Chapter 16 Bureaucratic Complications #3
“Mostly isn’t cleared for strenuous activity,” I point out, though my pulse is already quickening at his proximity.
“I have time left in my rest period,” he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I think I can manage some moderately strenuous activity without medical complications.”
There’s a pause, then the rustle of fabric hitting the floor.
The shower stall is designed for one person, but when Crash steps in behind me, his body blocks out the world.
Heat radiates off his golden skin—hotter than the water, hotter than should be physically possible.
The regenerative bandaging on his shoulder glints wetly in the steam, but the stress patterns in his scales have already started to fade.
His hands find my hips. Not gentle. Not tentative. Claiming.
“Careful,” I murmur, turning to face him. My fingers trace the edge of the bandaging on his shoulder. “You’re still healing. Doctor's orders!”
"Doctor's orders," he repeats, his eyes dark with want. he repeats, his eyes dark with want. “And I’m Velogian. We heal fast.” His thumbs trace circles on my hip bones. “Besides, I’m not the one who’ll be doing the heavy lifting.”
Heat floods through me at the promise in his voice. “Is that so?”
“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath making me shiver despite the steam, “how difficult it’s been to keep my hands off you for the last six hours?
Watching you work through those forms, brilliant and determined, while every instinct I have was screaming to carry you to bed? ”
“You could have just said something—”
“And interrupted seventeen forms of bureaucratic torture?” His hands slide up my sides, carefully avoiding putting pressure on his injured ribs. “I have more restraint than that.”
“Do you?” I lean into his touch, hyper-aware of his injuries but also of his need. “Because Dr. Yennix said no strenuous activity.”
His laugh is dark and full of promise. “Then you’ll just have to do all the work, won’t you?”
His eyes—golden with those vertical pupils now blown wide with want—meet mine. “The claiming in the cockpit was—”
“Survival,” I interrupt. “Desperation. Biochemical crisis during an asteroid field escape.” I slide my hands up his chest, careful of his ribs, feeling the way his scales shift under my touch.
“And forty-eight hours ago, I watched you nearly die fighting Thek-Ka while I sat helpless on the ship, unable to do anything but feed you tactical data and pray you’d survive. ”
My voice cracks slightly on the last word, and through the bond he feels my fear—the terror of those moments when the EMP cut our connection and I thought I’d lost him.
“But I didn’t die,” he says softly, his hands framing my face. “I came back. We both survived. And this—” he pulls me closer, mindful of his healing ribs, “—this is us choosing each other when we don’t have to. When we’re safe. When we have time.”
Something in his expression shifts. The last of his careful control crumbles.
“Time,” he repeats, and his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me flush against him. “We have time.”
His mouth crashes against mine—claiming, demanding, nothing gentle about it. This isn’t the tentative exploration from before. This is hunger that’s been leashed for too long, finally breaking free. His fangs scrape my lower lip and I gasp, opening for him, letting his forked tongue sweep inside.
The bond flares between us—not overwhelming, not desperate, but bright and certain and amplifying every sensation.
I can feel his arousal pressed hard against my stomach. Can feel the way his body temperature has spiked, his scales flushing darker gold. Can feel through the bond how much it’s costing him to not simply take what he wants.
“Stop holding back,” I breathe against his mouth. “I’m not fragile.”
His hands slide down, cupping my ass and lifting me like I weigh nothing. My back hits the shower wall—cool tile contrasting sharply with his heat. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, and the position puts his cock right where I need it, thick and hard and ridged.
“Fuck,” I gasp as he rolls his hips, those ridges dragging against my clit through the water. “Crash—”
“Say my name again,” he demands, his mouth finding the claiming marks on my throat. His tongue traces the golden crescents, and the sensation shoots straight to my core.
“Crash. Please.”
His laugh is dark and possessive. “Please what, zihah’tel?”
I thread my fingers through his wet hair, pulling his head back so he has to meet my eyes. “Please fuck me. Right here. Right now. No more being careful.”
The last thread of his control snaps.
One hand braces against the wall behind me, the other positions his cock at my entrance. The head is broad, scorching hot even in the water, and when he pushes inside I feel every single ridge of his alien anatomy.
“Oh god,” I moan as he fills me—slow, deliberate, giving me time to adjust to his size. The ridges catch and drag with exquisite friction, nothing like human anatomy, uniquely perfect.
