Page 60 of Return to Sender
I stretch deliberately, letting the movement emphasize certain curves while my sleeping attire—one of Wi’kar’s uniform shirts and nothing else—rides up to expose a strategic strip of skin. Hisgaze follows the movement with the kind of focused attention that suggests his legendary control is already under siege.
The patterns on his arms pulse once, shifting from azure to deeper sapphire. After fifteen months of marriage, I can read his bioluminescence like a comprehensive emotional diagnostic system.
“Specialized relationship expertise,” he repeats with careful neutrality that doesn’t quite mask his growing interest. “An intriguing requirement for what appears to be a standard diplomatic courier assignment.”
I roll onto my side, propping my head on one hand and letting the oversized shirt gape open just enough to be interesting. “Oh, it gets much better. Listen to this: ‘The successful courier team must demonstrate proven compatibility in high-stress situations, advanced trust exercises, comprehensive understanding of inter-species bonding protocols, and’—this is my absolute favorite part—’extensive practical experience with partnership optimization techniques.’”
The sapphire patterns deepen significantly, and I catch the slight hitch in his breathing that means his professional composure is beginning to fracture. “Mother Morrison appears to be... expanding her operational definitions of diplomatic requirements.”
“Mother Morrison,” I correct with fond amusement, sitting up and letting his shirt slip off one shoulder, “is having entirely too much fun playing galactic matchmaker with her most notorious success story. Though I notice you’re not exactly complaining about these ‘specialized’ assignments.”
Wi’kar sets his datapad on our shared workstation with characteristic precision, though I catch the slight tremor in his hands that suggests distraction. “The assignments have proven... educationally valuable. Our mission success rate hasimproved by thirty-seven percent since implementing enhanced partnership protocols.”
“Enhanced partnership protocols,” I repeat with growing delight, swinging my legs over the edge of the bunk and standing up. The shirt barely reaches mid-thigh, and I don’t miss the way his eyes track the movement. “Is that what we’re calling the fact that you can now dismantle a Royal Fleet’s surveillance grid while I’m distracting their commanding officer with strategic asset deployment?”
The patterns on his arms flare brighter, definitely moving beyond baseline now. “Your tactical applications of... diplomatic resources have proven remarkably effective across multiple mission parameters.”
“Diplomatic resources,” I echo with pure joy, moving toward him with deliberate predatory intent. “Wi’kar, my beloved, precise, utterly professional husband, you just referred to my breasts as diplomatic resources. Again.”
His patterns pulse rapidly, shifting from sapphire to deeper indigo—embarrassment mixed with unmistakable arousal. After fifteen months of marriage, he still struggles with direct references to my more... obvious tactical advantages.
“I was employing appropriate professional terminology,” he defends with the kind of formal precision that means he’s becoming significantly flustered.
“You were being adorably evasive,” I correct, closing the distance between us until I’m close enough to smell his distinctive clean scent and see the way his pupils dilate slightly. “Which, after twelve months of marriage and extensive compatibility research, remains surprisingly charming.”
I reach up to trace the luminescent patterns at his throat, watching them pulse brighter under my touch. “Speaking of enhanced partnership protocols, I was thinking we might wantto... conduct some quality assurance testing before our next assignment.”
His Adam’s apple moves under my fingers as he swallows. “Quality assurance protocols are... always advisable for maintaining optimal operational standards.”
“Optimal operational standards,” I murmur, my fingers finding the first clasp of his uniform jacket. “I do love a man who prioritizes excellence in all areas of performance.”
The effect is immediate and delicious. The indigo patterns flare to deep violet, and his hands come up automatically to rest on my waist with possessive familiarity that still makes my stomach flutter with satisfaction.
“Dominique,” he says, my name carrying that particular note of warning-mixed-with-want that means his legendary control is beginning its familiar collapse. “The mission briefing requires comprehensive analysis and strategic preparation protocols.”
“The mission briefing,” I inform him, unfastening his jacket with practiced efficiency while maintaining eye contact, “can wait approximately thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. Possibly several hours, depending on how thorough we want to be with our... performance optimization procedures.”
I push his jacket open and slide my hands across his chest, tracing the elaborate patterns that swirl across his torso through the thin fabric of his undershirt. Fifteen months of exploration have taught me exactly where he’s most sensitive, and I exploit that knowledge with the ruthless efficiency of someone who’s made a science of dismantling Gluxian self-control.
Wi’kar’s breath hitches, the patterns beneath my touch pulsing rapidly. “The optimal preparation window for mission analysis—”
“Will still exist after we’ve conducted a comprehensive evaluation of our current partnership functionality,” I interrupt,rising on my toes to brush my lips against his jaw. “Consider it... essential quality control.”
His hands tighten on my waist, and I feel the precise moment when his control shifts from resistance to resignation to active, enthusiastic participation. It’s a progression I’ve become addicted to triggering.
“Quality control,” he repeats, his voice dropping to that lower register that makes heat pool between my thighs. “A thorough assessment of our operational compatibility parameters.”
“Exactly,” I agree, pushing his jacket off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap that would normally trigger his immediate organizational reflexes. The fact that he doesn’t move to fold it tells me exactly how thoroughly distracted he’s become.
His hands slide up my sides, finding the hem of his borrowed shirt with the kind of efficiency that comes from extensive practical experience. “In the interest of maintaining our... excellence standards.”
“See?” I laugh softly as the shirt joins his jacket on the floor. “I knew you’d understand the critical importance of regular quality assurance procedures.”
What happens next is a familiar dance, refined by months of partnership both professional and personal. Wi’kar’s methodical precision meets my strategic chaos, his careful control balanced against my deliberate provocation. We’ve learned each other’s rhythms, preferences, triggers—not just physical, but emotional, psychological, the complex interplay of trust and desire that makes our bond so much more than simple attraction.
When he lifts me onto our workstation, scattering datapads and mission reports with uncharacteristic disregard for organization, I wrap my legs around his waist and reflect on how dramatically things have changed. Eighteen months ago, Wi’kar would have spent fifteen minutes carefully organizing displaced equipment before allowing himself to be distracted. Now, hesimply sweeps everything aside with one arm while his mouth finds mine with hungry precision.
“Much improved prioritization,” I murmur against his lips, my hands tangling in his hair. “Your efficiency training is really paying dividends.”
