He stroked himself slowly. Long, deliberate pulls that made the muscles in his forearm flex. His head tipped back against the wall, and even from this angle she could see his lips part. She saw the slight hitch in his chest as he worked every inch of his thick length.
She was burning up. The cockpit was a furnace, environmental controls be damned, and her pulse hammered so hard she could feel it in her throat. This was insane. This was absolutely, certifiably insane, and she was sitting here watching a man she barely knew get himself off in her cargo bay like it was some kind of private show just for her.
Which it was.
That was the part that made her breath come short, and her thighs pressed together against the heat building between them.
He knew she was watching, and he was doing it anyway, and her stupid brain was cataloging every detail. The way his hand twisted at the top of each stroke. The tension climbing through his shoulders. The rhythm building, faster now, less controlled?—
His hips jerked.
She watched him come apart against the shower wall, his whole body locking up as he shuddered. Thick white ropes of his seed exploded from his cock, splattering up against his taut, muscle-hardened stomach. His hand kept working, even as the water sluiced everything away. His mouth opened on something she couldn’t hear—a groan, a curse?—and she pressed her palm flat against her own thigh hard enough to bruise.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
The water kept running. He stood there for a long moment, head back against the wall, and his eyes closed. Then he straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and stepped out of the stall like nothing had happened.
Casual.
The swagger back in full force.
He toweled off with something he’d pulled from a supply shelf—she didn’t even know there were towels in there—and pulled his pants back on without looking at the camera. Not once. Like she didn’t exist. Like the last five minutes hadn’t just rewired something in her brain.
Then he walked out of frame.
She sat frozen in the pilot’s chair, with her heart trying to punch its way out through her ribs. The screen showed nothing but the empty shower stall, water still dripping from the spray head, steam dissipating into the cargo bay air.
She stabbed the switch, and the feed died. Like it made a difference now.
Her reflection, flushed and wide-eyed, stared back at her from the black screen.
Get it together. Get it together right now.
She pinged Fred. The response came after a pause just long enough to be pointed. Yes? Is there a problem?
“Everything’s fine,” she said. Her voice came out steadier than she expected. Small mercies. “Just checking you’re back online.”
I am operational. Another pause. Your heart rate is elevated.
“I was running diagnostics. Manual ones. It was stressful.”
Your levels suggest?—
“Fred.”
He went quiet. She could almost hear him deciding whether to push it. Whether to call her out on the obvious lie and make her explain why her biometrics looked like she’d just run a marathon while sitting perfectly still.
He didn’t.
Fuel calculations are updated, he said instead. We are on track for the slingshot at the relay. ETA nine hours.
“Good. Great. Thank you.”
She pulled up the nav-display and stared at it without seeing a single coordinate. The numbers blurred together into meaningless noise while her brain kept replaying the image of Raaze against that wall, water streaming down, hand wrapped around?—
Stop it.
