The admission loosens something in him. The tension in his shoulders eases half an inch and his hand slides, bolder now, beneath my shirt to the warm skin of my waist. His touch is careful, as if he’s tracing a map he’s afraid to fold.
“Say it again,” he murmurs close to my ear. His breath smells of iron and smoke.
“I want you.” This time I push my hands into his ribs, feeling the differences in his body—the dense muscle, the metallic hum of the prosthesis at his hip, the tiny raised ridges where his scales thin. His chest plate vibrates with his heartbeat and I match mine to it, slowing, then speeding when his grip tightens.
His other hand finds the small of my back and guides me back against the low stone wall. The camplight paints him in molten hues; his shadow falls long and dangerous behind us. He rests his forehead beside mine and we breathe together, a pair of animals negotiating the world.
“Before—before we do anything,” Kyldak says, voice rough with something that could be restraint or reverence, “tell me what you fear.”
A laugh comes out of me, hollow at first. “That I’ll fall apart. That if you find out—if you really know—” I stop. The words are too heavy.
“Know what?” he presses. “What would make you fall apart?”
“Everything.” I press my eyes closed and the lie—everything—threads through me. “The truth. The reasons. The cost.” I force my voice even. “I don’t want to lose you because of it.”
He is silent so long I begin to think he won’t answer. Then he sighs—a soft, alien sound like wind on metal—and his thumb brushes my lower lip. “I am not yours to lose, Jaela. I am of the Alliance. I am war. But tonight,” he says, “you are mine.”
The possessiveness in that claim sets me alight. Not because it’s domineering—though he can be that—but because underneath it is a promise: he will hold on. He will choose this fractured peace with me, if only for a moment.
Kyldak shifts his weight and I feel the press of his groin through the fabric of his uniform. He’s enormous—seven-foot-two and broad—and there’s a knot of heat there that makes my breath shallow. I press my hand tentatively at the seam of his trousers, feeling the unfamiliar curve of his frame. His anatomy is different—vakutans are not human—but desire speaks a common language. Where a human cock would be, Kyldak’s flesh is thicker and ridged, the head a little broader, veins like braided rope that flutter under his scaled skin. The feel of him under my palm is warm and slick; he’s already responding, the length hard and insistent.
“Don’t be afraid,” he warns, though not to me—almost to himself. “Tell me if you want to stop. Speak.”
“I won’t stop.” My reply is immediate, a vow. I part his uniform, fingers trembling with reverence. The first time he took me it was violent and desperate; now every movement is worship. My hand slides along him, and Kyldak makes a sound—something between a laugh and a growl—that vibrates through both of us.
He lowers his head and kisses the line of my jaw, then the hollow at my throat. His lips are rough like sand, and his hands are surer than any human’s. He palms me through the fabric of my jeans and finds the slick wet center of my desire. “You’re wet,” he says, and there’s no judgement in it—only recognition—and it makes my face burn.
“Only for you,” I whisper. I push my fingers into the thick hair at the base of his neck. He shudders, and the sound ripples over his back like a wave.
Kyldak moves with a soldier’s economy: efficient, powerful, precise. He strips away my clothes with gentle force, each item removed as if he’s uncovering treasure. My pulse thunders in my ears. The night is close around us—woodsmoke, the faint metallic tang of his body, the distant chirp of something nocturnal—and we are an island of heat.
His hands knead the soft place beneath my breasts, thumbs circling, and he watches me like he’s learning the map of my reactions. “Tell me what it feels like,” he whispers.
“It’s like—” I gasp as his thumb strokes the hardened peak of my nipple, “like you make space inside me where things can breathe.”
He hums, a vibration under my breastbone. “I make space,” he repeats, testing words as if they were new. “Good. I will make more.”
He kisses me, long and deep, then trails his mouth down my sternum. His tongue is surprisingly careful when it finds the hollow there, and by the time his mouth reaches the wetness between my legs I am a trembling mess of want and nerves. Kyldak uses two fingers first, warm and firm, exploring the slick, feeling the tightness nestle around them. Even in this intimate place his alienness is a presence: the way his fingers are slightlyflatter, the pads equipped to sense pressure differently. It’s not awkward—it’s astonishing.
“Say my name,” he commands, soft but demanding.
“Kyldak,” I cry, and the sound is a prayer.
He curls his fingers inside me, slow, then faster when I moan. His mouth is all heat on my skin and when he parts my lips with his tongue I taste salt and iron. He speaks against me, words that could be a vow: “I remember every contour.”
His thrusting digits hit a place that is not quite the same as a human’s—you can feel the different nerve pattern, the alien architecture—and I keel. A chain of small, bright sensations blooms under his touch, and it’s both foreign and perfect. My hands twist in his hair, pulling the scales at the base of his skull, feeling the slight ridges there. He answers by pressing his forehead against mine, red eye gone soft. “You are more than I expected,” he admits. “More… necessary.”
I want to tell him how needed he makes me feel—not just physically but like I’m the only stable thing in a shaken universe—but words are useless; my body speaks instead. I rock against his fingers, tasting my own arousal and the salt of him, and he groans in a way that makes the air crackle.
Kyldak rises, lifting me as if I weigh less than a feather. He turns me to face the wall, the rough stone cool under my palms. His prosthetic leg clicks as he maneuvers, then his strong hand spreads my legs. He is taller, the angle uncanny, but precise. He lines himself up and for a breath I glimpse the alien shape of his cock—wider at the base, a circumference that promises filling in a way nothing human ever did. The head is ridged with faint folds; when he parts me with the tip, pressure flares, delicious and exquisite.
“Ready?” he asks, his red eye dark and intent.
“Yes,” I say, and my voice betrays me—thick, eager, utterly honest.
He pushes in slowly, and the world narrows to the sensation of being filled. The initial entry is unlike anything I’ve known: a slow, broad invasion that stretches and presses in ways that are equal parts pain and bliss. My breath leaves me in a keening exhale. Kyldak’s body is warm and firm above me, every inch of him humming with contained force. His scales press against my back; his prosthetic hip leverages him in, and when he finds the rhythm—oh god, the rhythm—time splinters.
He moves with long, rolling strokes that fill me again and again. The friction of his ridged shaft against my inner walls is a constant, thrilling friction, and every slide leaves me trembling. He groans low, voice thick with feeling, and grabs my hips with hands that can crush bone and instead cradle me. “You take me,” he says, as if making an observation. “You fit.”
