Page 141 of Tracked and Taken

“This is the deal. I have to sit across from Morrison this morning and use words. I cannot do that if I have just watched you come. I also cannot do that if I walk out of here still this wet. So you are going to take the edge off me, and you are going to keep yours, and you are going to carry it through every corridor on this station until I decide to do something about it.”

“I accept your deal.”

His tail tightens against my thigh. His hand goes between us.

He is very good at this. He is good at paying attention and a fast study.

Two fingers. No prelude worth the name. I am wet enough that he slides into the knuckle on the first press, and my forehead drops against his sternum with a sound I will not be filing. His thumb finds my clit as if he mapped it last night and kept the coordinates. The ridges of his fingers, Draelith, slightly textured, warmer than mine, drag on the way out and push on the way in, and the purr drops into my spine and stays there.

“Look at me.”

I look at him.

Water in his lashes. Silver gone dark. The mark at his throat flushed darker than the surrounding skin, and I put my mouth on it because I can, because it is mine, because the bond lights up when I suck and his fingers falter for half a stroke like I just put my hand on his cock.

“Natalie.”

“Keep going.”

He keeps going. Deeper. A twist, then a curl, and he finds the place inside me that made me swear at him last night and works it without mercy. His tail comes up the back of my leg and cinches my thigh at the knee, hauling it up and out against the tile so that I am open to his hand and cannot close, his tail deciding the shape I am in while his fingers do the rest. His cock is trapped between my stomach and his, twitching every time I clench, and he does not thrust. He holds. He takes it.

“You are going to think about this,” I tell him, because if I do not talk I am going to come in under a minute and I need the minute to feel longer than it is. “You are going to sit in the SNAG office and be smug and every time the bond ticks you are going to remember you put me against this wall and didn’t get to finish.”

“I am already thinking about it.”

“Good.”

“I am thinking about collecting after the 0830. I am thinking about putting you on your own desk. I am thinking about your mouth.”

His mouth finds the mark on my throat. He licks it. Then he sucks, timed with the push of his fingers, and the two circuits hit at once, the live wire in my neck and the tight, mean circle on my clit, and I come apart against the warm wall of his chest with the water running hot and the purr at my front and his mouth at the mark, and I make a noise I have not made in any wash on any station I have ever been posted to.

It wrings through me. My knees go. He takes my weight with the arm that is not inside me and keeps his fingers moving through it, gentler, until the last flutter leaves and I make a broken sound against his rosette that might be his name.

He holds me through it.

He accepted the deal and, true to his word; he does not finish.

His chest at my front is not finishing. The non-finishing has its own resonance. Through the bond, it is a bright, held scream. His cock is still hard against my stomach, wet from more than water, and when I wrap my hand around him once, just once, just to feel the ridges jump in my fist, his forehead drops to mine and he swears in a language my translator does not catch.

I let go.

“You owe me,” he says, quietly, into my hair.

“Noted, Vosk.”

“Vosk.”

“You will be paid back. After the 0830.”

“How much after.”

“After enough that I am capable of forming sentences in front of my Director.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Mm.”

“I am going to collect with interest.”