Chapter 4 Thermal Dynamics #2
“Liar.” He nips the sensitive cord of my neck, not breaking skin, but close enough to make me shudder. “Then sleep, Polly. Before I stop pretending to be civilized and show you what claiming actually feels like.”
I try. I really do.
But every breath drags his scent into my lungs until I’m drunk on it. Every small shift reminds me how perfectly we fit, how little fabric separates us, how easily he could slide his hand lower and find out exactly how ready I am.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I only remember heat, and restraint stretched to breaking, and the low, constant thrum of his body telling mine a story in a language older than words.
I wake up burning.
At some point in the night, we moved.
I’m flat on my back. Rynn is half sprawled over me like a blanket made of muscle and bad decisions.
His face is buried in the crook of my neck, lips pressed to my pulse, inhaling me like I’m the only oxygen in the sector.
One heavy thigh is shoved between mine, pressing up against the seam of my pants with devastating accuracy.
His hand is under my shirt, palm spread over my bare stomach, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles that make my hips chase the pressure without conscious thought.
His cock is a steel brand against my hip, thick and pulsing in time with the frantic beat between my legs. The plating on his chest is vibrating so hard the entire bunk is humming, a low, filthy song that has me soaked and shaking.
I should wake him up.
I should shove him off and laugh it away with some quip about personal space.
Instead, my traitorous hand slides down the ridged plane of his abdomen, tracing the burning scales, stopping just above the waistband of his trousers where the heat is fiercest. My fingertips brush the velvet-smooth ridge of him through the fabric, and the sound he makes—half snarl, half broken prayer—goes straight to my clit.
His hips jerk forward, grinding that thick length against my hand once, twice, a third time that drags a desperate noise from my throat.
His head lifts.
His hair is a mess, falling over his forehead. His eyes are completely black now, pupils blown so wide there’s only a thin ring of molten gold left. His lips are swollen, his fangs fully extended and glinting in the dim light. He looks wild. Wrecked.
“Polly,” he rasps, and my name sounds like surrender.
“You’re crushing me,” I lie, because the weight is perfect and I never want it to end.
He looks down at where my hand is resting on his hip, at my shirt rucked up under my arms exposing everything to the cool air and his hot gaze.
“Fuck,” he breathes, human and wrecked and beautiful.
The hand on my stomach slides higher, knuckles dragging over my ribcage, cupping my breast through the thin bra, thumb finding my nipple and circling once, slow, deliberate, merciless.
My back arches clear off the mattress. A broken sound tears out of me.
“You think this is a game,” he growls, rolling the bud between finger and thumb until I’m panting, his voice rough with sleep and hunger. “You think I won’t take everything you’re offering and more.”
“I think you’re dying to,” I gasp, my hips bucking up to meet his thigh.
His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s warfare.
Teeth and tongue and pure, filthy possession. He tastes like the moment lightning strikes—like ozone and dark spice and the promise of ruin. I fist his hair, yank him closer, open wider, take everything he gives and demand twice as much.
His hand slides down my pants, fingers digging into my hip, possessive and bruising. He grinds down on me, the friction almost unbearable, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of my hips.
He breaks the kiss, gasping, his forehead resting against mine.
“If I continue,” he growls, his voice vibrating through my skull, “I will claim you. Here. Now. Irrevocably. The bond will be permanent.”
“Maybe I want you to,” I whisper, reckless and aching.
He pulls back to look at me, his eyes burning with a conflict that terrifies me. He looks like he’s about to say yes. He looks like he’s about to devour me whole.
“ATTENTION CAPTAIN,” Zip’s voice blasts through the comms panel, shattering the world. “SENSORS ARE PICKING UP A PASSIVE SCAN GHOST. ECHO SEVEN-DELTA.”
Rynn freezes above me.
For a second, he doesn’t move. His chest is heaving, his hips are still pressed against mine, his hardness mocking both of us. He looks wild, furious, and completely undone.
Then, the soldier slams back into his body.
