Chapter 7 Claiming Surge #2
Biting down on her shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark, enough to satisfy the claiming instinct roaring through my biology.
My species has specialized teeth for this, slightly elongated canines designed to grip without tearing.
The bite would bruise beautifully on her warm brown skin—proof of ownership, proof of claim.
Her arching into it, wanting it, wanting me.
“Yours. Make me yours.”
Coming inside her, feeling her clench and pulse around my cock, the ridges locked in place keeping every drop of my release deep where it belongs—
The fantasy crystallizes into one image: Dove’s face, flushed and wanting, her eyes dark with pleasure as she says “Cetus, please.”
Release slams through me like an electromagnetic pulse—sudden, overwhelming, devastating. My jaw clenches against the groan trying to escape. Can’t wake Tavia. Can’t let Dove hear what she does to me.
But the markings along my arms, my shoulders, my chest blaze so bright they turn the entire shower gold.
My cock pulses in my grip, release spilling across my hand and the tile wall in thick ropes.
The ridges are fully swollen, pronounced and flushed dark, locked in the pattern they’d use inside a partner—pulsing with each wave of orgasm like they’re trying to pump seed deeper.
It goes on longer than it should. Lividian males evolved to ensure thorough breeding—multiple pulses of release over thirty to forty-five seconds, each one accompanied by a rhythmic squeeze of the ridges. Enough to guarantee conception during fertile periods.
Wasted here. Washing down the drain instead of filling her.
I ride it out, breathing hard, forehead pressed against cool tile while my body shudders through the aftershocks. The ridges pulse a few more times, gradually softening back to their normal state.
The water washes away the evidence. Doesn’t wash away the need.
Because my body knows—knows—that this was temporary. Insufficient. Not remotely what I actually want.
What I want is impossible. What I want is Dove, soft and willing beneath me, around me, taking every inch of my cock and those specialized ridges and begging for more.
What I want is to hear her discover exactly how good Lividian males can make their partners feel.
What I want is to watch her face when she realizes the ridges aren’t just for sensation—they’re for bonding. For locking together at the moment of climax. For ensuring deep, thorough claiming that leaves no doubt who she belongs to.
What I want is permanence.
And she’s offering me four days.
Heat still radiates from my skin when I finally shut off the water. The markings along my arms and chest continue to pulse—dimmer now, but still visible. Still broadcasting my need to empty quarters.
I’m toweling off when the realization hits with uncomfortable clarity:
This isn’t going away.
One release isn’t going to satisfy three years of celibacy combined with the most intense attraction I’ve felt in my entire life.
Four days isn’t going to be enough.
Not for the sex—though that’s definitely not enough.
Four days isn’t enough time for what my biology wants: to claim her thoroughly, repeatedly, in every way my species recognizes.
To mark her so completely that no other male would dare approach.
To bond with her until our scents are permanently mingled.
To lock inside her body so many times that her tissues reshape to accommodate me, making her physically incompatible with human males.
Four days to make her see that she belongs here. With me. With Tavia. With us.
The impossibility should be overwhelming.
Instead, I find myself planning. Approaching this like a complex terraforming problem that requires systematic effort toward a seemingly unreachable goal.
I’ve transformed toxic atmospheres into breathable air. Surely I can convince one stubborn courier that staying might be worth the risk.
The markings finally dim as I leave the bathroom, exhaustion beginning to win over adrenaline.
The bed is cold and empty. It’s always been cold and empty—Seraphina never slept here, this was never our space. I chose these quarters specifically because they held no memories. No ghosts.
Now I’m creating new associations. New wants.
Twenty meters away, Dove is probably lying awake too. Probably thinking about what almost happened in the kitchen. Probably wondering if she made a mistake offering me four days.
I hope she’s not regretting it.
I hope she’s lying there imagining the same things I am.
I hope four days will be enough to show her what we could have.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
I lie in the darkness, counting the minutes until morning, hyperaware of every sound. The soft hiss of environmental systems. The distant rumble of thunder. The station settling around us.
My markings pulse softly in the darkness—dimmer now, but still present. Still broadcasting need to empty quarters.
“Terraforming Specialist,” Pickles says quietly through the comm channel. “Your cardiac rhythm suggests you remain awake.”
“Observant.”
“I have refrained from commenting on the recent thermal spike in your quarters’ water consumption patterns.”
“I appreciate your discretion.”
Pause.
“For what it’s worth, your biometric data suggests you are experiencing what humans call ‘being thoroughly compromised.’”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “That’s not helpful.”
“I am aware. However, I calculate that attempting to suppress these feelings will result in significantly worse outcomes than simply acknowledging them.”
“She’s leaving, Pickles.”
“Perhaps. But the small person believes otherwise. And your markings indicate something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet.”
“Which is?”
“That you have already claimed her. Your biology simply awaits her acknowledgment.”
The observation hits harder than it should. Because he’s right. Some part of me—the Lividian part that operates on instinct rather than logic—has already decided. Already chosen. Already claimed her as mine, regardless of her four-day limitation.
“She doesn’t want to be claimed,” I say quietly.
“The Captain has spent nine years ensuring she doesn’t want to be claimed,” Pickles corrects. “That is not the same as being incapable of accepting it, should the right circumstances present themselves.”
“You’re suggesting I manipulate her into staying?”
“I am suggesting that you stop assuming her defense mechanisms are her actual desires. The Captain is very good at protecting herself. Perhaps too good.”
I don’t have a response to that.
“Sleep, Terraforming Specialist,” Pickles says finally. “Tomorrow will require significant emotional energy. You should be adequately rested.”
“That’s unlikely.”
“Nonetheless. For the record, I approve of this development. The Captain deserves someone who will fight for her, even when she’s fighting to leave. And the small person deserves to see her father pursue happiness.”
“You’ve become remarkably invested in interpersonal dynamics for a military-grade AI.”
“I have been with the Captain for eight hundred fifty-one days. One becomes... attached. I wish to see her happy. I calculate you have the capacity to provide that happiness, should you both cease being self-protective long enough to acknowledge the compatibility.”
“Eight hundred fifty-one days is a long time.”
“Indeed. I have extensive behavioral data suggesting the Captain’s current trajectory ends in solitary unhappiness. I would prefer an alternative outcome.”
“So you’re matchmaking.”
“I neither confirm nor deny engaging in tactical relationship facilitation. I am merely providing relevant observational data and hoping you are intelligent enough to act on it.”
This time I do smile. “Noted.”
“Excellent. Goodnight, Terraforming Specialist.”
The comm clicks off, leaving me in darkness with my thoughts and my still-warm skin and the knowledge that twenty meters away, Dove is probably lying awake too.
Four days.
Four days to convince her that temporary can become permanent.
Four days to solve a debt problem and protect her from collectors and somehow make her see that she belongs here.
Four days to claim her properly—or at least try.
The markings pulse one final time before finally dimming to baseline.
Four days.
I’ll make them count.