Page 33 of Return to Sender
I move to the small seating area where I typically conduct my evening meditation sessions. The furniture here is sparse—a single chair positioned for optimal contemplation, a small table for essential items. I settle into the chair, attempting to begin the familiar breathing exercises that have always been sufficient for maintaining mental equilibrium.
Inhale for seven counts. Hold for four. Exhale for seven counts. Repeat until clarity is achieved.
But clarity does not come. Instead, each controlled breath seems to carry traces of Dominique’s scent, as if her pheromonal signature has somehow permeated the ship’s atmospheric systems. The meditation position, which should promote mental discipline, only serves to emphasize the persistent physical arousal that has plagued me since our kiss.
I abandon the meditation attempt after 4.3 minutes—a failure that would be unthinkable under normal circumstances. But nothing about my current situation qualifies as normal.
Standing, I begin to pace the narrow confines of my quarters, a nervous behavior that violates my training in proper deportment. Yet the movement provides minimal relief from the tension that seems to have taken permanent residence in my body.
The truth, which I have been reluctant to acknowledge even to myself, is that AXIS’s suggestions regarding stress relief carry significant merit. Gluxian males do require periodic releaseof sexual tension to maintain optimal physiological function. Under normal circumstances, such needs are addressed through regulated meditation practices that redirect arousal energy into more productive channels.
But these circumstances are far from normal. And the meditation techniques that proved adequate for general biological maintenance prove wholly insufficient when faced with the specific, intense desire that Dominique has awakened in me.
Perhaps... perhaps a more direct approach is warranted. Purely for medical necessity, of course. To restore proper cognitive function and ensure optimal decision-making capabilities during our continued flight from pursuit.
The rationalization feels hollow, but the alternative—continuing in this state of constant distraction—presents genuine tactical concerns.
I move to the sleeping alcove, settling on the edge of the precisely made bed. The regulations regarding off-duty conduct are clear: crew members are expected to address personal biological needs in whatever manner proves most effective, provided such activities do not compromise ship operations or crew safety.
My hands move to the fastenings of my uniform shirt with careful deliberation. Each clasp opens with a soft click that seems unnaturally loud in the sound-dampened silence of my quarters. The fabric parts to reveal the patterns that trace across my chest and shoulders—normally visible only as faint silver lines, they now pulse with steady light that betrays my aroused state to anyone with knowledge of Gluxian physiology.
The sight should distress me. I am a diplomatic courier, trained to maintain perfect control over such displays. Yet I find myself oddly fascinated by this visible manifestation of Dominique’s effect on my system.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to recall the memory I have been avoiding: the weight of her body against mine, the taste of her mouth, the small sound of pleasure she made when I deepened our kiss. The way her hands moved over my body with surprising confidence, as if she had every right to touch me wherever she pleased.
My breathing becomes irregular as I allow these forbidden thoughts to surface. The uniform shirt falls away completely, forgotten in the growing haze of arousal that clouds my normally precise thinking processes.
For 37.2 years, I have maintained perfect discipline over my physical responses. I have never allowed personal desires to compromise my professional obligations. I have certainly never engaged in such activities while thinking of a specific individual—particularly not a human female who represents everything chaotic and unpredictable in my previously ordered existence.
Yet as my hand moves lower, tracing the path of feint blue patterns across my torso, I find I cannot summon the willpower to resist.
The sensation is... overwhelming. More intense than any previous experience, as if Dominique’s proximity has somehow amplified every nerve ending in my body. The careful, clinical approach I typically employ for biological maintenance proves inadequate for the waves of pleasure that course through my system.
I hear my own breathing become ragged, a loss of composure that would mortify me under any other circumstances. But there are no witnesses to my breakdown in discipline except my own conscience, and even that seems to have been overwhelmed by more primitive responses.
The images that flood my consciousness are vivid beyond anything I have previously experienced: Dominique’s skin warm beneath my hands, softer than anything in my ordered world yetsomehow more responsive than I ever imagined possible. Her voice saying my name in that breathless way humans do when overwhelmed—so different from the controlled vocalizations of my species, so much more honest in its desperate need.
I imagine what might have happened if I had not pulled away in the medical bay. What it would feel like to trail my lips along the elegant line of her throat while she arches beneath me, to taste the salt of her skin that carries that uniquely addictive sweetness my enhanced senses crave. The way her pulse would flutter against my tongue, rapid and desperate in the human way that speaks of complete surrender to sensation.
My control fractures completely as I imagine her hands mapping the patterns across my chest, her fingers tracing the silver lines that pulse with my heartbeat. How her eyes would darken with want when she realizes the patterns flare brighter with arousal, how she would look at me not as a diplomatic courier but as a male who could make her forget everything else.
My hand moves with desperate urgency, every fantasy centered on her—only her. The memory of her body pressed against mine in the tunnel, the trust in her eyes when she let me treat her injury, the way she challenged every wall I’ve built around myself. My breathing grows harsh in the silence of my quarters, the sound mixing with the subtle shift of fabric against fevered skin.
I can almost feel her responding to my touch, can almost hear the soft sounds she would make—not the controlled responses my species might offer, but those breathless human gasps that speak of complete abandonment. Would she whisper my name the way she did when the neural disruptor pain spiked? Would she look at me with that same fierce trust, but now mixed with desire that burns as hot as my own?
The fantasy shifts, becomes more vivid. Her hands in my hair, pulling with that delicious human lack of restraint. Theway she would taste—warm and alive and utterly intoxicating. How her smaller frame would feel beneath my larger one, how her human warmth would feel against my naturally higher body temperature, creating a perfect thermal harmony that neither of us has ever experienced.
My movements become desperate, uncontrolled. The quiet of my quarters fills with the sound of my ragged breathing, the slick rhythm of desperate need, the subtle shift of fabric against skin. Every sense heightened by arousal focuses on memories of her—the warmth of her hand in mine, the way she smelled like freedom and defiance and something uniquely her that no diplomatic protocol could ever catalog.
The thought of her choosing me—not because of some archaic law but because she wants me—makes my grip tighten with desperate need. Of being the one to make her gasp, to watch her surrender completely to pleasure I could give her. The fantasy of her choosing me, truly choosing me over duty and safety and everything logical, strips away the last of my legendary control.
I imagine her body responding to mine, the way she would move beneath me, around me. The sounds she would make when she discovered exactly how thoroughly a Gluxian male could worship his chosen mate. How her voice would break as she called my name, how her body would tremble with the intensity that human physiology allows—so much more dramatic than what I’ve known, so much more affecting to witness.
When release finally crashes over me, it’s with her name torn from my throat—raw, desperate, a claiming call that echoes through my empty quarters. “Dominique!” The sound is primal, possessive, everything I’ve been trying to suppress. The patterns across my skin flare brilliant silver—chest, arms, throat—painting the walls with pulsing light as my body surrenderscompletely to fantasies of claiming her, of being claimed in return.
Wave after wave of sensation crashes through me, each one accompanied by her imagined cries of pleasure, the fantasy of her body welcoming mine, the thought of showing her exactly what it means to be chosen by someone who has never chosen anything for himself before.
My breathing slowly returns to regular patterns as the tension that has plagued me for days finally begins to dissipate, but the images linger: Dominique’s imagined surrender, the fantasy of her body responding to mine, the dream of hearing her say my name not in protocol but in passion. The luminescent patterns gradually fade to their normal subdued glow, but the need—the desperate, overwhelming need for her—remains.
