“Like...” He stops, swallows hard. “Like fire in my veins. Like every nerve ending is hyperaware of exactly where you are and what you’re doing. Like I need to—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
“Need to what?” I ask, because I’m apparently determined to torture both of us.
“Need to mark. To claim. To make sure you know you’re mine,” he admits roughly, and the raw honesty of it strips away any pretense that this is still a medical examination.
The air leaves the room. My own pulse spikes—a traitorous leap of excitement that I know he can feel through the bond. His nostrils flare like he can smell my reaction, which he probably can with those enhanced senses.
“The neck gland,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than intended. “Turn your head slightly so I can examine it properly.”
He complies immediately, exposing the long line of his throat with a trust that makes my chest heavy. The large gland there is visibly swollen, pulsing slightly with his elevated heartbeat. I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over his skin, and I feel him shudder again.
I tell myself I’m checking for inflammation. I am lying to myself spectacularly. I want to know what he tastes like.
“This one’s significantly larger,” I observe, letting my fingers trace its perimeter with deliberate slowness. “What’s its primary function?”
“Marking,” he breathes, the word barely audible. “During... intimate contact.”
Intimate contact. The words hang between us, heavy and electric and full of implications that have nothing to do with medical science.
“And it responds to proximity?” My thumb finds a particularly sensitive spot, and his whole body jerks.
“It responds to you,” he corrects, his voice rough with strained control. “Only you. My biology has decided you are mine, and every system I possess is trying to convince you of the same thing.”
I should step back. This has gone well beyond any reasonable medical examination. But I can’t. The bond feels like a physical tether, pulling me closer instead of letting me retreat to safe professional distance.
“There’s some scarring here,” I murmur, fingers tracing a faint line across the gland. “Old injury?”
“Arena fight. Thek-Ka’s claws.” His voice is tight. “He was aiming for the kill. Got the gland instead.”
The casual mention of nearly dying makes my chest constrict. “Does it affect function?”
“Not... noticeably.” He’s breathing faster now, chest rising and falling with visible effort. “Though I have not had occasion to test full functionality until...”
“Until me,” I finish.
“Until you.”
I’m still standing between his knees, one hand resting against his throat where I can feel his pulse hammering, the other braced on his shoulder for balance. It would take nothing—less than nothing—to lean forward and kiss him. To stop pretending this is about safety protocols and admit that I want him with an intensity that should probably concern me.
His hands flex at his sides, claws extending slightly before he forces them to retract again.
“You’re doing very well,” I say softly, “with the self-control thing.”
“I am exercising restraint that would impress my ancestors,” he agrees, voice strained. “Though it is becoming increasingly difficult to remember why restraint is important.”
“Because I’m supposed to be examining you medically?”
“Yes. That is definitely the reason.” His eyes are fixed on my mouth. “Not because you smell like arousal and vanilla and I can feel through the bond that you want this as much as I do.”
My breath catches. Busted. “That’s... that’s just biochemical response.”
“Is it?” He hasn’t moved, but somehow the space between us feels smaller. “Because I am fairly certain biochemical responses do not typically involve the kind of detailed fantasies I can feel bleeding through the bond.”
“You can feel—” I start, then stop, horrified. “What exactly can you feel?”
“Curiosity about how my scales would feel under your hands,” he says, his voice dropping to something dark and dangerous. “Wonder about whether my control would hold if you kissed me. Interest in testing the limits of my restraint.” His eyes meet mine, molten gold. “Should I continue?”
“No,” I manage, my face heating. “That’s. That’s sufficient data.”
