Page 45 of Naughty List Delivery
“Lower,” he suggests, his voice rough with need. His tail now trails along my spine, leaving fire in its wake. “Much lower.”
The medical bay doors choose that exact moment to slide open with their characteristic hiss, admitting Kex with a data pad. His gruff voice fills the space: “Captain, the Shadowhawk is secured and—”
He stops mid-sentence, takes in the scene—my position leaning over Ober’s medical table, my hand on his chest, his tail wrapped around my waist—and his weathered features go through several color changes.
“Out,” Ober says simply, his voice carrying unmistakable command. “Lock the door. Don’t come back.”
“Yes,” Kex says quickly, already backing away. “Privacy lock. Soundproof. Very soundproof. Hours. Possibly all day.”
The doors slide shut with decisive finality.
“Now,” he says, his attention fully on me again, “where were we?”
His skin is fever-warm under my palm, muscles shifting with alien grace as he moves. The medical gown has shifted during his movements, revealing more of his chest, and I can see the evidence of his enhanced healing—skin that was torn and bruised eighteen hours ago now showing only faint silver lines.
“I said strip,” he reminds me, his voice carrying that edge of command that makes my knees weak. “I want to see all of you. Want to touch what’s mine.”
“Yours?” I challenge, but my hands are already working at the fastenings of my courier jacket.
“Mine,” he confirms, watching every movement I make with predatory focus. “Has been for three years. Will be for the next three hundred.”
The jacket hits the floor, and his eyes go dark as he takes in the sight of me in just my undershirt and pants. His tail tightens around my waist, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against the medical table between his spread thighs.
“More,” he growls, his hands coming up to frame my hips. “I want to see everything I’ve been dreaming about.”
My shirt follows my jacket, and the sound he makes is purely animal. His enhanced body heat radiates against my bare skin, and when his hands map the exposed flesh of my waist, I feel the careful press of claws against my skin.
“God, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, his mouth finding the pulse point at my throat. When he nips at the sensitive skin there, I feel the deliberate press of elongated fangs. “Do you know what it’s been like? Three years of wanting you, of remembering how you taste? Our time in the Emergency Pod was just a taster.”
His words send heat flooding through me, pooling low in my belly. “Show me,” I whisper. “Show me how much you missed me.”
His control snaps with an almost audible sound. In one fluid movement, he sits up and captures my mouth with his, kissing me with three years of pent-up hunger. His lips are demanding, and when I open for him, I taste something wild and alien that makes my head spin.
The position is awkward with me standing beside the medical table, but before I can adjust, his tail wraps around my waist and lifts me easily, settling me across his lap so I’m straddling his thighs. The position brings us flush together, and I can feel theevidence of his arousal against my core even through the layers of clothing between us.
“Fuck,” I gasp against his mouth, my hands fisting in the thin material of his medical gown. “Ober—”
“I know,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my throat to find the spot where my pulse beats fastest. “I can smell how much you want this. Can smell how wet you are for me already.”
It’s true. His enhanced senses would pick up every subtle change in my body chemistry, every sign of arousal and need. There’s something darkly thrilling about being so transparent to him, about knowing he can read my desire like a map.
“The gown needs to go,” I tell him, tugging at the fastenings with hands that aren’t steady. “I need to see you. All of you.”
He helps me work the gown over his head, careful of the remaining bandages, and then I’m looking at him—really looking—for the first time in three years. His alien healing has worked miracles. His chest is broader than I remembered, muscles more defined, the subtle scaling along his ribs more pronounced. And he’s magnificent—every inch of him built for predatory grace and alien strength.
But it’s the way he’s looking at me that steals my breath. Like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
“My turn,” he says roughly, his hands going to the fastenings of my remaining clothes. “I need to see you too. Need to touch you without barriers.”
His hands make quick work of my remaining clothes, and then we’re skin to skin, his alien heat searing against my human flesh. The contact is electric, sending shockwaves through every nerve ending I possess. His enhanced body temperature means touching him is like curling up against a living furnace.
“Perfect,” he growls against my throat, his hands mapping every inch of exposed skin like he’s memorizing me all over again. “So fucking perfect.”
When his mouth follows the path his fingers trace—down my throat, across my collarbone, lower—I arch against him helplessly. His fangs scrape delicately against sensitive skin, marking me with careful precision.
“Mine,” he murmurs against my breast, the word vibrating through me. “Every inch of you. Mine to touch, mine to taste, mine to claim.”
His tail wraps around my thigh, holding me in place as his mouth continues its devastating exploration. The scaled appendage is surprisingly gentle but unmistakably controlling, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
