"Come here," I manage, and pull him up my body.
He settles between my thighs, braced on his forearms, and his weight over me is grounding rather than oppressive. His heat covers me like a second skin. The length of him presses against my inner thigh, slick and ridged and hot, and the anticipation of what those ridges will feel like inside me makes my hips tilt up involuntarily.
"My body has been calibrating since I touched you," he says. Rough. Wrecked. "Temperature, proportion, everything. It won't hurt. But the ridges create sensation that builds. If it's too much—"
"I'll tell you. I trust you." My hands frame his face, the circuit tracery under my thumb, the jaw I've memorised in firelight and starlight. "Trust your body and mine."
He presses forward.
The first sensation is the stretch of entry, eased by the lubrication his body has produced specifically for mine. No pain; the calibration does what he promised. But thetexture. Each ridge a distinct pulse of friction, dragging against nerve endings that didn't know they could process this much sensation. One after another, seating deeper, each one a point of contact that his jade patterns are reading and responding to in real time.
I make a sound, and he goes still.
"Krilly?"
"Don't stop. Don't youdarestop."
He pushes deeper. Slowly, reading me through his own body, the jade patterns transmitting information: what makes me tense, what makes me soften, what angle produces the gasp he adjusts toward. When he bottoms out, the thick ridge at his base presses against my entrance without entering, and the fullness is extraordinary. Every ridge seated inside me, his heat radiating from the inside.
"Oh." Quieter than I expected. Not pain. Overwhelm. The sheer, specific, alienrightnessof the way his body fits inside mine. As if the calibration isn't just physical accommodation but something deeper, something that reads compatibility at a level I don't have engineering vocabulary for. "Oh, that's—"
"Tell me." He's trembling. The control fracturing visibly. His markings shift erratically, colours cycling faster than I can read. "Tell me what it feels like."
"Like you were designed for me." The words arrive before my brain clears them. "Not by ApexCorp. Not by engineering. By something that knew we'd end up here."
His forehead drops against mine. The sound he makes is the most vulnerable thing I've heard from him. Not harmonic. Not controlled. Raw and broken-open, the sound of a male feeling pleasure for the first time in a body that was built to receive pain.
"Move," I whisper. "Please."
He pulls back, and the ridges drag in reverse, sharper, catching and releasing. Then he drives forward, and the combination of texture and heat anddepthhits something inside me that blanks my vision.
"There." He felt it through his own body, read the response through the patterns seated inside me. Not a question.
He adjusts his angle by a fraction and does it again. And again. Each thrust calibrated, the bioresponsive system optimising for my pleasure with an efficiency that makes my engineer brain want to weep with admiration while the rest of me comes apart.
My nails dig into his shoulders. His rhythm builds, and with it the intensity, each thrust pushing that base ridge harder against my entrance. The knot, promised and anticipated, a pressure that grows.
His hand slides between us. His thumb finds my clit, and the jade pattern on his thumbvibrates. Not mechanical. Biological, the bioluminescent system that broadcasts his emotions repurposed for targeted stimulation.
"Your markings vibrate," I manage. Not a question. A discovery.
"When I want them to." There it is, beneath the wrecked voice and the fracturing control: the quiet satisfaction of a male who has been waiting to show me what his body can do.
The combination destroys me. His cock driving deep, ridges hitting perfectly, his vibrating thumb, his mouth on my throat making sounds that resonate through my bones. I come hard, clenching around every texture, and the sensation of my body gripping his makes him groan and his rhythm go ragged.
"The knot," I gasp. "I want it."
"Are you—"
"Yes. Give it to me."
He drives forward, and the knot pushes past my entrance and swells.
The stretch is breathtaking. Not pain; the lubrication and calibration ensure that. But thefullness. Every ridge pressed tight. Every surface in contact. His heat from the inside while the knot locks us together with a biological certainty that mirrors the choice I've already made.
"Horgox." His name. The only word left.
"I know." Shattered. "I feel you. I feeleverything."
