Chapter 9
MARA
Idon’t sleep.
I lie on the narrow bench with my back against the wall, staring at the dim seam where ceiling meets bulkhead, counting the seconds between the hum of the station’s systems. The air smells faintly metallic, recycled too many times, but under it there’s something warmer now. Something human.
Tatek.
He lies beside me, not touching. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin layer of fabric and tension and restraint. His breathing is steady. Controlled. Too controlled. Not the breathing of someone asleep.
Neither of us moves.
We’ve been like this for over an hour. Two bodies pretending rest while every nerve hums like a live wire.
I keep telling myself I should roll away.
I don’t.
Every time I shift even an inch, my skin becomes hyper-aware of the empty space between us. My arm aches where it almost brushes his. My thigh is too close to his hip. My pulse keeps tripping over itself like it’s waiting for permission.
The silence is unbearable.
Not awkward.
Expectant.
I finally turn my head.
He’s already looking at me.
Of course he is.
His eyes are dark in the low light, pupils blown wide, face carved into stillness like he’s afraid movement might shatter something fragile. The moment stretches.
“You’re not asleep,” I whisper.
“No,” he says quietly.
“Me neither.”
“I know.”
That does something to my chest.
We keep staring at each other like idiots.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m convinced he can hear it.
I don’t plan it.
I just… move.
My hand slides across the thin space between us and brushes the back of his fingers.
Barely.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
His entire body reacts like I shocked him. A sharp inhale. Muscles locking. His hand twitches under mine, then stills, as if he’s holding himself on a leash.
I don’t pull away.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“Say what?”
“That you want this.”
My throat tightens. “You already know.”
“I need to hear it.”
I swallow. “I want you.”
The sound he makes is low and broken and not entirely human.
He turns onto his side in one smooth motion and kisses me.
No hesitation.
No slow testing.
He kisses me like restraint finally snapped its teeth.
His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sweeping into mine with the kind of hunger that steals my breath outright. I make a startled noise and clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, needing the pressure of his weight, the proof that this is real.
He groans into my mouth, deep and rough, and the sound goes straight through me.
God.
He tastes like heat and control and something dangerously close to desperation.
His hands find my face, thumbs bracketing my jaw, holding me still while he devours me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. Every kiss is deeper than the last, slower, more thorough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth with his.
I break away gasping.
“Tatek—”
“Tell me to stop,” he says, breath ragged, lips brushing mine again. “And I will.”
I don’t even pretend to think.
“Don’t you dare.”
That’s when he loses the last of his restraint.
He rolls over me, pinning me to the bench with his body, one thigh sliding between mine, hard and deliberate. I feel him immediately — thick and hot and impossible — pressed against my hip through layers of fabric, and my entire body lights up.
“Oh,” I breathe.
His mouth trails down my throat, teeth scraping lightly over skin before soothing it with his tongue. My hands are everywhere, yanking at his jacket, his shirt, desperate to feel skin instead of fabric.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against my neck.
“So are you.”
He stills for a fraction of a second.
Then he laughs softly, breathless. “Fair.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, then pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The sight of him bare steals what little oxygen I had left.
Vakutan muscle is not decorative.
It’s built.
Every line of him looks engineered for violence and survival, scars mapping old battles across bronze skin. But the way he looks at me — reverent, hungry, almost awed — makes my chest ache.
“Stars,” I whisper. “You’re… unfair.”
His mouth curves faintly. “So I’ve been told.”
He leans down and kisses me again, slower now, deeper, letting me feel every second of it. His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm and broad as they trace up my ribs, over my breasts.
I arch into his touch with a soft, helpless sound.
“Gods, Mara,” he murmurs. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Pretty sure I have a great idea,” I say, breathless.
He huffs a laugh, then his fingers find the clasp of my top and undo it with maddening patience, like he’s savoring every inch of the reveal. When he finally pulls the fabric away and looks at me, something in his expression softens so completely it nearly undoes me.
Not hunger.
Awe.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly.
No one’s ever said that to me like that.
Not like it means something sacred.
He lowers his mouth to my breast and I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as his tongue circles, slow and deliberate. He takes his time, learning me, listening to every breath and sound, adjusting until I’m writhing beneath him, hips lifting without permission.
“Tatek,” I whisper. “Please.”
He looks up at me, eyes burning. “What do you want?”
“You.”
That’s all.
He rises and lifts me with ease, settling me into his lap so I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his hips. I can feel how hard he is now, thick and insistent beneath me, and the knowledge sends a shiver straight through my core.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
This close, there’s no hiding anything.
The bond hums between us like a living thing.
“You’re sure,” he says again, softer now.
I cup his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
That’s when he kisses me like he believes it.
We strip each other in clumsy, urgent movements, laughing breathlessly when fingers tangle or fabric sticks. By the time I’m bare and perched above him, my entire body is burning.
His hands slide over my hips, my thighs, reverent and possessive all at once.
“You’re already wet,” he murmurs.
“Shut up and touch me.”
He grins.
And then he does.
When he finally lines himself up with me, the anticipation is almost unbearable. I brace my hands on his shoulders and slowly sink down, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully inside me.
The sound I make is not dignified.
Neither is his.
“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “You feel—”
“Incredible,” I finish breathlessly.
“Dangerous.”
We move together instinctively, finding a rhythm that feels like memory. He holds my hips and lifts me, guiding every motion, setting a pace that’s deep and slow and devastating.
Every thrust hits exactly where I need it.
Every sound he makes — rough breaths, broken groans, my name dragged out of his throat — winds me tighter and tighter.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I do.
And nearly come just from the way he’s watching me.
Not owning.
Cherishing.
I ride him harder, faster, losing control, and he lets me — supports me, guides me, never takes over until I’m shaking and begging and can’t hold myself upright anymore.
That’s when he flips us.
Pins me beneath him.
And shows me exactly how much control he’s been holding back.
He drives into me with deep, powerful thrusts that steal the breath from my lungs, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh, holding me open for him without mercy.
“You’re mine,” he says hoarsely.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp.
His eyes darken.
“That,” he says, voice breaking, “is all I needed.”
He comes with my name in a broken whisper, body shuddering as he holds me through it, and I follow moments later, clinging to him, crying out into his shoulder as the world explodes.
After, he doesn’t move away.
He gathers me against him, wraps me in arms that suddenly feel like the safest place in the universe, and rests his forehead against mine.
We breathe together.
Slowly.
When I finally curl against his chest and hear his heartbeat stumble beneath my ear, I smile.
It’s not just passion.
It’s bond.
And for the first time in years, I’m not afraid of what comes next.