Chapter 12 Complete Surrender
Complete Surrender
Dominique
My hands shake as I work at the fastenings of Wi’kar’s uniform—not from nerves, but from the sheer electric anticipation coursing through my veins. Each clasp that opens reveals more of that perfect silver skin, the controlled power hidden beneath his diplomatic facade.
God, he’s magnificent.
“You’re trembling,” I observe, running my fingertips along the defined lines of his chest. His skin is warmer than human-normal, and I can feel his pulse hammering beneath my palm.
“Gluxians do not tremble,” he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, and I can see the way his pupils dilate when I touch him.
“No?” I trace the edge of where his uniform still clings to his shoulders, watching the way his breathing changes. “Then what do you call this?”
The uniform shirt falls away, and I have to pause just to breathe.
Wi’kar without his precise armor of regulation fabric is.
.. devastating. Broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. Muscle definition that speaks of hidden strength.
The subtle differences in bone structure that mark him as something otherworldly and impossibly attractive.
“I call it unprecedented physiological response to optimal stimulation,” he manages, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Even now, you’re trying to turn passion into a technical manual.” I push the shirt completely off his shoulders, letting my hands map the warm skin beneath. “Some things can’t be categorized, Agent Perfect.”
The way he looks at me—like I’m simultaneously his salvation and his ruination—makes heat pool low in my belly. Those alien eyes track my every movement as I let my gaze travel over his revealed torso, drinking in details I’ve been fantasizing about for days.
“You’ve been hiding all this under those regulation uniforms?” I whisper, because the sight of him half-dressed is doing things to my self-control that should probably be illegal.
“Physical fitness is required for diplomatic courier duties,” he says stiffly, but I can see the way my appreciation affects him—the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for me but won’t let himself.
Something breaks in his expression when I step closer—some last wall of resistance crumbling. His hands find my waist, large and warm and careful, but when he pulls me against him, there’s nothing careful about the desperate hunger in his touch.
“Dominique,” he says, my name rough on his tongue. “I must warn you—my species’ anatomy may be... unfamiliar. If you wish to stop—”
“Do I look like I want to stop?” I interrupt, pressing my lips to the pulse point at his throat. His skin tastes like salt and something uniquely him that makes my body respond with embarrassing enthusiasm. “I’ve wanted this since the moment you caught my wrist in that cargo bay.”
The sound he makes—half groan, half growl—vibrates against my lips. Then his mouth finds mine with desperate hunger, and the world narrows to this: the taste of him, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the evidence of his arousal pressing hard against my hip through his remaining clothing.
When we break apart, both breathing heavily, I can see something has fundamentally shifted in his expression. The careful control is still there, but underneath it lurks something darker. More primal.
“Your turn to be worshipped,” I whisper against his ear, and feel him shudder at the words.
I set my hands on his chest and push him back toward the bed, my eyes never leaving his face as I watch his pupils dilate with want.
When the backs of his knees hit the sleeping platform, he sits heavily, looking up at me with an expression caught between anticipation and that careful control he’s always trying to maintain.
“Let me see you,” I breathe, my hands moving to the fastenings of his regulation trousers. “All of you.”
His breathing becomes audibly irregular as I work the clasps open, each one revealing more of what he’s been hiding beneath all that diplomatic perfection. When I peel the fabric away completely, my breath catches in my throat.
Oh. Oh my.
His alien anatomy is... impressive doesn’t begin to cover it. Larger than human average, with subtle ridges along the shaft that promise entirely new sensations. And at the base, I can see additional appendages—smaller, more flexible extensions that twitch slightly under my fascinated gaze.
“The additional anatomy serves specific purposes during mating,” he explains, his voice strained as he watches my reaction. “For enhanced pleasure and... connection.”
“Show me,” I breathe, reaching out to trace one finger along his length. He jerks at the contact, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth.
I take my time learning him, mapping every ridge and sensitive spot with my hands and mouth.
The additional appendages respond to my touch, extending and retracting in ways that make him groan and writhe beneath me.
