my voice sounds almost normal despite the fact that my pulse is hammering and there’s heat pooling between my thighs just from looking at him.
This is a disaster. I’m supposed to be a professional. OOPS couriers don’t lose their minds over attractive passengers, no matter how perfect their shoulders are or how much they want to lick the elegant line of their spine.
But then he leans closer to examine the repair I’m making, and suddenly his bare chest is inches from my face. The heat radiating from his skin makes me dizzy, and I catch myself breathing deeper, trying to memorize his scent. This close, I can see the subtle variations in the metallic patterns, the way they seem to pulse with some internal rhythm.
I wonder what would happen if I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat, if I bit down gently on those scales and made him arch beneath me. Wonder what sounds he’d make if I traced those patterns with my tongue, if I followed them down, down, down until—
“Careful,” he murmurs, reaching around me to steady a loose panel. His arm brushes my shoulder, and even that innocent contact sends electricity racing through my nervous system. “The plasma core is still warm.”
His voice has dropped to that low, rumbling register that makes something clench deep in my belly. There’s something about the way he says “careful”—not condescending or worried, but like a quiet command. Like he’s used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.
The thought should annoy me. I’m the captain of this ship, the one in charge, the one who doesn’t take orders from mysterious passengers with expensive clothes and diplomatic immunity.
Instead, it sends heat pooling between my thighs and makes me wonder what other commands he might give in that same tone. Wonder what it would feel like to let someone else takecontrol for once, to trust someone competent enough to know exactly what I need without me having to ask. Wonder what he’d sound like telling me to spread my legs, to touch myself, to come for him while he watches with those predatory golden eyes—
Stop. Just stop.
This is exactly how good couriers turn into cautionary tales. I’ve worked too hard to build my reputation to throw it away because some alien aristocrat has pretty eyes and competent hands.
Even if those hands would probably feel incredible wrapped around my wrists, holding me down while he—
“I need the molecular stabilizer,” I say quickly, before my imagination can complete that thought and leave me completely useless for actual work.
He reaches for it without being told exactly where to look, which is both helpful and concerning. Most passengers would be fumbling around, asking stupid questions, getting in the way. Rynn seems to anticipate what I need before I ask for it.
It’s attractive in ways I really don’t want to analyze.
“Here.” When he hands me the tool, his fingers linger against mine for just a moment longer than necessary. It’s probably innocent, but my imagination immediately spins it into something deliberate. Something that suggests he’s just as affected by the contact as I am. “Anything else?”
The innocent question sends my imagination spiraling again. I picture him asking me that in an entirely different context—breathless, skin flushed with exertion, looking down at me with those golden eyes dark with satisfaction while I’m sprawled beneath him, sated and trembling. Asking what else I need, what else I want him to do to me with those clever hands and that sinful mouth—
“I’m good,” I say, probably too quickly.
“Are you?” There’s something in his voice that makes me look up sharply, but his expression is perfectly neutral. Professional. “You seem... tense.”
