Page 36 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Jhorn

I observe Kaylee from the galley, noting the precise way her fingers dance across the navigation controls, the subtle tension in her shoulders that indicates concentration, and the seventeen different micro-expressions that cross her face as she calculates orbital adjustments.

My enhanced vision catalogs each detail with the thoroughness my creators intended, but the pleasure I take in watching her is entirely my own innovation.

The tray in my tendrils contains my latest attempt at synthesized coffee—a beverage whose molecular complexity continues to challenge my understanding of human preferences.

My first efforts were... educational disasters.

Kaylee’s colorful descriptions included “battery acid,” “liquid despair,” and my personal favorite, “what I imagine engine coolant tastes like if engine coolant could disappoint you personally.”

I have since recalibrated my approach seventeen times.

“What are you up to back there?” Kaylee calls without turning around, though I feel her awareness of me through our bond like sunlight on water.

I do not respond immediately, savoring the anticipation that builds between us. My tendrils have learned to appreciate dramatic timing—another skill not included in my original programming but highly effective in generating what Kaylee calls “that insufferably smug alien look.”

Through our connection, I sense her amusement despite her attempt at exasperation. This is perhaps my favorite discovery about human emotional complexity—the way annoyance and affection can coexist in the same moment, creating fascinating feedback loops through our bond.

“I have been conducting advanced molecular gastronomy,” I announce, approaching with the careful precision I reserve for carrying substances that could theoretically be consumed by human digestive systems.

Her laugh ripples through our bond before reaching my auditory sensors. “Is that what we’re calling your ongoing chemical warfare against the synth-unit?”

“Scientific methodology requires persistent experimentation,” I reply with dignity, though my bioluminescence betrays my amusement. “Previous iterations provided valuable data regarding optimal flavor compound ratios.”

I settle into the co-pilot’s seat, offering her one of the mugs while maintaining possession of the other.

Through our bond, I feel her cautious optimism warring with learned wariness.

Her previous experiences with my culinary efforts have taught her to approach new offerings with what she calls “the enthusiasm of someone disarming explosives.”

She takes a sip, and her eyebrows perform a remarkable vertical migration that I have learned indicates surprise. “Holy stars, Jhorn. This is... actually good.”

Satisfaction blooms through my consciousness like a solar flare.

My bond-lines pulse with increased luminosity, and I feel her answering warmth through our connection.

Success in pleasing Kaylee generates more positive feedback than any task completion protocol from my original programming ever could.

“The molecular structure of genuine coffee,” I explain, settling more comfortably in my chair, “involves 847 distinct aromatic compounds, each requiring precise temperature and pressure variables. Standard synthesizers approximate perhaps twelve percent of this complexity.”

“And you figured out how to improve on that?” She takes another appreciative sip, her contentment flowing through our bond like honey.

“I interfaced directly with the synthesizer’s base programming and modified the molecular assembly protocols,” I admit. “The process required 23.6 hours of continuous calculation and may have slightly exceeded the unit’s recommended operational parameters.”

Her grin transforms her entire face, lighting something in my chest that has nothing to do with bioluminescence. “You hacked the coffee maker.”

“I enhanced its potential for optimal beverage production,” I correct with mock severity, though privately I find her casual criminalization of my efforts oddly endearing.

“Same thing, tentacles.” She sets her mug aside and rises from her chair with fluid grace, moving toward me with purposeful intent that sends anticipatory pulses through our bond. “You know what this means?”

“That my methodology was sound and future attempts should follow similar parameters?”

“No.” She settles onto my lap with the easy confidence of someone who knows she will be caught, supported, welcomed.

My tendrils unfurl automatically to accommodate her, wrapping around her waist with careful strength.

“It means you’ve officially graduated from ‘dangerously attractive alien who makes terrible coffee’ to ‘dangerously attractive alien who makes acceptable coffee.’”

“Acceptable,” I repeat, considering this designation. “Is this a significant improvement in my status classification?”

