Date: June 5, 2440 Time: 9:00 PM CST
Matt had not expected a knock on the door. He was finally relaxing with a novel—something rare enough these days—and felt mildly annoyed at the interruption. Still, he set the book aside and stood.
When he opened the door, he had to check his reaction. L’Tani stood there in jeans so tight they looked painted on.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, stepping aside to let her in, as well as taking in her warm spicy scent.
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure some things out. I needed someone to talk to,” she said, burning up, glad for the extra cold temperatures of his room.
“I told you—my door is always open to you.” He gestured to the chair he’d just vacated and started clearing clutter from the other. “Sit. Talk to me.”
She dropped into the chair, sprawling loosely, her composure more casual than he’d expected, her distress on full display.
“I’m trying to figure out where I fit in your world,” she said.
Matt waited, giving her space.
“After the attack… I ran my DNA matrix. There are no more compatible V’ren mates left for me. Not a single one. I can’t have children with anyone from my own people.”
“Have you told your mother?” he asked, taking her hand, knowing the feeling of wanting children he couldn’t have.
She shook her head. “I think she already knows. But I can’t bear the shame of saying it out loud.”
“My wife was pregnant when she died,” Matt said softly. “Children have been on my mind a lot lately.”
“I heard. People say how sad it is, you being the last of your line.” She hesitated. “Why didn’t you bond again?”
“I still grieve,” he admitted, surprising even himself by saying it aloud, to someone who was essentially still a stranger.
“Then we’re both lost,” she murmured. “Can I ask something of you?”
“Of course.” He reached out, gently taking both her hands now with soft gentle and hopefully reassuring pressure, and simply waited until she was ready to speak.
“I don’t know how to explain this, but… will you hold me for a moment?” She rose and, without hesitation, settled into his lap.
“Tell me,” she whispered in his ear, sliding her neck along his jaw, “how do I smell to you?”
“Spicy. Like cinnamon candy,” he groaned, his restraint shattering. He buried his face against her neck, breathing her in like it would fix something broken inside him. His hands found her hips.
“Are you sure?” he tried to ask, but her lips found his before he could finish.
Whatever control he had yesterday was gone tonight, lost to instincts he didn’t know he still possessed. He wasn’t thinking. He didn’t care. She was fire, and he was drawn to her flame. Shirts came off. The chair toppled.
He found her jeans not so impenetrable after all, as one hand slid down the back of them. She ground against him, demanding more as he rolled them out of the now broken chair.
“Oh yes,” she gasped as they tumbled to the floor. Her fingers worked his belt open and for one wild second, he thought about telling her to stop. But his body answered first—with a shudder that felt like surrender.
The head, still attached to the tiger skin rug, looked on in boredom at his predicament just as any other cat he had ever known.
Somehow, he stood with her wrapped around him. She clung to him until her back hit the mattress and he followed her down, lips trailing, fingers exploring, until cries echoed off the walls as he pinned her hips to the bed. Her right arm snaked under his and around his back. Left thigh rubbing the side of his head. He knelt, watching her breath hitch as he delivered small nibbles along with sucking kisses.
The way she gasped—sharp and half-feral—lit something reckless in him, something that hadn’t stirred in almost ten lonely years. He delighted in the gasp as he finally got hold of her upper thigh with a measured but none too gentle bite.
In the single moment of shared clarity, he moved further up and gave in to the need he hadn’t dared name, not even in his own head, and tasted her like it was a question he’d been dying to answer.
He would never write it down or even mention it to anyone, but he had answered one question that every xenoanthropologist would be fascinated by—V’ren women did like oral sex. He would also oddly remember she drummed her heels into his back in three-four time.
She pulled him atop her, one leg wrapped around his back. Fingernails raked his skin as hips met hips. He was a man possessed, and she welcomed it. He no longer looked like the calm, collected leader she had first met. This was a beast lost in rut.
When he finished, he collapsed atop her, spent and silent.
For one breathless moment, all he felt was joy. Not pride, not triumph—just something quieter, gentler. Something close to healing. The weight of grief, legacy, and loneliness slipped off him like a second skin. He’d needed this more than he could admit, and for once, he hadn’t pushed it away.
And then, just as suddenly, everything faded to black.
