Page 28 of Naughty List Delivery
“What specifically?” he asks, his voice rough with desire as his fingers continue their maddening exploration. “Tell me what you imagined.”
“Your hands on me,” I breathe, my body arching into his touch. “Your mouth on my skin. The way you used to make me come apart with just your fingers.”
His response is to add another finger, stretching me in the most delicious way while his thumb finds my clit and circles it with expert precision. The sensation is overwhelming, and I cry out softly against his shoulder.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice full of dark satisfaction. “Is this what you dreamed about?”
“Better,” I gasp, my hips moving against his hand of their own accord. “So much better than I remembered.”
He takes his time building me up, varying pressure and rhythm until I’m writhing against him, desperate for release. His tail continues its maddening pressure between my legs, adding another layer of sensation that’s uniquely alien and absolutely perfect.
“Come for me,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice a harmonic rumble that vibrates through my bones. “Let me feel you fall apart in my arms.”
The combination of his words, his fingers, and his tail finally pushes me over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my body convulsing against his as two years of longing and want finally find release.
He holds me through it, murmuring words of praise and satisfaction against my hair as I slowly come back to myself. When I finally catch my breath, I realize I’m clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.
“Perfect,” he breathes, pressing kisses to my temple. “You’re so perfect when you come. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are when you let go.”
The tender words make my chest tight with emotion. This isn’t just physical—it’s emotional reclamation, a rebuilding of intimacy that goes beyond desire to something deeper and more necessary.
“Your turn,” I whisper, my hands working at the fastenings of his pants with determined precision.
“Noomi, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I cut him off, finally getting his clothes open enough to wrap my hand around him. He’s hot and hard in my palm, and the sound he makes when I stroke him is puremasculine pleasure. “I want to touch you. Want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”
His head falls back against the pod wall as I explore him with careful attention, relearning the weight and texture of him in my hand. His alien anatomy provides interesting variations—slightly different proportions, enhanced sensitivity that makes him gasp and curse at the lightest touch.
“Two years,” he groans as I find exactly the right rhythm. “Two years of imagining your hands on me again.”
I take my time with him, varying pressure and speed until he’s trembling beneath my touch. His tail winds around my leg more tightly, and his hands fist in my hair as I drive him higher.
“I’m not going to last,” he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
“Good,” I whisper against his ear. “I want to watch you come apart for me.”
My words seem to be his undoing. He cries out my name as he finds his release, his body shuddering against mine as pleasure takes him. I watch his face as he comes, memorizing the way his alien features transform with ecstasy.
Afterward, we cling to each other in the small space, both breathing hard and processing what just happened between us. The intimacy feels fragile and precious, like something that could shatter if we acknowledge it too directly.
“Well,” PIP’s voice cuts through our post-orgasmic haze with apologetic cheer. “That was certainly fascinating from a xenobiological perspective! However, I’m afraid I must report incoming ships. Multiple signatures.”
The words hit like cold space vacuum, and we break apart enough to stare at each other with wild eyes. I can see my own mixture of satisfaction and frustrated desire reflected in his alien gaze.
“How long?” Ober asks, his voice still rough from our activities.
“Perhaps five minutes until docking. Shall I... delay opening procedures?”
“No,” I say, even though every cell in my body is screaming in protest. “No, we need that rescue.” I look into Ober’s eyes, seeing the same mixture of satisfaction and promise that I’m feeling. “But this conversation isn’t over.”
His smile is pure predatory satisfaction. “Sweetheart, this conversation is just getting started.”
As we hastily straighten our clothes, I can’t help but think that Krax’s psychological warfare just backfired spectacularly. He wanted to strip away our defenses and force intimacy.
Mission accomplished—just not the way he intended.
We’re both disheveled, both still breathing hard, both carrying the scent of sex and satisfaction. There’s no hiding what happened between us in this small space.
