“Three hours behind.” His words are ground glass and gravel. “Field’s slowing him. But I can’t—fuck.”
The curse coincides with another phantom throb, and this time I feel the exact shape of him—thick, ridged along the underside in a way that’s distinctly not human. The texture. The heat. The slight curve that would hit—
I bank hard to starboard, missing debris by meters. The G-forces slam me back, and I feel his surge of arousal as my body presses against restraints. He makes a sound like a wounded animal.
“Your situation?” I force the words out past the tightness in my throat.
“Critical.” The single word carries so much strained control I can taste his desperation through the bond. “Atmospheric contamination reaching toxic—”
“Then we handle it. Operationally.”
Through the bond, I feel his hope and panic spike in equal measure.
“Refresher’s twelve feet from pilot seat. Bond threshold is eight feet. Solo resolution is impossible.” My fingers dance across sensors while trying to ignore how each breath tastes like vanilla lightning—his scent flooding the air between us, making my mouth water and my core clench around nothing.
A strangled sound tears from his throat. “You’re analyzing this like a safety inspection.”
“It is a safety inspection.” Another turn, navigation requiring split-second timing that’s becoming impossible as waves of phantom penetration crash through me. “Your biological state is compromising ship operations. We address the malfunction before system failure.”
“I’m not malfunctioning—”
“Enhanced biological function responding to optimal stimulus,” I correct. I pull up autopilot with shaking hands, lock controls for ninety seconds. “Stand up. Behind me. Close for the bond.”
He moves with liquid predatory grace, positioning himself between my seat and the console. Close enough that his heat radiates against my spine like standing near a fusion reactor.
The contact sends electric shock through both of us. I feel his desperate need to touch me properly warring with his determination not to take without permission.
“Hands on my hips.” Command authority makes his arousal spike dangerously through the bond. “I need to feel where you are for navigation assist.”
His hands settle with careful control, and immediately I sense the asteroid field through his enhanced perception—mass and velocity and gravitational eddies painted across my consciousness in colors I don’t have names for.
“Proximity alert,” KiKi announces. “Course correction in fifteen seconds.”
I adjust our angle, threading between rotating asteroids with centimeters to spare. My enhanced awareness through the bond shows me the trajectory before my scanners can confirm it.
The maneuver requires a sharp bank that presses my ass against the hard ridge of his erection. Electric. Devastating. His hands tighten hard enough to bruise, and I feel his control fracture through our connection—a hairline crack in a dam under too much pressure.
“Zola.” My name against my ear, vibration traveling down my spine and pooling liquid heat between my thighs. “I can smell how wet you are. Taste it on my tongue even though I haven’t touched you. I want—I need—”
“Operational efficiency requires direct intervention.” Clinical terminology like armor against the wave of need threatening todrown me. “Subject demonstrates elevated biochemical distress. Lubrication indicates readiness for manual assessment. Proceed with direct stimulation protocol.”
His fingers find my flight suit fasteners with unerring accuracy despite shaking hands. The sound of my zipper seems obscenely loud in the cockpit’s enclosed space.
“Tell me to stop—”
“Apply direct manual stimulation. Do not stop until system release achieved.”
The zipper makes an obscene sound as he pushes fabric aside. Cool air hits overheated skin, and I feel him shudder against my back—his enhanced senses cataloging every detail of my arousal.
His hands slide up my ribcage with devastating slowness. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, we both make sounds that have no place in tactical situations. The texture of his hands is different from human—scales that feel like silk over steel creating friction that sets every nerve ending on fire.
“More. Continue assessment.”
“You want me to assess how responsive you are?” Something darkly amused bleeds into his strained voice. “Document the exact pressure points that make you wet?”
Lower still. When he reaches my waistband, he pauses—giving me one last chance to abort this insanity.
“Thirty seconds until manual override required,” KiKi announces, oblivious to the sexual tension thick enough to cut with a blade.
