Page 79 of Tracked and Taken

“Please what?”

“Please let me come, Tael. Please. I need it. I have needed it since the airlock. Please—“

“Good girl.”

It falls against her pulse on the inside of her thigh. Low. Wrecked. Her body gives — the whole thing, the nervous system, the breath, the sound out of her mouth that is my name said correctly, the consonant landing, the first time tonight she has fully produced the Draelith shape. She comes on my tongue. I keep licking through it. She tries to close her thighs. My tail does not let her.

She comes for me on good girl.

I do not let her down. My mouth does not stop. My tail holds her thigh. The purr keeps going. She is coming, and her hand in my hair is no longer a grip but an anchor, and her voice is not her security-counter voice anymore. It is broken. It is mine.

When she settles — breath shaking, hand loose — I lift my head. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Let her watch.

“Still undecided, sweetheart?”

“Shut up, Tael.”

“Noted. You came on my face and your cream is the most delicious gift.”

I kiss my way up her body.

Her thigh. Her hipbone. Her ribs. The underside of her breast. My mouth at her nipple, canine grazing, the purr through her sternum. Her whole chest flushed. Her stomach. The hollow of her navel. The pulse at the underside of her jaw. Her collarbone. The hollow at her throat. I leave a mark there. She gasps.

Her hand comes up to my throat. The exact spot where the bond-mark would sit if she set it.

The pad of her thumb against my pulse.

“I know where the spot is.”

“I know you do.”

“I wanted you to know that I know.”

“I know you know. Put your thumb there again and I am going to want to bite you so badly I forget how to be good.”

Her dark eyes on mine. Her thumb at my pulse. The weight of her thumb at the place where my biology would, with her permission, form the bond-mark.

She does not press.

She does not claim.

She lets me feel the pad of her thumb there for three full seconds, and she takes her hand away.

She pushes me onto my back.

Her hand flat on my chest. She swings her leg over me. My cock slaps against her cunt. She is still soaked. She drags herself along the length of me, and we both swear.

“My turn, Tael.”

“Noted.”

She takes a moment. Her dark eyes on mine. Her fingers trace down from the rosette at my sternum — the small path a female takes when she is getting to know the body she is going to take — down my abdomen, across my hip, and then lower.

Her hand on me.

The careful realisation of a female whose body has just confirmed, by direct tactile evidence, what her hand at the console guessed at.

“You are—“