Big. Too big. His cock was thick and hard in his hand, and the thought of working her open enough to take him made him groan. It would take time. Patience. He'd have to use his fingers first, his mouth, coax her body into accepting him inch by careful inch while she trembled and gasped and trusted him not to hurt her.
But once she was ready—once she was wet and open and trusting—he'd take control. Would guide her exactly where he wanted her, position her body to take him, watch her yield to his hands, his strength and his commands.
The need to command her, to watch her obey, slammed through him with enough force to steal his breath.
His hand worked his cock with purpose now, his hips lifting off the bed. He imagined telling her to open wider, to take him deeper, to let him have everything. Imagined the way she'd comply because she wanted to, because surrendering to his strength made her wet and needy and safe.
"That's it," he'd murmur against her throat, feeling her pulse hammer under his lips. "Take me. All of me."
She'd whimper. Make those breathy little sounds he'd heard in the wreckage when panic had stolen her words. Except this time it wouldn't be panic—it would be pleasure. Need. The overwhelming sensation of being filled and stretched and claimed.
He'd fit his hands around her waist—gods, she was so small—and lift her, then pull her back down onto his cock. Set the pace. Control the rhythm. She'd let him because she trusted him, because his strength meant she didn't have to do anything but feel.
The fantasy sharpened, became vivid enough that he could almost feel her. The way she'd clench around him, trying to adjust to his size. The heat of her. The slick slide as he worked deeper, watching her face for every flicker of sensation, reading her body's tells so he knew exactly when to push and when to pause.
"Look at me," he'd command, and those hazel eyes would find his, hazy with pleasure. "Eyes on me while I fill you. Want to see you take every inch."
She'd obey. Would keep her gaze locked on his even when her eyes wanted to flutter closed, even when the sensation became too much. Because he'd told her to. Because yielding to his commands made something in her settle the same way his protection did.
His hand moved faster, rougher. Pressure built at the base of his spine, coiled tight in his balls. He was close. Too close. The fantasy had him by the throat and wouldn't let go.
He imagined burying himself completely inside her tight body, finally, after all that careful patience. Imagined her gasp when he seated himself fully, the way her small hands would clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. The way she'd feel wrapped around him—hot and perfect and his.
"Mine," he'd growl against her mouth, and she'd nod, agreeing, accepting. "Say it."
"Yours." Her voice would break on the word. "I'm yours."
The possessive satisfaction that would surge through him—the knowledge that this female, this strong, prickly, wounded female had surrendered to him, trusted him, chosen him—would be better than any physical pleasure.
Almost.
Because then he'd move. Would lift her with his hands on her waist and pull her back down, setting a rhythm that had her crying out. Would watch her come apart on his cock, those hazel eyes going unfocused, her body clenching around him in waves.
"That's it," he'd praise, his voice rough. "Come for me. Show me how good it feels to be mine."
And she would. Would shatter in his arms while he held her steady, kept her safe, gave her exactly what her body needed. Would trust him to catch her when she fell apart.
The image of her face—flushed and satisfied and trusting—pushed him over the edge.
He came hard, his release spilling over his hand and stomach, Harper's name a groan he barely managed to keep quiet. His hips jerked, his cock pulsing, pleasure slamming through him in waves that left him gasping.
For ten perfect seconds, there was nothing but release and satisfaction and the ghost of her imagined heat.
Then reality crashed back in.
Guilt followed, sharp and brutal.
Draanth.
He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his hand still wrapped around his softening cock. Shame crawled through him, cold and unpleasant.
She was under his supervision. Traumatized from a crash that had nearly killed her cousin. Trapped on this station because he'd taken responsibility for her flight risk status. And he'd just gotten himself off to fantasies of her surrender, of using his size and strength to dominate her, of making her his.
He was a draanthing brute.
He forced himself up and into the bathroom, cleaning himself with efficient movements that didn't ease the disgust sitting heavy in his gut. The water was cold. Good. He deserved cold.
Harper deserved better than a warrior who couldn't keep his base instincts in check. She needed protection, not a male who looked at her and saw everything he wanted to claim. She was grieving, scared, trapped. The last thing she needed was him fantasizing about her yielding to his commands, about the way she'd feel under him, about making her trust him enough to surrender.
