He lifts me like I weigh nothing, slams me back against the bulkhead with a grunt, and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling the thick, hard line of him grinding into me through too much friction. We both gasp.
He doesn’t ask. I don’t need him to.
He shoves his pants down just enough. I angle, shift, grind—and then?—
He slides into me with a rough stretch that steals my breath, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Too much and just right, like being filled past the point of reason.
He groans, low and broken. “Fucking hell?—”
I roll my hips and dig in, finding rhythm in the desperation, the goddamnneedsparking between us like it's built into the ship's wiring.
It’s not soft. Not gentle. This is teeth and sweat and skin slapping skin in a rhythm that doesn’t ask permission. He fucks me like a problem he’s solving, and I take it like I don’t know how to be anything but wrecked.
One of his hands braces beside my head, the other between us, rough fingers rubbing circles that make my knees shake.
I can’t hold it. It’s too much. Too fast. Too sharp.
“Don’t stop—” I gasp, and it’s a plea, not a command.
His eyes lock on mine, wild and dark and unreadable. “Come on, then. Show me.”
And I do.
The orgasm crashes through me like a riot—white noise and clenched muscle, my body shaking against his, heat flooding every nerve.
He follows a heartbeat later with a groan, hips grinding deep, like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing. Just breath. Heartbeats. The weight of his forehead pressed to mine.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
He lowers me carefully, steady hands, no words. The silence buzzes.
He doesn’t speak.
Just walks two steps to the bed and drops onto it like someone unplugged his spine.
He’s out in seconds.
I stay standing, pulse still erratic, skin still humming, and something inside me—something dark and familiar—starts to coil tight again.
I watch him sleep.
Heavy breaths. Arms loose across the mattress. Mouth slack. He looks younger like this, almost peaceful, and that makes it worse.
I can’t lie anymore.
Not after this.
I can’t let him keep looking at me like I’m something I’m not—can’t let this mess slide any deeper. The longer I wait, the harder it gets, and I already feel the cement setting.
So I do what I’m worst at.
I speak.
“Vrok,” I whisper.
Nothing.
