12. The Airlock #3
He makes a sound that is almost a growl. His mouth finds my ear.
“Good girl.” The words are filthy in his mouth. “Packed this for me. Wore it for me. Let me find it with my hand instead of telling me. You wanted me to put you on this bunk and find out.”
“Yes.”
His hand slides down from the silk, over my stomach, under the lace. Two fingers between my legs. I am wet enough that there is no question left about the last six hours. He groans when he feels it.
“Fuck. Soaked. You sat through that interrogation like this.”
“Don’t—“
“Don’t what. Don’t tell you how wet you are? Don’t tell you I’ve been hard since I put my finger on that bow this morning? Don’t tell you I am going to put my mouth on you until you come on my tongue and then I am going to ask you if you still haven’t decided?”
His fingers stroke. Slow. Precise. A tracker’s patience applied to the worst possible place. My hips lift off the bunk. His tail wraps around my calf and holds me there.
“Tael—“
“That’s it. Say my name like that.” His mouth is on the silk now, over my breast, teeth finding the bow the way he promised thirty seconds ago that they would. The bow gives. His tongue follows. “I am going to take this off with my teeth next time. I am going to make you watch.”
I am going to come from two fingers and a mouth on silk and the sound of him talking. I can feel it building, sharp and fast and humiliatingly easy after days of this. His thumb finds the right pressure. I gasp. My hand fists in his hair.
“That’s it. Let me have it. I’ve been good. I’ve been so fucking good for you. Give it to me.”
I want to tell him to put the whole word back in his mouth again. I am opening my mouth to tell him I am close, that he should not stop, that I have not decided the larger question and I do not care—
The comm chirps.
Not a fake chirp. Not JINX. The real register of an incoming call, both AIs logging as real, and Flossie’s voice on the open channel, carrying the four meters from the cockpit:
“Loveys. Are you on the ship? I need an update.”
The moment does not shatter. It implodes. Two nervous systems locked to one frequency, reminded that they are two operatives on a case that is hours from losing its principal. His fingers still. His mouth stills on my breast. I make a sound I will never forgive myself for.
Tael’s forehead stays at my collarbone for one and a half seconds. Then he breathes out, long, wrecked, and the purr restarts at the ambient register, not the teeth register, and his hand withdraws from the lace so slowly the cost is visible in his shoulders.
“I am going to kill whoever invented comms,” he says against my skin.
He pulls back. He looks at me. Pupils narrowing back toward operational and failing.
The half-grin tries to rebuild and makes it about halfway.
His hair, and I did that, my fingers have been in his hair, is not where it was four minutes ago.
His mouth is wet. His fingers are wet. He looks at them like he is considering licking them in front of me and then, with visible effort, does not.
“You take the comm, Natalie. I am not currently capable of a comm. My voice would give Flossie approximately everything.”
“…Copy.”
He stands and hands me his shirt. His actual shirt. I look at it. My pants are on the floor. The lace is still on. The silk is askew. I am shaking.
“Vosk.”
“My shirt is closer.”
“Where is mine?”
“In the corridor. Unclear.”
He gets my shirt. The field jacket. The cardigan folded on the bunk.
I put the cardigan on over the tactical under-layer, because the cardigan is the only item of clothing I can get back onto my body in under six seconds with the coordination currently available to me.
My hands do not work. He helps with the sleeve.
His fingers brush my wrist, and both of us flinch.
I hit the comm. My voice, when it comes out, is the customs-counter register I have trained into a reflex. Flat. Professional. Alert. It is a lie. I can still feel his fingers.
“Flossie. Yes. We are on the ship. Go ahead.”
Tael is in the cockpit doorway with his hand flat against the frame and his silver eyes on me, wearing an expression of composure that’s just been handed back to him by a female. He is still hard. He is not hiding it. He is looking at my mouth like the comm is a personal insult.
I cannot look at him.
“Loveys,” Flossie says, warm, briefing. “I have news on the Korrhai case. Xor ran a secondary pass. Will you give me three minutes?”
“Copy, Flossie. Three minutes.”
I turn my head an eighth of a degree toward Tael. Not to look at him. Enough that he can see the side of my face.
The half-grin on his mouth finishes building. He is the most unbearable male in the Velarkis sector.
I will revisit the matter of the good girl at a later hour. I will revisit his fingers. I will revisit the word wrecked in his mouth. I am still wet, and the comm is still live, and I have never hated a case update more in my life.
“Let me tell you what Xor found.” Flossie says, oblivious, warm.