She sits down on the bunk. Not sprawled, not lounging—perched. Like she hasn’t decided what she wants yet.
The room’s dim, and the ship hums low and slow, and I feel the pressure of the moment like gravity’s shifted. Not heavy. Justdense.
I lean against the bulkhead. “You tired?”
She shrugs. “Not really.”
I nod. My jaw flexes. My claws curl just slightly against my thigh.
Then she looks at me. Just looks. Like I’m a question she’s already answered and is waiting for me to catch up.
So I move.
Not fast. Not slow. I close the space between us, giving her time to flinch, to speak, to stop.
She does none of those things.
Her chin lifts, and her body stills—but not like prey. Like challenge.
So I reach out, touch the line of her jaw with two fingers. Her skin’s warmer than mine, soft like she bathes in suns.
She doesn’t move.
“You always let strange men into your bed?” I ask.
Her breath catches. “You’re not strange.”
“No?”
“You’re very… specific.”
My mouth quirks. “And that’s a yes?”
“It’s a ‘I’m still deciding.’”
I drop my hand. Let her choose.
She doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for me, grabs the front of my shirt, and yanks.
Her mouth crashes into mine like we’re already mid-fight.
I lift her off the bed without thinking. Her legs wrap around me, and she grinds into me like she’s trying to start a fire. She probably will.
We hit the wall—thud, breath, low growl—and I’m kissing her like I’ve earned it, like Ineedto, and I do, stars help me.
Her hands tear at my shirt, nails scraping over scales, and I hiss. She smirks into the kiss, and it does somethingdangerousto me.
“You always this bossy?” I ask against her lips.
“You always this mouthy?” she shoots back.
“Only when I’m thinking clearly.”
“So stop.”
She kisses me again—hot, fierce, all tongue and teeth and somethingwild.And my restraint fractures.
I carry her to the bunk, toss her down—not rough, not gentle—and stare.
