I unfasten my pants myself, guide his hand inside with deliberate pressure. “Proceed. Thoroughly.”
The first touch against my slick heat makes us both gasp. The reality is so much more intense than the phantom sensations it borders on painful—like touching a live wire while every nerve ending screams for more.
His fingers aren’t human. The texture alone threatens to undo me—scales that feel like silk over steel, raised ridges that drag against sensitive flesh with devastating friction. When one thick finger slides inside with careful pressure, my knees nearly buckle.
“Fuck.” Pure reverence in his voice. “You’re so hot. So wet. So perfectly responsive.”
“Twenty seconds to manual override,” KiKi chirps.
He finds my clit with his thumb—the pad textured in ways human skin could never replicate. Micro-ridges that catch and drag with every circular pass, creating sensations that make stars explode behind my eyelids. Circles once. Twice.
“Subject responding optimally to direct contact,” I hear myself report, even as my hips rock shamelessly into his touch. “Recommend increased pressure and—oh fuck—”
The second finger joins the first, stretching me wider, working me open with devastating efficiency. The dual sensation of his hand between my thighs while his cock pulses hot and hard against my ass through the bond threatens to short-circuit my brain entirely.
My hand shoots out, gripping the manual override. “Autopilot disengaging.”
“Zola—”
“Barrier removal required for full integration,” I manage, reaching for the fasteners of my pants with shaking hands. “Recommend immediate positioning adjustment for optimal—” The clinical words fracture as he adds a third finger, stretching me wider, scissoring deliberately. “For penetration and claiming.”
His laugh against my neck is dark and possessive. “You want me to fuck you while you fly through an asteroid field.”
“Affirmative. Strategic advantage confirmed through bond synchronization. Enhanced reflexes. Shared sensory input.” Myvoice has gone breathy and desperate despite my best efforts. “Optimal conditions for complex navigation requiring—”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m practical.” I shove my pants down to my knees—trapped, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. “And if you don’t get inside me in the next thirty seconds, I’m writing you up for seventeen additional safety violations.”
His fingers slide free, leaving me empty and aching. I hear the rustle of fabric, feel the heat of him pressing against my entrance—scalding and thick and ridged in ways my body has never accommodated before.
“There’s a window,” I tell him, pulling up the trajectory calculations with trembling hands. “Rotating asteroids creating a passage. Opens in three minutes. Stays open for fifteen seconds.”
“And if we miss it?”
“We die.” I lean forward over the console, presenting myself in a position that’s purely tactical and has nothing to do with how desperately I need him inside me. “But we won’t miss it.”
His hands grip my hips with bruising force. The head of his cock presses against my entrance—hot and heavy and shockingly wide, even after three fingers stretching me.
“Zola,” he warns, his voice ragged with barely controlled need, “I’m too big for this. You’re too tight. We should—”
“Doesn’t matter.” I grip the controls until my knuckles go white. “Fit.”
He thrusts.
It’s a tearing, burning invasion that fills me so completely my vision goes white. The stretch borders on pain—too much, too fast, too big—but then the ridges along his shaft hit nerves I didn’t know existed and pleasure crashes through the discomfort like lightning through storm clouds.
I gasp, my back arching involuntarily, my hands tightening on the yoke until the leather creaks. He’s massive. And he’s starting to swell inside me—the biological reality of Velogian anatomy engaging like a docking clamp locking into place. The sensation of being filled, claimed, held is so overwhelming I can’t breathe properly.
“One minute to the gap!” KiKi yells, proximity alarms adding their urgent chorus to the symphony of our joining.
He starts to move. It’s not lovemaking. It’s rutting—primal and desperate and absolutely perfect. He drives into me with animalistic force, each thrust slamming me against the console hard enough that the impact jars my teeth and shakes my vision.
And through the bond?
Chaos.
I see his pleasure as bursts of gold static overlaid on the navigation chart. I taste his desperation like ozone on my tongue—sharp and electric and consuming. The asteroid field ahead isn’t just rocks anymore. It’s a rhythmic pulse of death and sex that I have to dance through while being claimed by an alien who’s making sounds like he’s dying and being reborn with every stroke.
