Chapter 7 System Diagnostics #2
“Not... noticeably.” He’s breathing faster now, chest rising and falling with visible effort. “Though I have not had occasion to test full functionality until...”
“Until me,” I finish.
“Until you.”
I’m still standing between his knees, one hand resting against his throat where I can feel his pulse hammering, the other braced on his shoulder for balance.
It would take nothing—less than nothing—to lean forward and kiss him.
To stop pretending this is about safety protocols and admit that I want him with an intensity that should probably concern me.
His hands flex at his sides, claws extending slightly before he forces them to retract again.
“You’re doing very well,” I say softly, “with the self-control thing.”
“I am exercising restraint that would impress my ancestors,” he agrees, voice strained. “Though it is becoming increasingly difficult to remember why restraint is important.”
“Because I’m supposed to be examining you medically?”
“Yes. That is definitely the reason.” His eyes are fixed on my mouth. “Not because you smell like arousal and vanilla and I can feel through the bond that you want this as much as I do.”
My breath catches. Busted. “That’s... that’s just biochemical response.”
“Is it?” He hasn’t moved, but somehow the space between us feels smaller. “Because I am fairly certain biochemical responses do not typically involve the kind of detailed fantasies I can feel bleeding through the bond.”
“You can feel—” I start, then stop, horrified. “What exactly can you feel?”
“Curiosity about how my scales would feel under your hands,” he says, his voice dropping to something dark and dangerous. “Wonder about whether my control would hold if you kissed me. Interest in testing the limits of my restraint.” His eyes meet mine, molten gold. “Should I continue?”
“No,” I manage, my face heating. “That’s. That’s sufficient data.”
“Is it?” His hand lifts, hesitant, and settles on my hip with a gentle touch that contradicts the intensity in his gaze. “Because I feel like we have barely begun gathering empirical evidence.”
This is dangerous. This is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing. We’re supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries, not conducting experiments in alien physiology that involve me standing between his thighs while we discuss our mutual attraction.
“Your glands appear to be functioning normally,” I say, trying to salvage some dignity from this situation. “No apparent damage. Full mobility and secretion capacity intact.”
“Thank you for your... thoroughness.”
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of us moves. The air between us is shimmering—actually shimmering with heat haze—and I can see the fine scales along his throat catching the light as his breathing speeds up.
“You do not find my appearance... unsettling?” he asks suddenly, looking uncertain in a way that makes him seem younger. Vulnerable. “The scales, the markings, the obvious non-human features?”
“I find it striking,” I admit, because we’re apparently past the point of polite lies. “Attractive, even. You look like something designed for combat.”
His head snaps up. “Attractive?”
“Extremely.” I trace one of the geometric markings down his shoulder, feeling the slight texture difference where the darker scales create patterns against the golden base. “Like someone took a warrior and decided to make him beautiful just to prove they could.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, testing the word like he’s never applied it to himself before.
“Frustratingly beautiful,” I clarify, letting my fingers trail lower to trace the defined muscle of his chest. “Because it makes it very hard to maintain professional objectivity when you look like this and smell like heaven and vibrate every time I touch you.”
“I do not vibrate,” he protests weakly.
“You’re vibrating right now.”
“That is... muscular tension from restraint.”
“Uh huh.” I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart and the fine tremor running through him. “Very restrained.”
“I am being exceptionally well-behaved,” he insists. “Commander Blade Starfire would have already engaged in possessive claiming behavior. I am merely sitting here while you torment me with medical examinations that feel significantly less medical than advertised.”
“I’m being very professional.”
“You are standing between my knees with your hand on my chest while I try not to think about all the ways I want to touch you,” he counters. “This is perhaps the least professional either of us has ever been.”
He’s right. But I can’t seem to make myself care.
“Zola,” he whispers, my name a plea and a warning and a question all at once.
He leans forward. I sway toward him. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me incrementally closer. This is it. To hell with the protocols. To hell with maintaining boundaries.
I can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes, feel his breath against my lips, smell the shift in his scent as it goes from vanilla-spice to something headier, more intoxicating—
Then, a wet splat.
Something lands directly between us with enough force that it bounces off Crash’s knee before hitting the floor with a squelch.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers caught making out behind the school.
Jitters is on the floor, vibrating so hard he’s a blur of panicked orange. He ricochets off the medical cabinet with a rubbery thwang, bounces off the wall with a splat, and finally puddles in the corner like melted anxiety, letting out a high-pitched whine that sounds like a deflating balloon.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs for entirely different reasons now.
Crash is pressed against the bulkhead like he’s been caught doing something illegal, looking like he’s in actual physical pain. “I believe,” he says, his voice strained and rough, “he is experiencing acute anxiety about social dynamics he does not understand.”