“Too much?” His voice is strained, muscles trembling with the effort of going slow, of not aggravating his healing ribs.
“Not enough.” I dig my nails into his uninjured shoulder, using the leverage to take him deeper. “More. I can take it. The question is, can you?”
I feel his flash of competitive determination through the bond—even injured, even healing, he’s still a warrior who won’t back down from a challenge. “Yes.”
He drives in the rest of the way with one controlled thrust that makes us both gasp. For a moment we’re both frozen, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being completely joined despite his injuries, despite everything we’ve survived.
Through the bond I feel what he feels—the tight heat gripping him, the way my internal muscles flutter around him, the slick welcome of my body. And he feels what I feel—the fullness, the stretch, the perfect ache of being claimed and filled.
“Move,” I demand, clenching around him deliberately.
He does.
The first thrust makes my head fall back against the tile. The second makes me cry out. By the third I’m not forming coherent words anymore, just gasping his name while he drives into me with the strength I knew he was holding back before.
The ridges on his cock hit places that make stars explode behind my eyelids. Each withdraw drags those ridges against nerve endings that light up my entire nervous system. Each thrust fills me completely, the broad head of him hitting deep enough to make me see white.
“Mine,” he snarls against my throat, his fangs scraping the claiming marks without breaking skin. “My mate. My partner. Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree breathlessly, my nails scoring lines down his back. “And you’re mine.”
His pace increases—relentless, powerful, exactly what I need. The shower wall shudders with the force of his thrusts. Water cascades over us both, making our skin slick, making every touch electric.
One hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with devastating precision. The texture of his scales creates friction that makes me clench around him, gasping.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice gone rough and primal. “Let me feel you.”
The combination of his cock hitting deep, those ridges dragging, his thumb on my clit—it’s too much.
I shatter around him, orgasm crashing through me so hard my vision whites out.
Through the bond he feels every second of my pleasure, the tight pulsing of my body around him, the wave of sensation that obliterates thought.
It triggers his own release. He buries himself to the hilt with a roar, his cock pulsing as he fills me with liquid heat. The bond amplifies it all—his pleasure feeding mine, mine intensifying his, until we’re caught in a feedback loop of shared ecstasy.
For a long moment we just breathe together, tangled under the spray, hearts pounding in sync.
“That,” I manage eventually, when I’ve remembered how to form words, “was significantly better than bureaucratic paperwork.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “We should add that to the partnership evaluation criteria. ‘Post-paperwork stress relief: Excellent.’”
“Mother would file eighteen new forms.”
“Worth it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple that’s surprisingly tender given what we just did.
He lowers me carefully, but my legs are shaky and I have to grip his arms for balance. We’re both breathing hard, steam-drunk and thoroughly debauched.
“Bed,” I suggest. “We’ve been awake for approximately thirty-six hours. We need actual rest.”
“Agreed.” He shuts off the water, grabbing towels. “Though I should warn you—sleeping in the same bunk after that is going to test my newfound commitment to adequate rest periods.”
“Then it’s a good thing we have a week before our first contract,” I reply, grinning. “Plenty of time to test your restraint repeatedly.”
His eyes darken with promise. “Repeatedly. I like the sound of that.”
We stumble to the sleeping quarters wrapped in towels, leaving puddles in our wake. The narrow bunk that felt cramped before now feels perfect—just wide enough for us to tangle together, close enough to feel safe.
Crash pulls me against his chest, his warmth better than any blanket. Through the bond I feel his contentment, his fierce protectiveness, his absolute certainty that we made the right choice.
“We’re really doing this,” I murmur sleepily. “Building a life together.”
“Yes,” he agrees, his voice already rough with approaching sleep. “Partners in everything.”
“Everything,” I echo.
Outside The Precision’s viewports, Kallos Station rotates slowly against the stars.
In the galley, Jitters has finally recovered enough to glow a contented pink while recharging.
And in the sleeping quarters, two bonded partners who survived impossible odds—one still healing from cracked ribs and a torn shoulder, the other from the terror of watching him nearly die—hold each other and sleep peacefully for the first time in days.
We have two forms still to complete. Crash is still healing. A week until our first official contract. An anxious blob who's now officially our logistics specialist. And absolutely no idea what we're doing.
It’s perfect.