I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
It wasn't frantic. It was a release, a controlled burn to purge the tension that had been building for hours. The frustration of needing help and not finding it. The exhaustion of looking for answers that refused to show themselves. I needed my head clear, and this was how I cleared it.
Vaelix understood without explanation. His hands found my waist, grip firm, possessive, then slid lower to pull me against him with deliberate pressure. No hesitation. No questions. Just a response, matched precisely to what I was offering. Like he'd been waiting for permission and now intended to make every second count.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping against mine, and I let the frustration transform, channeling it downward, inward, into something hotter and more focused. His mouth was unhurried but thorough, demanding without being greedy, and I catalogued every point of contact: the roughness of his jaw scraping against my chin, the heat of his breath mingling with mine, the way his fingers pressed hard enough to leave temporary marks through the fabric of my shirt.
Good. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel something other than the spinning chaos in my head.
We moved without separating, his hands guiding me backward until my spine met the console's edge. Screens flickered, casting pale light across his features, and I was hyper aware of what was happening: his thigh pressing between mine, hard muscle creating friction I rocked into deliberately, shamelessly. His fingers worked at the closure of my jacket with mechanical efficiency, no fumbling, no wasted motion, and I appreciated that. This wasn't romance. This was function. This was need meeting need with perfect precision.
His mouth trailed from my lips to my jaw, then lower to my throat, teeth grazing the tendon there hard enough to sting. I let my head fall back to give him access, exposing the vulnerable column of my neck, and felt his groan vibrate against my skin. My hands fisted in his shirt, yanking it free of his waistband, then slid beneath to find the muscle underneath. Warm skin that jumped under my touch. The ridged texture of old scars under my palms. I traced them with my fingertips, learning the map of his past, and felt him shudder.
"Kira." My name in his voice, rough and demanding, sent heat pooling low in my belly. Not a question. An acknowledgment. A declaration that he saw exactly what I needed and intended to give it to me.
"Don't stop," I hissed.
He didn't.
His mouth found the curve where my neck met my shoulder, and he bit down, not gently, while his hands shoved my jacket off my shoulders. The cool air hit my bare arms, but I barely noticed. I was too focused on getting his shirt over his head, on running my hands across the planes of his chest, on the way his muscles tensed and released under my exploration.
Clothing hit the floor in stages: his shirt, my jacket, the thin fabric beneath, the rest following with efficient inevitability. Each item removed was another barrier eliminated, another step closer to what we both needed. When he lifted me onto the console's edge, the surfacewas cool against my bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands spreading my knees apart. I gasped at the sensation, at the vulnerability of being open to him like this, at the hunger in his eyes as he looked down at me.
He stepped between my thighs, and I wrapped around him with fierce deliberation, my legs locking at the small of his back, pulling him exactly where I wanted him. I could feel him pressed against me, hard and ready, and the anticipation alone made me ache.
"Now," I demanded. "I need you now."
The first press of him inside me forced the air from my lungs. Not pain, just fullness, the kind that demanded attention, that pushed everything else out of my head until there was only this. Only him. Only the stretch and heat of being filled completely. I held his gaze as he seated himself to the hilt, watching the control in his expression, the way his jaw clenched with the effort of holding still, waiting for my signal before moving.
I rolled my hips, testing, adjusting, savoring the way his breath hitched.
I pushed my desire through the tether:Now. Don't hold back.
He thrust hard, with a grunt that echoed off the walls.
The rhythm we built was unhurried but relentless. Each stroke purposeful, driving deep enough to make me gasp. Each touch a statement of presence rather than tenderness. His hands gripped my hips, controlling the angle, pulling me onto him with every thrust until I was meeting him stroke for stroke. I wasn't being rescued. I wasn't surrendering. I was using this, using him, and he was letting me, matching my intensity without trying to redirect it.
My nails raked down his back, and he hissed through his teeth, his pace faltering for just a moment before he drove into me harder. The console shook beneath us. Somewhere, something beeped a warning, and neither of us cared.
My mind didn't wander. If anything, the physical sensation sharpened my focus, burning away the noise until only a clean slate remained. His mouth found my breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, and I arched into him with a moan I didn't bother to stifle. His thumb found the bundle of nerves where we were joined, pressing in tight circles in counterpoint to his thrusts, and I felt the pleasure building like pressure behind a dam.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “I want to do this together.”
I met his eyes, and the intensity there, the focus, the raw want, pushed me closer to the edge. He increased his pace, his thumb pressing harder, his thrusts growing erratic as his own control began to slip.
When the orgasm hit, it was clarifying rather than obliterating. Sharp and bright and clean, sweeping through me in waves that made my whole body clench around him. I kept my eyes open, watching his face as he followed me over that edge moments later. His jaw tight. His breath was ragged. His control finally fractured into release as he buried himself deep and shuddered against me.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath, bodies still tangled together on the edge of the console.
The chaos in my head was gone. In its place: silence. Focus. Exactly what I'd needed.
We stayed tangled together afterward, breathing hard, skin cooling. His forehead rested against mine, pulse gradually slowing.
We let the quiet linger, let our thoughts reorder themselves.
"They want me isolated," I said, my voice calm and steady. "Visible. Easy to contain."
