Crash
Thefirstnightofbeing bonded to Zola Cross is both the best and worst experience of my existence.
The best, because she falls asleep curled against my side with trusting ease that makes my heart ache. The worst, because having her soft, warm body pressed against mine while the mate-bond hums between us is driving my already unstable biology into territories that require emergency intervention.
Logic didn’t account for her breathing syncing with mine in the dark, each exhale warm against my throat. It didn’t account for my enhanced senses cataloging every shift of her weight, every small sound, every unconscious adjustment that brings more of her skin in contact with mine. The way her hand splays across my chest in sleep, fingers occasionally flexing against my scales like she’s testing texture even while unconscious.
It definitely didn’t account for the way the bond makes me hyperaware of her dreaming.
She makes a soft sound in her sleep—something between a sigh and what might be my name—and through the bond I can feel the shift in her scent, the subtle acceleration of her pulse, the warmth building in her sleeping mind that suggests she’s dreaming something that’s making her body respond with interest.
Fuck.
Her hand moves in sleep, finding my chest and settling there with unconscious familiarity. The contact sends heat racing through my system like liquid lightning—not just arousal, though that’s definitely present and becoming increasingly difficult to ignore—but something deeper. The bond recognizes her touch as essential, as right, and floods my system with chemicals that make every nerve ending sing with satisfaction.
My body responds with the kind of enthusiasm that would be mortifying if she were awake to notice. I’m discovering that Velogian males are absolutely not designed for celibacy underthe best of circumstances, and bonded Velogian males sharing sleeping quarters with their mates are definitely not built for it.
Through the bond, I can feel echoes of whatever is affecting her—heat building in her sleeping mind, her body responding to scenarios playing out in her subconscious. She’s dreaming about arousal. About physical need. And the bond is letting me feel every second of it like sensory torture designed by someone with a personal grudge against my species.
I ease out of the bunk as carefully as possible, testing the bond’s tolerance. At six feet, the connection pulls uncomfortably—a wrongness in my chest like breathing vacuum. At eight feet, nausea builds in my stomach alongside the arousal that’s still very much present.
But it’s bearable. Temporarily.
And I desperately need space to think. Or possibly to suffer in private while my mate sleeps peacefully, completely unaware that her unconscious mind is providing detailed feedback about dreams that are making my situation significantly worse.
KiKi’s database contains an extensive collection of entertainment files—including an entire section on human romantic literature. If I’m going to be trapped in this situation, if I’m going to be responsible for Zola’s comfort and wellbeing while we navigate the bond, then I need to understand how human females prefer to be courted.
Surely there must be guidance available.
“KiKi,” I whisper, settling into the workstation chair and very carefully not thinking about the state of my body, “access cultural database. Human romantic customs.”
“Certainly! I have extensive files on human courtship rituals. Would you prefer historical analysis, contemporary practices, or fictional representations?”
“Which would be most... educational... for someone attempting to court a human female while experiencing severe biochemical complications?”
“Oh, definitely fictional representations! Human entertainment media provides detailed instruction on optimal romantic approaches, including specific dialogue examples and recommended physical positioning for maximum emotional impact.”
The file loads:The Pirate’s Treasure: A Space Romance Guide—Chapter One, ‘How to Sweep Her Off Her Feet Through Dominant Alpha Behavior.’
According to the text, human females are attracted to males who display “commanding presence” and “protective dominance.” The protagonist—Commander Blade Starfire—courts his female by making “decisive declarations” and “claiming her with possessive intensity.”
“He strode across the deck with predatory grace, his muscles rippling with barely contained power. Every movement screamed dominance, every breath a declaration of intent.”
This seems... manageable? The text provides clear tactical guidance. Much more specific than “be yourself and hope for the best.”
I stand from the chair, attempting to channel what the book calls “masculine authority.” My shoulders straighten, my chest pushes out in what should be an impressive display. My claws extend slightly—a Velogian dominance display that seems entirely appropriate for the situation described in the manual.
I take a step toward the refresher, trying to emulate the “predatory stride” that apparently makes human females “tremble with desire.”
My shin connects solidly with the door frame.
The impact sends me stumbling sideways into the bulkhead with enough force to rattle the medical equipment, and I haveto bite back a string of curses in three languages that would definitely wake Zola. Pain radiates up my leg in sharp reminder that predatory grace requires spatial awareness I apparently lack while still half-aroused and operating on zero sleep.
From somewhere in the ventilation system comes a soft, encouraging warble—Jitters has apparently been monitoring my research session and is offering moral support despite my spectacular failure.
A moment later, he drops into the galley with a wet thump and begins arranging himself into what might be a heart shape. Or possibly a digestive tract. It’s difficult to tell with Jitters when he’s trying to be encouraging, though the supportive pink glow suggests positive intentions even if the execution is questionable.
I return to the database with considerably less confidence, rubbing my injured shin.
