Page 27 of Naughty List Delivery
The confession makes him groan against my neck, and his tail responds by pressing more firmly between my legs, finding the exact spot that makes me gasp and arch against him. The pressure is perfect—not quite enough to satisfy but more than enough to drive me out of my mind with want.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with barely contained desire. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you’ve been dreaming about.”
The combination of his hands on my skin, his tail creating delicious friction between my legs, and his mouth working magic on my neck is rapidly driving me toward a state where I won’t be able to think about consequences or complications. All I can focus on is the way he’s touching me like I’m precious, like I’m necessary, like he’s been starving for this contact.
“I want...” I start, then lose the words when his hand slides higher under my shirt, thumb brushing the edge of my bra with maddening lightness.
“What?” he prompts, his breath hot against my ear. “What do you want me to do to you?”
“I want you to touch me properly,” I whisper, the words coming out desperate and needy. “I want your hands on my skin. I want to feel you everywhere.”
His response is immediate and devastating. His hand slides fully under my shirt, finding the front clasp of my bra and working it open with alien dexterity. When his palm settles against my bare breast, thumb stroking across my nipple, I cry out softly and arch into his touch.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice pure sin and satisfaction.
“Yes,” I breathe, and the word comes out like a prayer.
He takes his time exploring, relearning the weight and shape of me in his palm, the way my nipple peaks under his touch, the sounds I make when he finds exactly the right pressure. His tail continues its maddening stroking between my legs, and the combination of sensations is making it hard to think.
“PIP,” I manage, my voice coming out breathy and desperate. “Privacy mode. Now.”
“Of course!” PIP’s cheerful voice immediately dims to barely audible. “Activating advanced thermal management and atmospheric recycling. I’ll just be... monitoring external conditions. Quite thoroughly. For safety.”
The moment we have privacy, Ober’s restraint visibly snaps. His mouth claims mine again, hungrier this time, while his hands map my body with the desperation of someone making up for two years of enforced distance. When he finds the seam of my flight suit and works it open enough to slide his hand inside, the sensation of alien fingers against my bare skin makes me cry out softly against his lips.
“Two years,” he growls against my mouth, his hands working to push my shirt up and out of the way. “Two years of dreaming about this, and you’re even more perfect than I remembered.”
When his mouth replaces his hand on my breast, the sensation is electric. His alien anatomy gives him advantages—the slightly rougher texture of his tongue, the way his enhanced body temperature makes every touch feel like fire against my skin. He lavishes attention on my nipple until I’m writhing against him, then switches to the other side to drive me even higher.
“Ober, please,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair as he continues his thorough exploration of my chest.
“Please what?” he asks, lifting his head just enough to look at me with molten alien eyes. “Tell me exactly what you need.”
“I need more,” I whisper, my body aching with want. “I need you to touch me everywhere.”
His smile is pure predatory satisfaction. “With pleasure.”
His hands work at the fastenings of my flight suit, peeling the fabric away from my overheated skin with careful precision. Every inch of flesh he reveals, he worships with touches and kisses that make me gasp and arch beneath him.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs against my collarbone, his voice full of wonder. “Every touch makes you tremble. Every kiss makes you moan. I’d forgotten how gorgeous you are when you let yourself feel.”
When he finally has my suit open to the waist, his hands map the newly exposed skin with reverent attention. His alien anatomy gives him advantages here too—longer fingers that can reach more of me at once, enhanced sensitivity that lets him find every spot that makes me gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, even as his hand slides lower, tracing the waistband of my underwear with maddening lightness. “Tell me this is just emergency proximity and shared body heat and I’ll stop.”
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the fastenings of his jacket, working them open with shaking fingers until I can spread my palms across the solid warmth of his chest. His skin isfever-hot and marked with scars I remember, and touching him feels like reclaiming something I thought I’d lost forever.
The groan he makes when I trace one particular scar is pure masculine satisfaction, and his tail responds by pressing more firmly between my legs, finding the exact spot that makes me gasp and arch against him.
“Not emergency protocols,” I whisper against his mouth. “Not shared body heat. Just... us. Finally.”
His response is to capture my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises and possession and two years of longing finally given permission to exist. His hand slides beneath the waistband of my underwear, and when his fingers find me wet and ready, he makes a sound of pure masculine satisfaction.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growls against my lips, his fingers exploring with careful precision. “So ready. Did you think about this while you were running from me? Did you touch yourself and imagine it was my hands on you?”
The question is so explicit, so intimate, that I feel heat flood my face. But his fingers are doing devastating things that make honesty impossible to avoid.
“Yes,” I gasp as he finds exactly the right spot and applies perfect pressure. “Yes, I thought about you. About this.”
