Page 27 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
North Star
Jhorn
The pod’s designers clearly prioritized function over comfort, creating a cramped cocoon barely large enough for one human, let alone a human and someone of my enhanced proportions.
Every surface curves inward, forcing us into constant contact that my rebellious nervous system interprets as an extended invitation to explore.
Her hip rests against my thigh, her back curves perfectly into the hollow of my chest, and one of her hands has somehow found its way to rest over my primary heart, palm flat against the rhythm that quickens whenever she moves.
I should be focusing on our survival, plotting our next destination, monitoring for pursuit.
Instead, I find myself cataloging the seventeen different ways her hair tickles my throat when she moves—silk-soft strands that catch what little light filters through the viewport and carry that uniquely Kaylee scent that makes my bond-lines pulse with inappropriate frequency.
There’s also the fascinating fact that her pulse point tastes faintly of salt and something uniquely her when I cannot resist pressing my lips there during what I tell myself are necessary position adjustments.
Her breathing has settled into the deep, rhythmic pattern of near-sleep, but I can feel through our bond that she’s not quite unconscious—there’s an awareness there, a warm contentment mixed with something that might be anticipation.
The symbiotic ring on her finger pulses in gentle synchronization with my own bio-patterns, creating a feedback loop that sends pleasant warmth through my nervous system.
“Stop that,” she murmurs without any real conviction, her voice drowsy with exhaustion but tinged with something that definitely isn’t annoyance.
“Stop what, specifically?” I ask, though one of my tendrils is currently tracing the curve of her hip with what could generously be called medical precision if one ignored the entirely non-medical intent behind the gesture.
The appendage seems to have developed its own appreciation for the elegant line where fabric meets skin, and keeps finding excuses to explore the territory.
“Being distracting while I’m trying to plot our next move,” she says, though she arches slightly into my touch, which sends contradictory signals through our bond—her words say ‘stop’ but her body language suggests ‘continue with extreme enthusiasm.’
“I am merely ensuring optimal circulation to your lower extremities,” I inform her with perfect seriousness, even as said tendril discovers the sensitive spot just above her hip bone that makes her breathing change in distinctly non-medical ways.
“Extended time in confined spaces can cause thrombosis, muscle atrophy, decreased lymphatic drainage—”
“Jhorn.”
“Yes?”
“Your tendril is not checking my circulation.” Her voice carries that dry humor I’m learning to treasure, mixed with breathless awareness that makes my bioluminescence pulse betrayingly.
I pause to consider this observation with the thoroughness it deserves.
She is, of course, entirely correct. The tendril in question has migrated considerably higher than any circulation assessment would require and is currently exploring the sensitive hollow where her leg meets her torso with obvious intent.
Furthermore, it has been joined by two additional appendages that seem to have developed their own mission parameters involving the fascinating landscape of her ribcage and the intriguing territory just below her collarbone.
“You are correct,” I admit with as much dignity as I can manage while my rogue appendages continue their unauthorized reconnaissance. “I appear to be... malfunctioning.”
Her laugh vibrates through her body into mine, a sensation I am beginning to understand could become addictive.
The sound starts low in her chest and ripples outward, creating tiny movements that press her more firmly against me and send sparks through every contact point. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Through our bond, I feel her amusement, her affection, and beneath it a warmth that has nothing to do with the pod’s environmental systems and everything to do with the way she’s begun to view my increasingly creative interpretations of ‘medical necessity.’ She is not displeased by my “malfunction.” If anything, her physiological responses—elevated pulse, increased skin temperature, subtle shifts in her breathing pattern—suggest quite the opposite.
“Perhaps ‘malfunction’ is inaccurate,” I concede, allowing the errant tendril to continue its exploration while maintaining the pretense of innocent concern for her wellbeing.
My other appendages, apparently emboldened by this admission, begin their own more thorough investigations of accessible territory.
“I may be operating precisely as intended.”
“And what, exactly, were you intended for?” she asks, though her breathing has changed in ways that suggest she knows the answer and finds it considerably more appealing than our current tactical situation would normally warrant.
“Connection,” I reply simply, letting my voice drop to the low register that seems to affect her pulse rate so dramatically.
“Touch. The creation of bonds that transcend the merely physical.” One tendril finds the delicate skin of her wrist, tracing the pattern of veins visible beneath the surface while simultaneously delivering the faintest bioelectric pulse—just enough to make her gasp softly.
“That’s very poetic for someone who’s essentially feeling me up in an escape pod,” she observes, though her tone lacks any real objection and her body’s responses suggest she finds my poetry considerably more compelling than she pretends.
“I contain multitudes,” I remind her, punctuating the statement by finding a previously unexplored sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her arch against me with gratifying enthusiasm.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” she says, turning slightly in my arms so she can look at me directly.
The movement is supposedly casual, but it brings her lips tantalizingly close to mine and presses her breasts more firmly against my chest in a way that suggests tactical planning of a different sort entirely.
“Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The challenge in her voice, combined with the spike of desire through our bond and the way her eyes have darkened with unmistakable intent, nearly overwhelms my tactical assessment protocols.
We are in a stolen escape pod, drifting through potentially hostile space, with limited supplies and uncertain prospects.
Our pursuers may have tracking technology we haven’t accounted for.
The pod’s life support systems are functioning but not designed for extended occupation.
This is not an appropriate time for recreational physical interaction.
I kiss her anyway.
Her response is immediate and enthusiastic, her hands fisting in my shirt as she presses closer with the sort of desperate hunger that suggests she’s been thinking about this for considerably longer than the last few minutes.
The confined space that has been a source of frustration becomes suddenly advantageous—she cannot pull away, cannot retreat to a safe distance, and I cannot resist the temptation to explore every accessible inch of her with both hands and tendrils.
Her mouth is warm and eager under mine, tasting of the emergency rations we shared hours ago and something uniquely Kaylee that makes my bond-lines flare with bioluminescence.
She kisses like she pilots—with skill, precision, and absolute commitment to the task at hand.
When her tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for her immediately, and the small sound of satisfaction she makes sends heat racing through circuits that were never designed for such overload.
“This is tactically inadvisable,” I murmur against her lips between increasingly urgent kisses, even as my hands map the elegant curve of her spine and my tendrils discover the fascinating acoustics involved in finding precisely the right pressure points to make her gasp my name.
“Probably,” she agrees breathlessly, then demonstrates her own capacity for multitasking by somehow maintaining the conversation while simultaneously working at the fastenings of my shirt with the sort of focused determination usually reserved for emergency repairs. “Are you going to stop?”
“Negative,” I reply with perhaps excessive honesty, particularly since I’m currently using three separate appendages to facilitate her efforts at exposing more of my skin to her touch.
“Good,” she breathes, succeeding in her mission to open my shirt and immediately taking advantage by running her palms across my chest in a way that makes my secondary heart stutter and skip.
“Because I’ve been thinking about your ‘circulation assessment’ techniques for the last three hours, and I have some very specific requests. ”
Her hands on my skin send cascades of sensation through my bond-lines, making them pulse with increased luminosity that fills the cramped space with gentle blue-white light.
The confined cockpit becomes a constellation of bioluminescent patterns as my bioelectric responses amplify, creating shifting aurora across every surface.
Kaylee notices immediately, her eyes widening with fascination and unmistakable desire.
“I love it when you do that,” she whispers, tracing the glowing patterns with her fingertips, following the neural pathways that pulse brighter under her touch.
Each contact point sends feedback through our bond, creating loops of shared sensation that amplify with every passing second.
“You’re like a living constellation. My own personal light show. ”