Page 87 of Fought and Found

"You have me pinned. I outweigh you by approximately ninety kilograms. I have disarmed Tier 3 operatives from this position in under two seconds. This is an illusion of control."

"And yet." She rolls her hips. Once. Slow. The pressure grinding directly along the ridge of my cock, which has been hard since she bit my lip at the door. "You're not moving."

"I am assessing the situation."

"You're being sat on by a woman half your size and you look like you've forgotten how to breathe. That's not assessment, lovey. That's surrender." She rolls her hips again. Slower. Filthier. "Say surrender."

"Xarthians do not —"

She grinds down. Hard. Precisely where the ridges are most sensitive through the fabric. My hips flex up involuntarily and a sound leaves me that could generously be classified as a grunt and cannot be classified as dignified.

"Sorry, what was that? Xarthians don't what?"

My tail wraps her thigh. High. Then higher — the prehensile tip slips beneath her waistband, finds bare, soaked skin, and rubs one slow, deliberate circle over her swollen clit. Two can conduct an interrogation.

She inhales. Sharply. Her whole body jerks.

"The tail is cheating."

"The tail is a tactical asset. And it is currently reporting that you have been wet for considerably longer than one hour."

"The tail is inside my waistband, and it's doing the circling thing directly on my — that is —" She squirms. The squirm presses her harder against my cock and grinds her clit against the tail-tip and thesensation feeds back through both of us. "Cheating. Explicitly. I'm filing a complaint."

"File it with my tail. My tail accepts complaints between the hours of never."

She laughs again. The laugh vibrates through her body into mine and my markings flood dark from collarbone to hip and the biology is telling on me in full color, and she watches it happen with naked, delighted greed.

She undresses me. Not fast — deliberately, with commentary and an audience participation element I did not consent to.

"This goes." The tactical vest, pulled over my horns with practised efficiency — she has memorized the horn-clearance angle. Her knuckles brush the base of my left horn on the way past and the jolt fires through my skull and my hips buck and she grins. "Oh, that's interesting. The horns are still sensitive."

"The horns are — do not —"

She drags one fingertip along the ridge of my right horn. Base to tip. Slow. The sensation is a white-hot wire from skull to groin. My claws extend into the mattress and puncture. Retract. Extend.

"Fascinating. One finger and you just shredded the bedding. Does Morrison charge for mattress damage?"

"I will buy new mattresses for every berth on this station if you do that again."

"Noted. Mattress budget: substantial." She files that away with visible satisfaction and moves to the undershirt, dragging it up my torso. Her hands skate over the ridged muscle of my abdomen. She traces each ridge of my obliques with her thumbs, pressing into the grooves between them, mapping me. "I don't think I appreciated theseproperly last time. I was distracted by the situation. I'm not distracted now."

"You are currently sitting on the situation."

"The situation can wait its turn. I'm exploring." She leans down and drags her tongue along the marking that runs from my hip to my ribs. Slow. Wet. Deliberate. The marking floods so dark it is almost black and the purr erupts from my chest at a frequency that rattles the berth frame.

"Oh, you liked that." She does it again. The other side. Then she slides down my body, hooks her fingers in my waistband, and negotiates my trousers off — a process complicated by the tail, which is busy and declines to withdraw for logistical purposes, and by my cock, which springs free thick and dark crimson and leaking, the ridges prominent, the knot already swelling at the base.

She stops. Looks. Wraps both small hands around the shaft — they don't close, they never close, and the sight of her fingers straining around the girth of me is a visual filed under permanent.

"Look at you." Her voice has dropped. The banter is still there but underneath it now, riding something rawer. "So hard for me already. This obscene alien cock is going to ruin me tonight, and I am delighted about it."

"That is the general —"

She licks me. One long, slow stripe from the base to the head, her tongue riding over every ridge in sequence, and the sentence dies unrecorded. She hums against the crown — tasting, cataloguing, the same methodical greed she applies to everything.

"Mmm." Her eyes flick up to mine. "You taste like mine."

Then she takes me into her mouth.