I look at the blob, who is now cycling through distressed colors like a malfunctioning traffic light. I look at the gladiator, who is still obviously aroused and clearly suffering. And I start to laugh.
It’s a hysterical, release-of-tension sound that I can’t stop. It bubbles up from my chest and spills out, leaving me gasping and wiping my eyes.
“We were... we were interrupted by an anxious blob,” I manage between giggles.
“He has impeccable timing,” Crash agrees, though he sounds more pained than amused. He’s still pressed against the wall like he doesn’t trust himself to move closer. “Very... protective.”
Jitters makes a pitiful sound and oozes closer, turning apologetic pink but still vibrating with nerves.
“I think he thought we were fighting,” I realize, watching the blob cautiously approach. “He was trying to interrupt conflict.”
“By launching himself between us like a gelatinous projectile,” Crash says. “Very heroic. Also very unfortunate timing.”
I kneel down, offering my hand to Jitters, who immediately oozes up my arm and settles around my shoulders like an anxious scarf. He’s still vibrating, but the color is shifting from panicked orange to worried lavender.
“It’s okay,” I tell him softly. “We weren’t fighting. We were just...” I trail off, looking at Crash. “What were we doing?”
“Conducting a very thorough medical examination,” Crash supplies, his voice still strained. “Which apparently appeared threatening to blob creatures with poor conflict recognition skills.”
“Right. Medical examination.” I stand up, Jitters still draped over my shoulders like guilty conscience. “We should... probably check our course.”
“Yes,” Crash agrees, though he still hasn’t moved from the wall and I can see exactly why through the thin material of his sleep pants. “Very practical. Navigation is important.”
“Critical, even.”
“Essential to survival.”
We’re both still breathing hard. Neither of us is looking at the navigation console.
“I could check the course,” I offer.
“That would be advisable.”
“Or you could check the course.”
“I could. Yes. That is something I could do.” He doesn’t move.
Jitters warbles something that sounds distinctly judgmental.
“We’re being mocked by the anxiety blob,” I observe.
“He makes a valid point,” Crash admits. “We are both standing here discussing navigation without actually navigating.”
“In our defense, we were interrupted during a critical medical examination.”
“Very critical,” he agrees. “Potentially life-saving.”
“Definitely life-saving.”
“We should probably resume the examination later,” he suggests carefully. “When we are both more... prepared for the consequences.”
“Of the medical examination.”
“Yes. The medical examination that was making us both forget how to breathe properly.”
I bite my lip to stop another laugh. “You’re very articulate for someone who claims to need romance novel research.”
“I am improvising wildly and hoping I do not embarrass myself,” he admits. “Though I suspect I have already failed at that objective.”
“You haven’t embarrassed yourself.” I adjust Jitters on my shoulders and finally turn toward the navigation console, needing space before I do something stupid. “You’ve just... you’ve made it very clear that your glands are functioning properly.”
Behind me, I hear him make a sound between a laugh and a groan.
“Yes,” he says. “They are functioning extremely well. Perhaps too well. I may need to consult additional research materials on managing overactive biological responses.”
“Please don’t research that,” I say, pulling up the navigation display and trying to focus on our course trajectory instead of the man behind me. “I don’t think I can handle learning about your late-night educational sessions in restraint techniques.”
“I make no promises.”
But as I study the screen, I catch his reflection in the dark monitor.
He’s still leaning against the bulkhead, watching me with an expression that isn’t predatory or confused or alien.
It’s the look of a man who just realized he might have a chance.
A man who’s willing to research bad romance novels and exercise impossible restraint and let an anxious blob interrupt important moments because he wants to do right by me.
God help us both.
We still have two and a half days before we reach Kallos Station. Two and a half days of forced proximity, biochemical bonds, and an anxiety blob who apparently thinks sexual tension is a form of conflict.
This is either going to be the longest two and a half days of my life, or it’s going to be over far too quickly.
Judging by the way my body is still humming with frustrated arousal and the bond is practically purring at having been so close to him, I’m betting on the latter.
“Course is optimal,” I announce, my voice only slightly unsteady. “We’ll reach Kallos Station in approximately sixty-three hours.”
“Sixty-three hours,” he repeats.
“Give or take.”
“That is... quite a lot of hours.”
“It is.”
“Filled with potential for additional medical examinations.”
“That would be inadvisable,” I say, but I can’t quite keep the smile out of my voice.
“Extremely inadvisable,” he agrees. “We should maintain strict professional boundaries.”
“Absolutely.”
“No more examinations.”
“Definitely not.”
Jitters makes a sound like a skeptical snort.
Smart blob.