"May I?" he asks, his hands already working at the fastenings.
"God, yes," I gasp, and he strips away the last barriers between us with alien efficiency.
What he does next makes me understand why the galaxy fears Xarian hunters. His patience is infinite, his attention to detail devastating, and his alien tongue turns every sensitized nerve ending into a live wire. The cinnamon enhancement means he can taste everything—my arousal, my need, the way my body responds to his touch—and he uses that knowledge ruthlessly.
His tongue explores every fold, every sensitive place, with the systematic thoroughness of someone mapping unknown territory. The alien texture creates sensations no human lover could replicate, and when he finds the most sensitive places, the combination of alien anatomy and enhanced senses makes me see stars. Through the bond, I can feel his satisfaction as he discovers each response, cataloging what makes me cry out, what makes me tremble, what makes me beg.
"Ja'war," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair as he does something with his tongue that makes my entire body arc off the counter. "I can't—"
But he holds me steady, his alien strength keeping me exactly where he wants me as he continues his assault on my senses. The cinnamon has transferred from my skin to his mouth, creating flavors and sensations that overwhelm my nervous system. When he finally finds the exact combination of pressure and movement that sends me over the edge, I shatter with a cry that echoes through the ship, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
As I lie gasping on the counter, the Christmas lights casting shifting patterns across my flushed skin, he kisses his way back up my body with obvious satisfaction. The claiming patterns on his skin pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, our bond carrying echoes of pleasure back and forth until I can't tell where his satisfaction ends and mine begins.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my throat. "You taste like Christmas and home and everything I never knew I wanted."
When he finally enters me, it's with the perfect angle and pressure that twelve months of bonding has taught him. But this time is different—the cinnamon and sugar have heightened everything, making every nerve ending hypersensitive, every touch electric. His alien anatomy fills me completely, hitting places that make stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Perfect," he breathes, settling into a rhythm that's both familiar and entirely new, enhanced by our Christmas experimentation. "My perfect mate."
This isn't the desperate claiming of our bonding ceremony, but it's not gentle either. It's playful and intense and absolutely devastating, the kind of lovemaking that comes from knowing each other's bodies with scientific precision and using that knowledge creatively. The counter is the perfect height, allowing him to drive deep while I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer with each thrust.
The Christmas lights cast shifting patterns across our skin as we move together, and through the viewport, I can see the ice rings of Kepler-442b spinning slowly in the distance. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla surrounds us, mixing with the musk of arousal and alien pheromones to create something that's entirely ours—a unique atmospheric signature that belongs to no world but this ship, this moment, this life we've built together.
"I love you," I whisper against his throat, tasting salt and sweetness and home.
"And I love you," he replies, his voice soft with wonder even after all these months. "My treasure. My heart. My—"
"Your package," I interrupt, and feel him still inside me.
"What?" He pulls back to look at me, confusion clear in his pale eyes.
The words I've been rehearsing for weeks suddenly feel enormous in my throat. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can feel it through our bond—the wild mixture of terror and hope and joy that's been building since I confirmed my suspicions three days ago. Through the claiming bond, I can feel his instant alertness, the way his protective instincts engage at my obvious distress.
I trace the claiming patterns on his chest, summoning my courage while my mind races. We've never talked about children, not really. I know he loves me, but carrying a baby while traveling between star systems? What if he's not ready? What if this changes everything between us? What if his species has biological imperatives I don't understand? What if—
"Fiona?" His voice is gentle, concerned. "What is it?"
Through the bond, I can feel his worry, his immediate protective instincts engaging at my obvious distress. It settles something inside me, that instant response, that readiness to defend me from whatever's causing my fear—even when the fear is about him.
"You've delivered packages to dozens of worlds, right?" I ask, my voice smaller than I'd intended. "Precious cargo that needs special handling?"
"Yes," he says slowly, his alien features shifting from confusion to something more alert. I feel the exact moment understanding beginsto dawn through our bond, his emotions shifting from puzzled concern to shocked hope. "Fiona, what are you—"
"Well." I take his hand and place it on my still-flat stomach, watching his expression change as my meaning hits him fully. "Looks like I'm carrying some precious cargo of my own. Estimated delivery date: seven months."
For a heartbeat, he's completely still, his alien features frozen in shock. His hand spreads across my stomach with reverent care, as if I'm made of spun glass. Then the claiming patterns on his skin explode with light, brighter than I've ever seen them, pulsing in rhythm with emotions so intense they steal my breath.
Through the bond, I feel such overwhelming joy, such fierce protectiveness, such awe that it brings tears to my eyes. His love crashes over me like a tidal wave, washing away every fear and doubt I've been carrying for the past three days. This isn't just acceptance—it's celebration, wonder, the kind of happiness that transforms everything it touches.
"You're certain?" he whispers, his hand gentle but reverent on my stomach.
"Very. I confirmed it during our last medical check." I watch his wonder, feeling my own fear dissolving in the face of his obvious joy. "Dr. Hux'ar says everything looks perfect so far. Apparently, human-Xarian hybrids are rare but not unheard of. The pregnancy should progress normally, though our child will probably inherit some of your enhanced senses and temperature regulation."
"A child," he breathes, and through the bond I feel his emotions warring—awe and terror and fierce protectiveness all tangled together. "Our child."
"Are you—" I start, but he silences me with a kiss so soft and reverent it makes my chest ache.
"I am terrified," he admits against my lips. "And overwhelmed. And so grateful I can barely think." His hand spreads wider over my stomach, protective and possessive. "You've given me everything I never knew I wanted."