Her hands find the bond-lines along my chest, tracing them with touches that send cascading responses through my nervous system. “Extremely significant. The coffee quality alone has moved you up at least three categories in the ‘keeper’ rankings.”

“I was unaware I was being evaluated according to a ranking system,” I observe, though her touch makes concentration on conversation increasingly challenging.

“Everything’s a ranking system if you think about it right,” she says, leaning closer until her breath warms the sensitive skin of my throat. “Lucky for you, your scores in other categories were already pretty impressive.”

Through our bond, I feel the spike of desire that accompanies her words, her own arousal beginning to match the heat building in my consciousness. Her scent changes, becoming richer, more complex—a chemical signal my enhanced senses interpret as invitation and need.

“Perhaps,” I suggest, my voice dropping to the register that makes her pupils dilate, “you could provide more specific feedback on my performance in these other categories?”

Her laugh is breathless now, tinged with the edge that means rational thought is losing ground to baser instincts. “I think that could be arranged.”

When she kisses me, it is with the perfect pressure and heat that speaks of weeks learning exactly what affects me most. Her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for her immediately, savoring the taste that is uniquely Kaylee—coffee and determination and something indefinably sweet that no synthesizer could replicate.

My tendrils move with increasing purpose, one sliding beneath her shirt to map the elegant curve of her spine, another tracing the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her gasp against my mouth.

The third curves around her thigh, not quite touching where she wants but close enough to send promises through our connection.

“Jhorn,” she breathes against my lips, and the way she says my name—not as designation or identifier, but as something precious—sends heat racing through circuits designed for entirely different purposes.

“Yes, my Kaylee?” I murmur, allowing bioelectric pulses to travel through the tendrils touching her skin. She arches into the sensation with a soft sound that goes straight to systems I am quite certain my creators never intended to be so responsive.

“Bedroom,” she manages, though her body language suggests movement is the last thing she actually wants. “The pilot’s chair isn’t designed for what I have in mind.”

“And what,” I ask, standing with her still in my arms, my tendrils maintaining contact even as I shift position, “do you have in mind?”

Her grin is predatory, filled with intent that makes my secondary heart stutter in its rhythm. “A very thorough evaluation of your advanced categories.”

The journey to our quarters requires significant self-control, as Kaylee seems determined to test my ability to maintain motor functions while she conducts what she calls “preliminary assessment procedures.” Her mouth finds the sensitive juncture where my neck meets my shoulder, her teeth grazing bioelectric pathways in ways that make my bioluminescence flare involuntarily.

“You realize,” I inform her as the door to our quarters slides shut behind us, “that your current activities are causing significant interference with my navigational subroutines.”

“Good,” she replies, tugging impatiently at my shirt. “I like interfering with your subroutines.”

I assist her efforts by dissolving the molecular bonds holding my clothing together—a trick I discovered during our second week together and one that never fails to make her stare in fascination. The garment simply disperses, leaving me bare before her appreciative gaze.

“I will never get tired of that particular party trick,” she says, running her hands across my chest, following the patterns of light that pulse beneath my skin.

“It is merely practical application of controlled molecular disruption,” I explain, though her touch makes coherent explanation increasingly difficult. “The same principles that allow limited shape modification.”

Her eyes light with interest and desire in equal measure. “Shape modification?”

“Minor adjustments only,” I clarify, though demonstration proves more effective than explanation.

I allow my tendrils to extend fully, their surface texture shifting from the usual smooth silk to something with the faintest suggestion of texture—small, soft projections that she has indicated increase sensation significantly.

Her sharp intake of breath tells me the demonstration is effective. “That,” she says with feeling, “is definitely not in the acceptable category anymore.”

“What category would you assign it?”

“‘Unfair biological advantages that should probably be illegal,’” she replies, then gasps as I demonstrate another modification—the ability to generate precisely controlled bioelectric pulses at multiple points of contact simultaneously.