The fantasy builds without permission: Dove beneath me, her soft curves yielding. My hands careful with claws retracted, mapping every inch of her. Taking her slowly the first time, watching her face as she adjusts to my size, to the texture that would create sensations no human male could match.
Her moaning my name. Begging for more. Taking everything I could give.
The ridges would swell fully engorged, locking us together at climax. She’d feel it happening—feel me growing impossibly thicker inside her, the nodes flaring to create that seal that ensures deep breeding.
Trapped on my cock. Stuffed full. Mine.
Release hits hard enough that my claws score deep grooves in the tile. I bite back the groan, aware of Tavia sleeping nearby, of Dove down the corridor.
Multiple pulses, the ridges pulsing rhythmically like they’re trying to pump seed deeper. Thirty seconds of my biology insisting this should be happening inside her, not wasted here.
The water washes away the evidence but does nothing for the need.
My body knows that was temporary. Insufficient.
When I emerge, towel wrapped around my hips, the sound of her voice in my kitchen stops me cold.
“Morning, Pickles. Is the storm pattern holding steady?”
“Good morning, Captain. Affirmative. Current projections suggest sustained electromagnetic activity for approximately thirty-eight additional hours.”
She’s here. In my space. While I’m half-naked and half-hard from fantasies I have no right entertaining.
Deep breath. Control.
I pull on work clothes with hands that aren’t quite steady. My markings pulse warmer than baseline—visible through my shirt if anyone looks closely.
Which Tavia absolutely will.
When I enter the kitchen, Dove’s at the viewport. My borrowed shirt slides off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. Her hair escapes its tie in dark waves that catch the storm light.
Every drop of control I spent evaporates.
“Morning.” Sleep-roughness colors her voice. She turns, and her eyes track down my body—quick, instinctive—before snapping back to my face. Her pupils dilate. “I made coffee. Hope that’s okay.”
“Thank you. Very thoughtful.”
It comes out lower than intended, layered with harmonics I can’t suppress. The frequencies that Lividian males use during courtship. During claiming.
She shivers.
“You remember how I take it?” I move toward the table. Sitting down will help.
“Two sugars, minimal milk.” She pours with steady hands, but a slight tremor betrays her when she sets the cup in front of me. “I pay attention.”
Our fingers brush during the transfer. The contact arcs between us—sharp, electric. She pulls back quickly, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You’re running hot this morning.” Too casual. “Everything okay?”
“Perfectly normal. Lividian temperature regulation varies based on environmental factors.”
“Environmental factors.” Her smile is knowing. “Right.”
“I heard talking!” Tavia bounces into the kitchen, markings bright with morning energy. She stops short, looking between us. “Papa, your markings are really glowy.”
“Morning illumination patterns vary—”
“You look happy. And kind of tense.” She climbs into her chair, studying me. “Pickles, what’s the word when someone looks tense and happy at the same time?”
