I settle into the co-pilot’s seat, offering her one of the mugs while maintaining possession of the other. Through our bond, I feel her cautious optimism warring with learned wariness. Her previous experiences with my culinary efforts have taught her to approach new offerings with what she calls “the enthusiasm of someone disarming explosives.”
She takes a sip, and her eyebrows perform a remarkable vertical migration that I have learned indicates surprise. “Holy stars, Jhorn. This is... actually good.”
Satisfaction blooms through my consciousness like a solar flare. My bond-lines pulse with increased luminosity, and I feel her answering warmth through our connection. Success in pleasing Kaylee generates more positive feedback than any task completion protocol from my original programming ever could.
“The molecular structure of genuine coffee,” I explain, settling more comfortably in my chair, “involves 847 distinct aromatic compounds, each requiring precise temperature and pressure variables. Standard synthesizers approximate perhaps twelve percent of this complexity.”
“And you figured out how to improve on that?” She takes another appreciative sip, her contentment flowing through our bond like honey.
“I interfaced directly with the synthesizer’s base programming and modified the molecular assembly protocols,” I admit. “The process required 23.6 hours of continuous calculation and mayhave slightly exceeded the unit’s recommended operational parameters.”
Her grin transforms her entire face, lighting something in my chest that has nothing to do with bioluminescence. “You hacked the coffee maker.”
“I enhanced its potential for optimal beverage production,” I correct with mock severity, though privately I find her casual criminalization of my efforts oddly endearing.
“Same thing, tentacles.” She sets her mug aside and rises from her chair with fluid grace, moving toward me with purposeful intent that sends anticipatory pulses through our bond. “You know what this means?”
“That my methodology was sound and future attempts should follow similar parameters?”
“No.” She settles onto my lap with the easy confidence of someone who knows she will be caught, supported, welcomed. My tendrils unfurl automatically to accommodate her, wrapping around her waist with careful strength. “It means you’ve officially graduated from ‘dangerously attractive alien who makes terrible coffee’ to ‘dangerously attractive alien who makes acceptable coffee.’”
“Acceptable,” I repeat, considering this designation. “Is this a significant improvement in my status classification?”
Her hands find the bond-lines along my chest, tracing them with touches that send cascading responses through my nervous system. “Extremely significant. The coffee quality alone has moved you up at least three categories in the ‘keeper’ rankings.”
“I was unaware I was being evaluated according to a ranking system,” I observe, though her touch makes concentration on conversation increasingly challenging.
“Everything’s a ranking system if you think about it right,” she says, leaning closer until her breath warms the sensitive skin ofmy throat. “Lucky for you, your scores in other categories were already pretty impressive.”
Through our bond, I feel the spike of desire that accompanies her words, her own arousal beginning to match the heat building in my consciousness. Her scent changes, becoming richer, more complex—a chemical signal my enhanced senses interpret as invitation and need.
“Perhaps,” I suggest, my voice dropping to the register that makes her pupils dilate, “you could provide more specific feedback on my performance in these other categories?”
Her laugh is breathless now, tinged with the edge that means rational thought is losing ground to baser instincts. “I think that could be arranged.”
When she kisses me, it is with the perfect pressure and heat that speaks of weeks learning exactly what affects me most. Her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for her immediately, savoring the taste that is uniquely Kaylee—coffee and determination and something indefinably sweet that no synthesizer could replicate.
My tendrils move with increasing purpose, one sliding beneath her shirt to map the elegant curve of her spine, another tracing the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp against my mouth. The third curves around her thigh, not quite touching where she wants but close enough to send promises through our connection.
“Jhorn,” she breathes against my lips, and the way she says my name—not as designation or identifier, but as something precious—sends heat racing through circuits designed for entirely different purposes.
“Yes, my Kaylee?” I murmur, allowing bioelectric pulses to travel through the tendrils touching her skin. She arches into the sensation with a soft sound that goes straight to systems I am quite certain my creators never intended to be so responsive.
“Bedroom,” she manages, though her body language suggests movement is the last thing she actually wants. “The pilot’s chair isn’t designed for what I have in mind.”
“And what,” I ask, standing with her still in my arms, my tendrils maintaining contact even as I shift position, “do you have in mind?”
Her grin is predatory, filled with intent that makes my secondary heart stutter in its rhythm. “A very thorough evaluation of your advanced categories.”
The journey to our quarters requires significant self-control, as Kaylee seems determined to test my ability to maintain motor functions while she conducts what she calls “preliminary assessment procedures.” Her mouth finds the sensitive juncture where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth grazing bioelectric pathways in ways that make my bioluminescence flare involuntarily.
“You realize,” I inform her as the door to our quarters slides shut behind us, “that your current activities are causing significant interference with my navigational subroutines.”
“Good,” she replies, tugging impatiently at my shirt. “I like interfering with your subroutines.”
I assist her efforts by dissolving the molecular bonds holding my clothing together—a trick I discovered during our second week together and one that never fails to make her stare in fascination. The garment simply disperses, leaving me bare before her appreciative gaze.
“I will never get tired of that particular party trick,” she says, running her hands across my chest, following the patterns of light that pulse beneath my skin.