Chapter 7 Christmas Past #3
I should deny it. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that we’re in an emergency pod, that rescue is coming, that everything between us is complicated and messy and dangerous.
Instead, I close the final inch between us and press my lips to his.
The kiss ignites like touching plasma to oxygen.
His mouth is alien and familiar all at once—warmer than human, with the hint of sharp canines that should be frightening but instead sends thrills through my nervous system.
He kisses like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for two years and my permission just broke every restraint he’s maintained.
His hand in my hair tightens, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss, and his tongue traces my lower lip before sliding against mine in a dance that’s purely sensual. The taste of him—alien spice and something fundamentally Ober—makes me dizzy with want.
When I make a soft sound against his mouth, his tail responds by stroking more deliberately along my thigh, the tip finding the sensitive spot where my leg meets my hip and pressing in a way that makes me arch against him.
“Two years,” he breathes against my lips, punctuating each word with another kiss. “Two years of dreaming about having you in my arms again.”
“Ober,” I whisper, and his name seems to break something loose in both of us.
This time when he kisses me, it’s with the kind of intensity that rewrites neural pathways.
His free hand slides down to my hip, pulling me tighter against him until I can feel exactly how affected he is by our proximity.
The hard length of him presses against my core through the thin fabric of our emergency suits, and the friction makes me gasp into his mouth.
“Feel what you do to me,” he growls, his hips rolling slightly against mine in a movement that’s both claim and question. “Feel how much I’ve missed you.”
The sensation of him, hard and hot and wanting, makes coherent thought impossible.
This is madness—we’re in an emergency pod, waiting for rescue, with nothing resolved between us except two years of hurt and longing.
But his hands on my body feel like coming home, and his alien warmth is melting resistance I’ve maintained through sheer force of will.
When his tail shifts to stroke along the seam of my flight suit, finding the sensitive spot between my legs and applying just enough pressure to make me moan, I realize I’m past the point of stopping this.
“Yes,” I breathe against his mouth, and the word seems to unleash something primal in him.
His hand slides under my jacket, finding the place where my shirt has ridden up and stroking across bare skin with reverent fingers. The touch sends electricity through my nervous system, and I arch into him, seeking more contact.
“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck to find the spot where my pulse hammers visibly. When he presses a kiss there, using just enough teeth to make me shiver, I feel the sensation straight to my core. “So perfect. I forgot how perfectly you fit against me.”
His fingers trace patterns on my skin that feel like writing promises in a language only my body understands. Every touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he’s trying to memorize the texture of my skin after two years of dreaming about it.
“I never forgot,” I admit, my hands fisting in his jacket as his mouth works magic on my throat. “Never stopped wanting your hands on me.”
The confession makes him groan against my neck, and his tail responds by pressing more firmly between my legs, finding the exact spot that makes me gasp and arch against him. The pressure is perfect—not quite enough to satisfy but more than enough to drive me out of my mind with want.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with barely contained desire. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you’ve been dreaming about.”
The combination of his hands on my skin, his tail creating delicious friction between my legs, and his mouth working magic on my neck is rapidly driving me toward a state where I won’t be able to think about consequences or complications.
All I can focus on is the way he’s touching me like I’m precious, like I’m necessary, like he’s been starving for this contact.
“I want...” I start, then lose the words when his hand slides higher under my shirt, thumb brushing the edge of my bra with maddening lightness.
“What?” he prompts, his breath hot against my ear. “What do you want me to do to you?”
“I want you to touch me properly,” I whisper, the words coming out desperate and needy. “I want your hands on my skin. I want to feel you everywhere.”
His response is immediate and devastating. His hand slides fully under my shirt, finding the front clasp of my bra and working it open with alien dexterity. When his palm settles against my bare breast, thumb stroking across my nipple, I cry out softly and arch into his touch.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice pure sin and satisfaction.
“Yes,” I breathe, and the word comes out like a prayer.
He takes his time exploring, relearning the weight and shape of me in his palm, the way my nipple peaks under his touch, the sounds I make when he finds exactly the right pressure.
His tail continues its maddening stroking between my legs, and the combination of sensations is making it hard to think.
“PIP,” I manage, my voice coming out breathy and desperate. “Privacy mode. Now.”
“Of course!” PIP’s cheerful voice immediately dims to barely audible. “Activating advanced thermal management and atmospheric recycling. I’ll just be... monitoring external conditions. Quite thoroughly. For safety.”
The moment we have privacy, Ober’s restraint visibly snaps.
His mouth claims mine again, hungrier this time, while his hands map my body with the desperation of someone making up for two years of enforced distance.
When he finds the seam of my flight suit and works it open enough to slide his hand inside, the sensation of alien fingers against my bare skin makes me cry out softly against his lips.
“Two years,” he growls against my mouth, his hands working to push my shirt up and out of the way. “Two years of dreaming about this, and you’re even more perfect than I remembered.”
When his mouth replaces his hand on my breast, the sensation is electric.
His alien anatomy gives him advantages—the slightly rougher texture of his tongue, the way his enhanced body temperature makes every touch feel like fire against my skin.
He lavishes attention on my nipple until I’m writhing against him, then switches to the other side to drive me even higher.
“Ober, please,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair as he continues his thorough exploration of my chest.
“Please what?” he asks, lifting his head just enough to look at me with molten alien eyes. “Tell me exactly what you need.”
“I need more,” I whisper, my body aching with want. “I need you to touch me everywhere.”
His smile is pure predatory satisfaction. “With pleasure.”
His hands work at the fastenings of my flight suit, peeling the fabric away from my overheated skin with careful precision. Every inch of flesh he reveals, he worships with touches and kisses that make me gasp and arch beneath him.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs against my collarbone, his voice full of wonder. “Every touch makes you tremble. Every kiss makes you moan. I’d forgotten how gorgeous you are when you let yourself feel.”
