Chapter 6 Talia #2
My breath is coming in short, uneven pulls.
His hand on my neck is warm and steady and it would take so little pressure to turn that hold into something else entirely.
I can feel his pulse through his fingertips, or maybe it's the bond translating his heartbeat to me, and it's faster than his face would ever admit.
"Yes," I say. And then, because I need to hear myself say it, because I need this to be a choice and not a surrender, "I want this."
Something changes behind his eyes. A shift, tectonic and silent, like a fault line giving way deep underground where no one can see the damage yet.
His grip tightens on my neck, not painful, possessive, and then he's standing and I'm moving backward and the view port is cold against my shoulder blades when I hit it.
Stars wheel behind me. I can feel the glass vibrating with the station's rotation, a low hum that travels through my spine and settles in my teeth. The void is at my back, infinite and indifferent, and he is at my front, blocking out everything else.
He pins me there with his hips, and I feel him hard against my stomach, and the reality of that is different from the abstraction.
The abstraction was safe. A thought I could have and discard.
This is the heat of him through two layers of fabric, the way my body arches into it without permission, the sound of his breath changing near my ear.
"I've felt you," he says, low enough that the words are more vibration than sound. "Every night. Lying in your quarters. Wanting."
My face burns. "That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth finds the curve of my neck and he doesn't kiss it so much as claim it, teeth grazing the skin over my pulse, tongue pressing flat against the place where my heartbeat is loudest. "You think I chose this?
Feeling you ache from three corridors away?
Knowing exactly when you touch yourself and exactly when you stop, because you're too angry to finish? "
I close my eyes and the darkness behind my lids is full of cyan light.
His hands find the hem of my shirt and he lifts it over my head in one motion, efficient and unhurried, the way he does everything. The station air hits my skin and I shiver, and he watches me shiver, and his marks are so bright now that they cast shadows on the view port behind me.
He drops to his knees.
It's not what I expected. This man, this creature who owns a station and the lives inside it, on his knees on the cold floor of his quarters with his hands on my hips and his mouth pressing open against my stomach.
The muscles in my abdomen clench under his lips and he makes a sound, quiet and rough, something that might be my name if I listened harder.
He unfastens my pants with the same deliberate precision he uses on everything.
Draws them down. I step out of them and I'm in nothing but underwear, which is his underwear, provided by him, chosen by someone on his staff, and the thought almost makes me laugh except his fingers are hooking into the waistband and pulling and then I'm bare against the cold view port with the stars at my back and a crime lord kneeling between my legs.
"Hold on to something," he says.
I grip the view port frame above my head. The metal is cold and my fingers wrap around it and the position stretches me out, long and exposed, and he looks up at me from the floor with an expression that would terrify me if I had any survival instinct left.
Then his mouth is on me and I forget how to be afraid.
He doesn't tease. He takes. His tongue is hot and flat and certain, stroking through me in long, measured passes that find every nerve ending I have and light them on fire.
My thighs tremble against his jaw and he grips them, holds them apart, fingers denting the flesh hard enough to bruise, and I will see the marks tomorrow and I will remember this and that's the point.
I try to be quiet and I fail spectacularly. The sounds coming out of me are raw and wrecked and nothing I'd recognize as my own voice. He pulls one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, opening me further, and the view port glass is fogging behind me from the heat of my skin.
His tongue circles and presses and retreats, building a rhythm that's designed to undo me, and through the bond I can feel his focus, the terrifying totality of his attention narrowed to this single task.
He is not thinking about cargo manifests or station politics or the man arriving tomorrow.
He is thinking about nothing but making me come, and the purity of that focus is the most intimate thing that's ever happened to me.
I get close. I get so close that my vision whites out at the edges and my grip on the view port frame turns my knuckles to bone, and his tongue does something devastating and deliberate and I feel myself start to fall.
"Wait," I gasp.
He stops.
Immediately. Completely. His mouth lifts from me and his hands go still on my thighs and he looks up at me, breathing hard, his lips wet, his marks pulsing in time with something I can't hear, and he waits.
He waits.
The horror of it is quiet and vast. He stopped.
No hesitation, no negotiation, no pushing through.
I said wait and his body obeyed before his mind could argue, and the implication unfolds in my chest like something with thorns: he would have listened.
All along, through every power play and every possessive look and every time I felt the walls closing in, he would have listened.
It doesn't undo the cage. It doesn't change what I am here or what he bought or the fact that my freedom is theoretical at best. But it plants something in the center of all that ugliness, something small and green and impossible, and I can feel it taking root even as I try to pull it out.
He kneels there, patient and doesn't say a word.
I look down at him. My leg over his shoulder. His hands still on my skin, not gripping now, just resting. Stars wheeling silently behind me. And his face turned up to mine with an expression I will never be able to describe to anyone because it contains too many contradictions to survive language.
"Don't stop," I say.
Something breaks open between us. I feel it through the bond like a shockwave, a mutual falling, and his mouth is on me again before the last syllable dies in the air.
But it's different now. Hungrier. His tongue pushes inside me and I cry out and grip the frame hard enough that the metal bites into my palms and he moans against me, into me, the vibration of it traveling through my core.
When I come, it hits like decompression.
Sudden and total and violent, my whole body seizing around the pleasure, my back arching off the view port so hard that I hear the glass creak behind me.
The sound I make isn't human. It's something torn from the place below language, below thought, and he holds me through it with his mouth and his hands and the steady, terrible patience of a man who has been waiting seven days to feel this through the bond.
His marks are incandescent. Bright enough to illuminate the room, cyan light pouring from his skin like he's been cracked open and something molten lives inside him.
I can see it even through the blur of my vision, even through the aftershocks still rolling through me.
He is glowing with my pleasure, a visible record of what I just gave him, and I have never been so exposed in my life.
He stands before I've finished trembling.
His hands find my waist and he lifts me and I wrap my legs around him on instinct, which is its own betrayal, and he carries me to the bed.
Lays me on sheets that are cool and dark and softer than anything I've ever touched.
Then he pulls his shirt over his head and the marks run the full length of his torso, every line of bioluminescence alive and blazing, and I see the body underneath for the first time: lean and scarred and built for the violence he does so well.
He strips efficiently and without performance. There's nothing theatrical about it. He is a man removing an obstacle between his skin and mine, and when he settles over me, his weight is precise, enough to press me into the mattress without crushing, and the heat of him is everywhere.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. His eyes are darker than I've ever seen them, the blue-grey gone almost black, pupils blown wide. His marks cast light across my bare skin and the shadows they throw are moving, shifting, alive.
He pushes in slow.
My body opens for him and the sensation is full and stretching and so much that I dig my nails into his shoulders and he hisses through his teeth and holds still, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine. Our breath mingles. I can taste the salt of my own skin on his lips.
"More." The word falls out of me before I can catch it.
He gives me more.
The rhythm he builds is controlled the way everything about him is controlled, deep and steady and unrelenting, and each thrust pushes a sound out of me that I can't suppress and don't try to.
His hand slides up my body, over my breast, along my throat, and his fingers close around my jaw, tilting my face so I can't look away from him.
"You feel this?" Low. Rough. Barely words.
All I can manage to do is nod, my eyes on his.
I feel it. I feel everything. The stretch of him inside me and the friction that makes my toes curl and the impossibility of this, of me, of wanting this so badly that it's overriding every rational thought I've ever had.
If i wasn't so deep in the haze I'd be embarassed by how wet he makes me, every thrust making more cum drip down my insides, streaking his cock.