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The involuntary response—normally suppressed around humans who misunderstand its significance—should embarrass me.

Instead, I find myself surrendering to the honest reaction.

No human had ever... I hadn't realized she'd observed them so closely, understood so much.

The tentative touch of her fingers against my jaw was a more potent claim than any heat-driven coupling.

As her fingers move lower, tracing the line of my throat, something shifts in her scent. The contentment deepens, layered now with rising arousal that hits my senses like physical blow. Her pupils dilate slightly, her breathing changing rhythm as her hand continues its exploration.

"Fritz," she murmurs, voice dropping to intimate register that vibrates through my overwrought senses. "Let me take care of you."

The request contains layers of meaning beyond the simple words. She sinks to her knees before me, position of submission that somehow conveys power rather than capitulation. Her hands rest on my thighs, the heat of her palms burning through the fabric.

"You're still healing," she continues, fingers tracing patterns that send electricity straight to my core. "Let me do the work this time."

Understanding dawns as her intent becomes clear. My cock stirs in immediate response, hardening against the confines of my clothing with embarrassing speed.

"You don't need to—" I begin, the protest weak even to my own ears.

"I want to," she interrupts, hands already working at the fastenings of my breeches. "I want to taste you."

The crude directness from her lips shatters what remains of my resistance. My hips shift involuntarily, aiding her efforts as she frees my rapidly swelling length from its confinement.

Her sharp intake of breath as she takes in my fully aroused state sends another surge of blood southward.

The specialized ridges along my shaft—already beginning to extend with my growing excitement—catch her attention, pupils widening further as she studies the alien anatomy she's previously experienced only in the midst of claiming heat.

"You're magnificent," she whispers, the genuine appreciation in her voice creating heat that has nothing to do with physical arousal.

When her fingers wrap around the base, the contact wrenches a growl from deep in my chest. Her human hand barely spans my girth, the heat of her skin burning against my flesh like brand of possession.

"I've never done this," she admits, honesty layering her arousal with vulnerability that creates unexpected tenderness amid raw need. "Tell me what feels good."

The request—direct yet yielding control of her education to me—makes my cock pulse against her palm. I've become fully hard now, the barbs partially extended along my length, pre-fluid already gathering at the tip.

"Start slowly," I manage, voice barely recognizable through the rumbling growl underlying each word. "Mind the barbs—they're sensitive."

She nods, eyes locked with mine as she leans forward. The first touch of her tongue against the head of my cock sends lightning through my system. Wet heat glides experimentally along the crown, her curiosity evident in the exploratory nature of the contact.

"Like this?" she asks, trailing her tongue along one of the more prominent ridges.

"Yes," I hiss, claws extending to dig into the arms of my chair. "Just like that."

Encouraged by my response, she grows bolder, tongue tracing patterns along the sensitive underside before returning to circle the head. When she finally takes me into her mouth, the wet heat engulfing the first few inches of my length, my vision nearly whites out from the intensity.

"Fuck," I growl, the crude word escaping without conscious thought.

She knelt before me, not in submission, but in offering.

An offering of pleasure, of care, of a connection that defied every rule of conquest and claiming I had ever known.

Her mouth stretches wide to accommodate my girth, the visual of her lips wrapped around my cock creating satisfaction deeper than mere physical pleasure.

My claimed omega, on her knees by choice rather than command, pleasuring me with enthusiasm that has nothing to do with biological compulsion.

She establishes rhythm with surprising intuition, using her hand to work what won't fit in her mouth, tongue exploring the ridges and barbs with deliberate attention. Each discovery of particularly sensitive spot draws rumbling growl from my chest, my reactions guiding her education in real time.

"Your taste," she murmurs, pulling back momentarily before returning to her task. "Different than I expected. Better."

The admission—that she's thought about this, wondered about it—sends fresh surge of arousal through my system.

My hips thrust forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into her mouth than intended.

To my surprise, she doesn't pull away but relaxes her throat, taking me deeper with determination that makes my blood burn.

"Careful," I warn, hands moving to cradle her head with gentleness at odds with the predatory need coursing through me. "I don't want to hurt you."

Her response is to take me deeper still, eyes watering slightly but determination unwavering. The sight of her—my claiming mark visible on her throat as she swallows around my cock—pushes me dangerously close to edge I'm not ready to cross.

"Aria," I growl, the warning clear in my tone. "I'm close."

She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing against the sensitive head with each word. "I want to taste all of you. Let go, Fritz. Let me take care of you."

The permission—offered freely, eagerly—breaks something open inside me.

My control fractures as she takes me deep again, her tongue working along the sensitive ridges as her hand continues its steady rhythm at the base.

When her other hand gently cups the swelling beginnings of my knot, pressure perfectly calibrated to heighten without overwhelming, the last thread of restraint snaps.

My release hits with blinding intensity, seed pumping in hot pulses down her throat as my body bows with the force of it.

She swallows determinedly, taking everything I give her with unexpected skill for someone who claimed inexperience.

The contractions seem endless, pleasure radiating outward from my core in waves that leave me gasping.

When she finally pulls away, a thin strand of fluid connecting her swollen lips to my still-pulsing cock, the sight nearly triggers another round of completion.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, expression holding none of the disgust or resignation I might have expected.

Instead, satisfaction shines in her eyes, pride in the pleasure she's given evident in the slight curve of her lips.

"Better?" she asks, voice husky from exertion.

"Understatement," I manage, reaching down to cup her face with gentleness that surprises us both. My thumb traces her lower lip, feeling the slight swelling from her efforts. "Come here."

I help her rise from her knees, drawing her into my lap with careful awareness of my healing injuries.

The intimacy of the position—her smaller form cradled against my chest, my scent mingling with hers—creates connection beyond physical release.

When I kiss her, tasting myself on her tongue, the primal satisfaction of it rumbles through me in renewed purr.

"Now I need to dress you for patrol," she says when we finally separate, her practical tone at odds with the intimate moment.

"That was not what I expected when you offered to help me prepare," I admit, the honesty easier in this moment of shared vulnerability.

Her laugh—bright and genuine—creates warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical pleasure. "Consider it motivation for a quick recovery."

When she helps me into armor minutes later, the context has shifted entirely.

Each touch carries deeper significance, her fingers working confidently across clasps designed for claws rather than human hands.

The efficiency speaks to days spent learning my equipment, adapting to designs never intended for her species—just as I've adapted command structure to incorporate her perspective.

"The chest plate needs adjustment," she observes, fingers working at the straps to accommodate bandages still covering my healing wounds. "The weight distribution is wrong with your current limitations."

As she secures the commander's cloak across my shoulders, her hands linger momentarily in touch that transcends practical necessity. The connection—freely given, without fear or biological compulsion—creates bond unlike anything our heat-driven coupling achieved.

"Ready?" she asks, stepping back to assess the final presentation of command authority.

The question carries layers beyond the simple word. Ready to resume leadership despite lingering injury. Ready to face whatever dragon movements signal for our territory. Ready for this evolving partnership neither of us anticipated when fate forced our joining.

"Yes," I answer, honesty foreign but necessary between us now. For the first time in my long military career, I don't stand alone facing enemies at our border. We are becoming partners in ways I never imagined possible—not just commander and claimed omega, but something more complex, more powerful.

Ready for whatever comes next, as long as she remains at my side.