He rips himself away from me, hitting the opposite wall of the bunk with a thud. He runs a hand through his hair, his breathing ragged.
“Echo Seven-Delta,” he repeats, his voice rough, unrecognizable.
He looks at me—lips bitten red, hair a mess I put there, shirt shoved up, thighs spread wide—and the hunger in his face could level entire systems.
But the mask is back. The cold, impenetrable mask of his people.
“They found us,” he says.
He climbs out of the bunk without looking back.
I lie there for a second, trembling, empty, furious, and alive. I pull my shirt down, my hands shaking.
This isn’t over.
The engine room is colder than the bunk, but the tension between us is hot enough to weld metal.
Rynn is already at the primary console, back in his jacket, back in his armor. He’s working with efficient, brutal precision, checking the matrix stability. He hasn’t looked at me since we left the cabin.
“Matrix is stable,” I say, sliding out from under the manifold. “We’re green for FTL.”
“Good.” He doesn’t look up. “We have fifteen minutes before they triangulate our position.”
I wipe grease from my hands, watching him. The silence is heavy, filled with everything we almost did.
“Rynn,” I say.
He stiffens. “Focus on the ship, Captain.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend that didn’t happen.”
He finally turns. His eyes are hard, gold flint. “Nothing happened. We survived the cold. We woke up. Now we have a job to do.”
“You almost kissed me senseless. You threatened to claim me.”
“And it was a mistake.” He steps closer, looming over me, using his height like a weapon. “A tactical error. One I will not repeat.”
“Because you’re scared?”
“Because you are a liability when I am distracted!” The shout echoes in the small room. He takes a breath, reigning it in. “If they catch us... if they board this ship...”
He reaches out, grabbing my upper arms. His grip is tight, desperate.
“If they board us,” he says, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper, “you surrender me.”
I blink. “What?”
“You tell them I forced you. That I hijacked the vessel. You give me up, and you walk away.”
I stare at him. The heat in my blood turns to ice. “Are you insane?”
“It is the only logical outcome. I am the target. They will trade your life for mine without hesitation. You are irrelevant to them. If you fight, you die. If you surrender me, you live.”
“The target?” My laugh is harsh, disbelief warring with the cold knot in my stomach. “Why? You’re a diplomat, Rynn. Why are they hunting you like you’re the crown jewels?”
“It does not matter why! It only matters that they will kill you to get to me.”
“I’m not giving you up.”
“Polly—”
“No!” I shove at his chest, breaking his grip.
“We just spent eight hours tangled together, you had your hands all over me, and now you think you can order me to hand you over to the people who want to capture you?” I poke him hard in the chest. “I don’t know how things work in your fancy diplomatic circles, Lord Broody, or what kind of trouble you’re actually in, but on this ship, the Captain decides who leaves. And nobody leaves unless I say so.”
He looks at me, frustration and awe warring in his expression.
“You are impossibly stubborn,” he growls.
“And you’re impossibly noble. Makes us a terrible team.” I glare at him, eyes stinging. “Now move. I have an FTL drive to engage.”
He steps aside, but he catches my hand as I pass. Just for a second. His thumb brushes my knuckles—an apology, or a promise, I don’t know.
“FTL DRIVE ONLINE,” Zip announces. “READY FOR DEPARTURE. ALSO, THE SENSOR GHOST HAS RESOLVED INTO THREE DISTINCT SIGNALS. INTERCEPT VECTOR CALCULATED.”
I pull my hand away and climb the ladder to the cockpit, my heart pounding a rhythm of fury and desire.
I drop into the pilot’s seat. Rynn straps into the co-pilot station next to me. He checks his weapon—a sleek silver blaster—and sets his jaw.
“Ready, Lord Broody?” I ask, my voice tight.
He looks at me then. The mask slips, just for a second, revealing the man who was ready to claim me in the dark.
“Ready, Captain.”
I punch the throttle. Pink Slip screams forward, leaping back into the stars.
Forty-eight hours. We have ten left on the clock, three ships hunting us, and a tension between us that’s thick enough to stop a laser blast.