Page 37 of Return to Sender
“Yes?” she asks innocently, though there’s nothing innocent about the way she’s looking at me.
I consider the question, weighing the various possibilities against the reality of our situation. We are alone on my ship, with several hours before reaching our destination. We are legally bonded and have acknowledged mutual attraction. We have already violated so many protocols that a few more seem inconsequential.
And AXIS is absolutely correct—I am, despite my recent private session, in desperate need of stress relief. The kind that can only be addressed through direct contact with the source of my arousal.
“Now,” I say, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice despite my body’s obvious state of need, “we find out exactly what it means to choose desire over duty.”
Her answering smile promises that whatever we discover, it will be worth the risk.
“AXIS,” she calls out sweetly, never breaking eye contact with me, “privacy mode, please. Agent Wi’kar requires some... comprehensive stress management.”
“With pleasure, Princess,” AXIS responds with obvious satisfaction. “Privacy protocols engaging. I estimate this session may require significantly longer than the previous forty-seven minutes.”
My mortification is complete, but as Dominique’s hands move to the fastenings of my uniform, I find I no longer care about AXIS’s commentary, my dignity, or anything beyond the promise in her amber eyes.
After all, stress relief is medically necessary.
And Dominique appears very eager to provide comprehensive care.
12
Complete Surrender
Dominique
MyhandsshakeasI work at the fastenings of Wi’kar’s uniform—not from nerves, but from the sheer electric anticipation coursing through my veins. Each clasp that opens reveals more of that perfect silver skin, the controlled power hidden beneath his diplomatic facade.
God, he’s magnificent.
“You’re trembling,” I observe, running my fingertips along the defined lines of his chest. His skin is warmer than human-normal, and I can feel his pulse hammering beneath my palm.
“Gluxians do not tremble,” he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, and I can see the way his pupils dilate when I touch him.
“No?” I trace the edge of where his uniform still clings to his shoulders, watching the way his breathing changes. “Then what do you call this?”
The uniform shirt falls away, and I have to pause just to breathe. Wi’kar without his precise armor of regulation fabric is... devastating. Broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. Muscle definition that speaks of hidden strength. The subtle differences in bone structure that mark him as something otherworldly and impossibly attractive.
“I call it unprecedented physiological response to optimal stimulation,” he manages, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Even now, you’re trying to turn passion into a technical manual.” I push the shirt completely off his shoulders, letting my hands map the warm skin beneath. “Some things can’t be categorized, Agent Perfect.”
The way he looks at me—like I’m simultaneously his salvation and his ruination—makes heat pool low in my belly. Those alien eyes track my every movement as I let my gaze travel over his revealed torso, drinking in details I’ve been fantasizing about for days.
“You’ve been hiding all this under those regulation uniforms?” I whisper, because the sight of him half-dressed is doing things to my self-control that should probably be illegal.
“Physical fitness is required for diplomatic courier duties,” he says stiffly, but I can see the way my appreciation affects him—the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for me but won’t let himself.
Something breaks in his expression when I step closer—some last wall of resistance crumbling. His hands find my waist, large and warm and careful, but when he pulls me against him, there’s nothing careful about the desperate hunger in his touch.
“Dominique,” he says, my name rough on his tongue. “I must warn you—my species’ anatomy may be... unfamiliar. If you wish to stop—”
“Do I look like I want to stop?” I interrupt, pressing my lips to the pulse point at his throat. His skin tastes like salt and something uniquely him that makes my body respond with embarrassing enthusiasm. “I’ve wanted this since the moment you caught my wrist in that cargo bay.”
The sound he makes—half groan, half growl—vibrates against my lips. Then his mouth finds mine with desperate hunger, and the world narrows to this: the taste of him, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the evidence of his arousal pressing hard against my hip through his remaining clothing.
When we break apart, both breathing heavily, I can see something has fundamentally shifted in his expression. The careful control is still there, but underneath it lurks something darker. More primal.
“Your turn to be worshipped,” I whisper against his ear, and feel him shudder at the words.
