The food smells appealing, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of Fiona in the morning light. My enhanced senses catalog everything at once—the sizzling protein in the pan, the bitter aroma of coffee, the warm musk of her sleep-warmed skin—and my body responds with a hunger that has nothing to do with breakfast.
She’s wearing what humans call pajamas—soft pants in a red plaid pattern and a tank top that reveals the graceful line of her shoulders, the elegant strength of her arms. Her auburn hair is indeed loose, falling in waves around her face as she moves between stove and counter with unconscious grace. She looks softer like this, more approachable, and infinitely more dangerous to my carefully maintained control.
“Morning,” she says without turning around, somehow aware of my presence. “Coffee’s almost ready. Hope you’re hungry, because I made enough bacon to feed an army. Wasn’t sure about alien appetite requirements.”
“Good morning.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravelly with sleep and want. “You did not need to cook for me.”
“It’s Christmas morning. Nobody should face Christmas morning without proper breakfast.” She glances over her shoulder, and the casual intimacy of the gesture makes something clench low in my stomach. “Besides, it’s not like I had anywhere else to be.”
The admission—so matter-of-fact, so accepting of her solitude—makes me want to gather her into my arms and promise her she’ll never spend another holiday alone. Instead, I hover awkwardlyin the doorway, uncertain of the protocols for this kind of domestic intimacy.
“How can I help?”
She looks at me with mild amusement. “Can you handle a coffee maker, or is that too advanced for your alien tech skills?”
The teasing note in her voice makes warmth spread through my chest. “I believe I can manage a coffee maker.”
But when I approach the counter where she’s set out mugs, I immediately encounter problems. The machine is different from the simple one she used last night—more complex, with multiple buttons and settings. As I examine it, trying to decode its function, Fiona appears at my elbow.
“Here, let me—” She reaches around me to adjust a dial, and suddenly she’s pressed against my side, her warmth seeping through the thin material of my thermal shirt. Her scent surrounds me, stronger now without the distance of yesterday’s shock and medical urgency.
The coffee maker hums to life, but I barely notice because every nerve ending is focused on the place where her arm brushes mine, where her hip contacts my thigh as she leans across me to reach another control. Her breasts press against my chest for just a moment as she stretches for the far dial, and the contact sends fire racing through my bloodstream.
“There,” she says, seemingly unaware of the effect her proximity is having on my physiology. “Give it a few minutes and we’ll have decent coffee.”
She moves away, returning to her bacon, and I have to grip the counter edge to keep from following her. The casual contact, so natural for her, has sent fire racing through my bloodstream and settled as an ache in my groin that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
This is problematic. Very problematic.
“The shower is through there if you want to clean up,” she says, nodding toward a door I hadn’t noticed last night. “Towels are in the cabinet. Hot water should last about ten minutes if you’re quick.”
A shower. Hot water. Privacy to address the very pressing problem her proximity has created.
“That would be... appreciated,” I manage.
She nods absently, focused on flipping bacon, and I escape toward the bathroom before I do something that would destroy the tentative trust we’ve built.
The shower is small, clearly designed for one person, with basic human amenities that should be simple enough to navigate. But as I strip out of yesterday’s clothes and step under the spray of hot water, simplicity becomes the least of my concerns.
Because now I’m naked in Fiona’s shower, surrounded by her soap, her shampoo, the lingering steam that carries traces of her skin and hair. The water is hot enough to fog the small mirror, but not nearly hot enough to cool the fire in my blood.
I lean my good arm against the shower wall and try to focus on practical matters. The wound is healing well. The water feels good against travel-weary muscles. The soap smells like something floral and clean and utterly feminine.
My cock throbs insistently, demanding attention I don’t have time to give it.
But as I reach for the soap—her soap, the soap that touched her skin just hours ago—my control finally snaps. The scent of it, the knowledge that this is her private space, that she’s just beyond this thin door making breakfast like we’re... like we’re something more than strangers thrown together by circumstance.
I brace myself against the wall with my good arm and wrap my hand around my aching length, stroking slowly as steam fills the small space. In my mind, it’s her hands on me, her body pressed against mine, her voice whispering my name with the same careful pronunciation she used last night.
The image of her in those soft pajamas, hair loose around her shoulders, moving through her kitchen with unconscious grace, pushes me toward the edge faster than I expect. Three years of watching, wanting, imagining, and now I’m in her sanctuary, breathing her air, using her shower to work myself toward release because being near her is driving me insane.
I bite down on my lip to muffle the groan as climax hits, spending myself against the shower wall while her name echoes silently in my mind. The relief is temporary—it does nothing to ease the deeper ache, the claiming instinct that demands I mark her as mine in ways that go far beyond physical satisfaction.
But it clears my head enough to finish washing efficiently and emerge from the bathroom with something approaching normal self-control.
Fiona looks up as I return to the kitchen area, hair damp and yesterday’s thermal shirt replaced with a spare from my emergency pack. She’s set out plates, divided the bacon, and poured coffee in two mismatched mugs.
“Feel better?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone—a slight huskiness—that makes me wonder if she heard something despite my efforts to stay quiet.
