15. Stacy
STACY
I don’t go to him right away, and that’s the first mistake I don’t make.
Instead, I let the tension sit where it built, in the quiet spaces between movement, in the way people avoid looking directly at me but still track where I am, in the way the room breathes differently now that my name has weight attached to it.
The air in the corridor feels cooler than it should, thin enough that every inhale sharpens instead of settles, and I keep walking until the noise of operations fades into something distant and manageable.
By the time I reach his quarters, I already know this isn’t about strategy anymore.
I step inside.
He’s there, exactly where I expected him to be, standing near the console with his back half-turned, the low glow of the display cutting across the lines of his shoulders.
The room carries the faint scent of metal and something warmer beneath it, something that lingers instead of dispersing, and I feel it settle into me the moment the door closes behind me.
“You’re getting comfortable,” he says without turning.
“I am comfortable,” I reply.
That earns a shift, subtle but immediate, his attention sharpening before his body follows.
“That’s not safe when amongst Reapers,” he says.
“No,” I say, stepping further into the room. “But it is with you..”
He turns then, slow, deliberate, his gaze settling on me in a way that feels less like observation and more like assessment.
“You walked in here like you belong,” he says.
“Is there some debate about that?” I match his gaze spark for spark. His expression tightens slightly, not in anger, but in recognition.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, closing the distance between us just enough to make the space intentional.
His eyes narrow slightly. I shake my head slowly, feeling the frustration sharpen into something. The air between us changes, not heavier, but sharper, like the edges of the moment have become more defined.
“You don’t get to change me,” he says.
“I already have,” I reply.
I take another step forward, closing the last of the distance, close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, steady, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore.
His hand moves before I fully register it, not fast, but precise, fingers catching the collar at my throat and tightening just enough to anchor me in place.
“You dance with fire, Anastasia,” he says.
I return his stare without wavering. His gaze sharpens, something flickering beneath the surface that feels closer to desire than mere interest.
“You’re not afraid,” he says.
“I am,” I reply. “But I no longer fear you.”
The air between us tightens again, but this time it pulls instead of resists, the tension folding inward into something that feels less like conflict and more like alignment.
His hand moves from the collar to my jaw, deliberate.
He pulls me into his kiss, his sharp nails scraping along my chin and cheek.
I kiss him back, our tongues lashing in a dance of dominance and submission.
I let him lead, surrendering to his kiss, his touch, and this curious warmth in my breast that grows stronger day by day.
Tyrok pulls away from me, biting my lower lip a touch before releasing me from his kiss. Our gazes lock for a moment, and then my hands move to his belt. He doesn’t stop me this time as I disrobe him. The sight of his throbbing weapon pointed my way sends my pulse racing.
I go down to my knees and take his shaft in both hands. He looks on with curiosity at first, until I begin to reveal my Companion secrets to him. My mind maps his reactions, correlating to when and where I touch him.
His eyes narrow, and a gasp escapes from behind his tightly clenched teeth.
I unveil my secrets a bit slower, wanting to prolong this dance.
My hand cups his leather coinpurse, and even here I find spurs.
His entire body, his entire being is about trying to hurt the galaxy before it has a chance to hurt him.
I feel along the underside of his shaft, then stroke my fingers across his crown. The spurs flex and shiver, and his crown leaks a bit of fluid. I don’t let a drop hit the floor, enveloping his crown with my mouth.
“Yes,” he growls. “Good girl, Anastasia.”
His praise makes the warmth blossom in my chest, and my clit shiver with anticipation. I take more of him inside of my mouth, my hands working his purse and the base of his shaft. Tyrok’s hands go to the back of my head, pulling my hair, but allowing me to move where I will.
I take his entire length, feeling his pulse throb in my mouth and throat, and then slowly pull off of him. When I reach the crown I suckle with intense, varied strength. He loses control, crying out and releasing into my mouth.
He stares down at me, eyes filled with wonder. I feel a smile creep over my face.
“Am I still your good girl, Tyrok?” I ask sweetly.
Tyrok’s eyes narrow, but not with anger. Not really. Intensity, yes, passion, for sure, but not anger. There is, however, a spark of urge to reclaim his lost dominance.
“Here’s a hint,” he growls.
I’m expecting his lunge, but I squeal anyway as he grabs me and spins me around in the air like a toy. Tyrok plants me belly first across the console, and his clawed fingers flip up my skirt with impunity.
Tyrok spreads my legs widely and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my pussy from behind. I arch my back as he enters me, filling me with his throbbing, spurred hardness. My mouth flies open of its own volition, releasing a deep guttural moan born from the depths of my soul.
“Oh God yes,” I cry.
“That is not my name,” he says in a tight voice. His hand bunches in my hair and he pulls my head back. Not violent, but definitely forceful. It only makes my pussy spasm harder, drawing him deeper inside.
“Yes, Tyrok,” I cry. “I’m yours.”
“You. Are. Mine,” he says, punctuating each word with a thrust of his powerful hips. I come on the second, but he doesn’t stop there. His body presses into me, holding me against the console. I push back into him, grinding my hips as we find a perfect synchronicity.
I scream my throat raw as his efforts elicit another orgasm. This one shudders through me like a nuclear detonation, wracking body and mind alike with pure ecstasy. I lose all ability to control myself and just buck and writhe with pulse after pulse of pleasure.
He leans into the thrusts, getting harder, more primal.
I feel his cock stiffen to metal like rigidity before he releases inside of me.
Then his spurs shiver and his cock throbs as it empties itself.
The vibration sets me off again, and I would fall over if he did not keep me pressed against the console, not to mention the hand in my hair.
I’m a limp, shivering, cumming mess as he lifts my head up and around until he can kiss me.
“Mine,” he growls.
“Yours,” I whisper in a quivering voice. “Always yours.”