When he finally has my suit open to the waist, his hands map the newly exposed skin with reverent attention. His alien anatomy gives him advantages here too—longer fingers that can reach more of me at once, enhanced sensitivity that lets him find every spot that makes me gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, even as his hand slides lower, tracing the waistband of my underwear with maddening lightness. “Tell me this is just emergency proximity and shared body heat and I’ll stop.”
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the fastenings of his jacket, working them open with shaking fingers until I can spread my palms across the solid warmth of his chest. His skin is fever-hot and marked with scars I remember, and touching him feels like reclaiming something I thought I’d lost forever.
The groan he makes when I trace one particular scar is pure masculine satisfaction, and his tail responds by pressing more firmly between my legs, finding the exact spot that makes me gasp and arch against him.
“Not emergency protocols,” I whisper against his mouth. “Not shared body heat. Just... us. Finally.”
His response is to capture my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises and possession and two years of longing finally given permission to exist. His hand slides beneath the waistband of my underwear, and when his fingers find me wet and ready, he makes a sound of pure masculine satisfaction.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growls against my lips, his fingers exploring with careful precision. “So ready. Did you think about this while you were running from me? Did you touch yourself and imagine it was my hands on you?”
The question is so explicit, so intimate, that I feel heat flood my face. But his fingers are doing devastating things that make honesty impossible to avoid.
“Yes,” I gasp as he finds exactly the right spot and applies perfect pressure. “Yes, I thought about you. About this.”
“What specifically?” he asks, his voice rough with desire as his fingers continue their maddening exploration. “Tell me what you imagined.”
“Your hands on me,” I breathe, my body arching into his touch. “Your mouth on my skin. The way you used to make me come apart with just your fingers.”
His response is to add another finger, stretching me in the most delicious way while his thumb finds my clit and circles it with expert precision. The sensation is overwhelming, and I cry out softly against his shoulder.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice full of dark satisfaction. “Is this what you dreamed about?”
“Better,” I gasp, my hips moving against his hand of their own accord. “So much better than I remembered.”
He takes his time building me up, varying pressure and rhythm until I’m writhing against him, desperate for release. His tail continues its maddening pressure between my legs, adding another layer of sensation that’s uniquely alien and absolutely perfect.
“Come for me,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice a harmonic rumble that vibrates through my bones. “Let me feel you fall apart in my arms.”
The combination of his words, his fingers, and his tail finally pushes me over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my body convulsing against his as two years of longing and want finally find release.
He holds me through it, murmuring words of praise and satisfaction against my hair as I slowly come back to myself. When I finally catch my breath, I realize I’m clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.
“Perfect,” he breathes, pressing kisses to my temple. “You’re so perfect when you come. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are when you let go.”
The tender words make my chest tight with emotion. This isn’t just physical—it’s emotional reclamation, a rebuilding of intimacy that goes beyond desire to something deeper and more necessary.
“Your turn,” I whisper, my hands working at the fastenings of his pants with determined precision.
“Noomi, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I cut him off, finally getting his clothes open enough to wrap my hand around him. He’s hot and hard in my palm, and the sound he makes when I stroke him is pure masculine pleasure. “I want to touch you. Want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”
His head falls back against the pod wall as I explore him with careful attention, relearning the weight and texture of him in my hand. His alien anatomy provides interesting variations—slightly different proportions, enhanced sensitivity that makes him gasp and curse at the lightest touch.
“Two years,” he groans as I find exactly the right rhythm. “Two years of imagining your hands on me again.”
I take my time with him, varying pressure and speed until he’s trembling beneath my touch. His tail winds around my leg more tightly, and his hands fist in my hair as I drive him higher.
“I’m not going to last,” he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
“Good,” I whisper against his ear. “I want to watch you come apart for me.”
My words seem to be his undoing. He cries out my name as he finds his release, his body shuddering against mine as pleasure takes him. I watch his face as he comes, memorizing the way his alien features transform with ecstasy.
Afterward, we cling to each other in the small space, both breathing hard and processing what just happened between us. The intimacy feels fragile and precious, like something that could shatter if we acknowledge it too directly.
“Well,” PIP’s voice cuts through our post-orgasmic haze with apologetic cheer. “That was certainly fascinating from a xenobiological perspective! However, I’m afraid I must report incoming ships. Multiple signatures.”
The words hit like cold space vacuum, and we break apart enough to stare at each other with wild eyes. I can see my own mixture of satisfaction and frustrated desire reflected in his alien gaze.
“How long?” Ober asks, his voice still rough from our activities.
“Perhaps five minutes until docking. Shall I... delay opening procedures?”
“No,” I say, even though every cell in my body is screaming in protest. “No, we need that rescue.” I look into Ober’s eyes, seeing the same mixture of satisfaction and promise that I’m feeling. “But this conversation isn’t over.”
His smile is pure predatory satisfaction. “Sweetheart, this conversation is just getting started.”
As we hastily straighten our clothes, I can’t help but think that Krax’s psychological warfare just backfired spectacularly. He wanted to strip away our defenses and force intimacy.
Mission accomplished—just not the way he intended.
We’re both disheveled, both still breathing hard, both carrying the scent of sex and satisfaction. There’s no hiding what happened between us in this small space.
And I find I don’t want to hide it. For the first time in two years, I feel whole. Complete. Like I’ve found a missing piece of myself I thought was gone forever.
As the rescue team begins opening procedures, Ober catches my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my palm that feels like a promise.
“To be continued,” he murmurs, and the words send heat spiraling through me all over again.
Yes, I think as the pod opens and reality intrudes on our intimate bubble. Definitely to be continued.