When I take him in my mouth, his alien anatomy adds new dimensions to the experience—textures and responses entirely unlike anything human.
“These,” I murmur between kisses, stroking the flexible extensions at his base, “what do they do?”
“They...” His voice breaks as I continue my exploration. “During coupling, they provide additional stimulation. Internal and external. For both partners.”
The promise in those words makes liquid heat flood through me. “I want to feel them.”
I work him with dedicated enthusiasm, using everything I’ve learned about his unique anatomy. The ridges respond to different pressures, the appendages seem to have minds of their own, and the sounds he makes—desperate, primal, nothing like his usual controlled speech—drive me to push him further.
When I finally drive him over the edge with my mouth and hands, he comes with a roar that definitely tests AXIS’s sound dampening, his entire body arching as those alien appendages writhe with his release.
In the aftermath, as his breathing slowly returns to normal, I feel a surge of feminine triumph. This is what I wanted—to see him undone, uncontrolled, utterly mine.
But when he looks up at me, there’s something new in his alien eyes. Something that makes my breath catch and my pulse spike.
“My turn,” he says, and his voice carries a note I’ve never heard before—dark promise mixed with barely leashed control.
Before I can process what that means, he’s moving with alien speed and strength, flipping our positions so I’m beneath him on the bed. His hands find the fastenings of my shipsuit, but instead of the reverent care I expected, there’s something almost predatory in his movements.
“Wi’kar?” I breathe, confused by this sudden shift in his demeanor.
“You have spent days disrupting my carefully ordered existence,” he says, his voice low and hypnotic as he slowly peels away my clothing. “Creating chaos in my perfectly regulated world. Perhaps it is time I returned the favor.”
The shipsuit falls away piece by piece, but he doesn’t rush.
Each article of clothing is removed with deliberate slowness, his hands skimming over newly revealed skin without quite giving me the pressure I crave.
When his fingertips trace the curve of my breast, barely grazing the nipple, I arch toward him seeking more contact.
He pulls away with what I swear is a smile.
“Patience, Princess,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my throat. “I am discovering that I quite enjoy... disorder. In certain contexts.”
His mouth follows the path his hands have taken, pressing soft kisses to my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. Each touch is feather-light, designed to inflame rather than satisfy.
“This is torture,” I gasp as his lips trail along my ribcage, deliberately avoiding anywhere I actually want to be touched.
“Is it?” His voice carries genuine curiosity, as if he’s conducting some fascinating experiment. “AXIS did mention that variety in approach can optimize outcomes.”
“Did you just quote your AI during foreplay?”
“I am adaptable to situational requirements,” he replies solemnly, then ruins the effect by using his tongue to trace a pattern around my navel that makes me squirm beneath him.
When his mouth finally finds my breast, I nearly sob with relief. But instead of the firm pressure I expect, he delivers the lightest possible touch—barely there flicks of his tongue that make me want to grab his head and demand more.
“Wi’kar, please—”
“Please what?” he asks against my skin, and I can feel his smile. “You must be specific in your requests. I am merely following proper diplomatic protocol for... negotiations.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse,” I accuse, then lose my train of thought entirely when one of his hands trails down my body to rest just above where I desperately need to be touched.
“I am being thorough,” he corrects. “My species values... comprehensive attention to detail.”
His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, coming tantalizingly close to where I’m already wet and ready for him, but never quite making contact. The alien bastard is mapping every sensitive spot, cataloging my responses, learning exactly how to drive me insane.
“God, you’re evil,” I breathe as he continues his methodical torture.
“I prefer ‘strategically thorough,’” he replies, then finally—finally—lets one finger trace along my folds.
The touch is so light it’s barely there, but after all his teasing, it makes me jolt like I’ve been electrified. He makes a pleased sound, as if my reaction has confirmed some hypothesis.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “Human sensitivity appears to increase exponentially with... anticipation.”
“If you don’t stop treating this like a science experiment and actually touch me properly, I’m going to—”