The tactical logic is sound. The biological imperative is overwhelming. And her absolute confidence in the strategy makes the decision simple.
“Then I’ll stop fighting it,” I say, already feeling the shift as I let go of the control I’ve been desperately maintaining. “I’ll channel everything into the bond, into threat awareness, into being the sensor array you need.”
“Good,” she says, guiding us toward a section of the asteroid field marked with multiple hazard warnings. “Because this next part requires precision that I can only achieve with a fullybonded partner whose enhanced senses are completely focused on keeping me safe.”
The words make something hot and tight coil in my chest, and I realize she’s not just addressing my biological crisis—she’s integrating it into our tactical advantage.
“You want me to channel the biological intensity into enhanced threat awareness.”
“I want you to be exactly what you are,” she says, threading us through a gap that seems impossibly narrow. “My bonded mate, whose protective instincts and enhanced abilities are triggered by threats to our shared safety. Stop fighting what you are. Use it.”
The permission to stop resisting, combined with her tactical acceptance of my biology, creates a feedback loop through the bond that makes my pheromone production reach levels that turn the air around us into a shimmering heat haze of barely controlled desire.
But for the first time since the bonding accident, instead of fighting the intensity, I let it fuel my senses—let my protective instincts sharpen my awareness of every threat, every potential collision, every hazard that might endanger the magnificent female piloting us through impossible dangers.
“There,” she says, guiding us through the final gap in the most hazardous section of the field. “Now we have some space to work with.”
She’s right. Ahead of us, the debris is more scattered, the gaps wider, the navigation less immediately life-threatening. Behind us, Thek-Ka is still struggling with the dense hazards we’ve just cleared.
Jitters emits a pleased warble and shifts to satisfied purple, clearly relieved that we’re through the worst section.
“Strategic advantages confirmed,” I observe, though my voice is rough with everything I’m feeling.
“Multiple strategic advantages,” she corrects, her hands steady on the controls as she maintains our course through the easier section of the field. “Including some we haven’t explored yet.”
She glances at me, and there’s something in her expression that makes my heart clench with anticipation and certainty and the bone-deep knowledge that this magnificent, competent, brilliant female trusts me enough to be vulnerable while maintaining perfect control.
“Are you ready to discover what those advantages are?” she asks quietly.
Looking at her—brilliant, competent, absolutely perfect in her professional confidence—there’s only one answer.
“Yes,” I say, my voice rough with everything I want, everything the bond is telling me she wants too, everything we’re about to become together. “I am ready.”
9
Operational Parameters
Zola
Theasteroidfieldstretchesahead like a maze of death and sharp edges, each rock the size of a shuttlecraft spinning through space with casual indifference. My hands move across The Precision’s controls with practiced efficiency, but my focus keeps fragmenting because I can feel Crash’s erection like it’s inside me.
Not metaphorically. Not through some vague bond awareness.
I feel the pulse of his cock like a ghost limb buried deep in my body. My internal muscles clench around empty air, trying to grip flesh that isn’t there, and the phantom sensation is so visceral that my thighs tremble against the pilot’s seat.
The ship’s vibration hums through the deck plating—a steady mechanical frequency I’ve felt thousands of times before. But now there’s another vibration overlaying it. Lower. Deeper. Rhythmic like a heartbeat but emanating from somewhere that shouldn’t exist in my body’s mapping system.
I try to input a simple vector correction—a sequence I could usually type in my sleep. My fingers slip. The console beeps.
ERROR. INPUT UNRECOGNIZED.
I stare at the red text, humiliated. My hands are shaking so badly I can hear the rattle of my rings against the control board. And deep inside me, that phantom pressure twists, mocking my attempt at professionalism.
It feels like he’s already stretching me. Like his cock is dragging deep, heavy strokes that make my breath hitch and my vision tunnel. I shift in my seat, trying to find friction against the flight suit, but nothing helps because the sensation isn’t on my skin—it’s in my nervous system. In the bond itself.
I glance at his reflection in the dark navigation console. His eyes are glowing—actual amber luminescence bleeding through the vertical pupils. His hands grip the armrests hard enough that I can see the golden scales along his knuckles flexing with restraint.
“Status report,” I manage, though my voice comes out breathless and tight.
