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The Titan warps as fast as she can toward the distress call, but it isn’t fast enough.
It’s unclear exactly what happened to the freighter from Rigel III. The working theory is that pirates set on her to get the cargo, but through accident or inexperience banged her up too badly, and then fled to avoid getting caught in the explosion.
Two life pods from the lowest decks made it out, but their support systems were damaged. By the time Titan reached them, everyone aboard had suffocated. Most were teenagers. Probably hired under the table as cheap labor for the lower decks.
Finding life pods full of dead teenagers has unsettled your captain in a way you’ve never seen. You suspect it has to do with his own narrow escape in a life pod when he was a very young man.
You’ve worked closely with Shaw for some months now, enough time that you trust and admire him. He comes off as stern compared to your previous captains, even grouchy, but given his history, you can hardly blame him. His fastidious attention to following rules just-so has saved lives many times. That makes it all the harder for him to fail at saving civilians. He did everything right, and fast, and they still died, a stark reminder of how little control anyone has out here among the stars.
He beams down to Rigel III with you and several others to make the official report about the incident. Your whole group will stay planet-side for the night.
--
He needs comfort, and you are safe comfort, because you’re about to accept a role on another ship. The two of you won’t be jammed on the same bridge indefinitely, pretending that nothing happened. This is what gives you the courage to leave out a little breadcrumb of a comment that he can take or leave.
He takes.
The place where you’ve been put up is near a transport facility, and at night, the bright lights of the facility wash the east-facing rooms in a bluish artificial glow when the curtains are open. Shaw doesn’t bother to turn on the room lights for a warmer look. The two of you can see well enough. You think maybe he wants this unreal atmosphere to help distance himself from the ugly realities of the day.
He traces your mouth with the pads of his fingers, drinking in the sight of your face. Then he leans forward and kisses you experimentally. His breath is minty. Some guys forget that detail; of course Shaw wouldn’t. The kiss is brief, just a test to see how you both feel about it. The chemistry is there, so he goes in for another, and you both strip.
Of course you’ve noticed Shaw’s good looks before, and have had fleeting thoughts of an encounter like this. It’s still more startling than you thought it’d be to see your captain in a state of undress. It makes him into a normal man. You see the softening of his midsection, the downy hairs on his legs, a scar on his knee, the shape of his large toes. And of course, that. It’s the only part of Shaw that doesn’t look tired; it’s quite ready to go. He sits on the bed against the headboard, legs stretched out in front, and pats his lap with one hand. He goes for a foxy look, but you can tell he’s trying to conceal his pain. When did you get to the point where you could read subtle signs of sadness on his face?
He touches you on the shoulder and slides the touch down the length of your arm as you carefully swing a leg over his. You’re straddling him naked, his cock between the two of you.
“Hi,” you whisper.
You think that he’s relieved to be just a man right now and not a captain. You lean in to that hunch and treat him like any other lover, kissing him firmly but tenderly, eventually laying slow kisses across each cheek and his forehead. You stroke his hair. Slowly, you close your hand around his shaft and start to get a feel for him. He moans in his throat without opening his lips. Usually by this point with a partner there would be talking, maybe a little teasing or shy suggestions of what to try, but that isn’t what this tryst is about. This is only about blotting out other things.
More kissing. More stroking. Here in his lap, you realize just how big he is, especially as his thick arms go around you. There’s little fanfare when you join bodies; you shift up and forward, he guides himself in, his mouth falls open and emits quiet, hollow-sounding gasps.
You slide yourself up and down on him. The pace of his breath tells you he likes that. His hands help your hips find the rhythm he prefers. Still, neither of you talk, but he holds your gaze with an intensity that is almost physical. With his eyes, he begs for more—more motion, more pleasure, more oblivion. He indulges himself in getting a handful of your hair and pawing at your breasts. He slides a hand down and pushes against your ass so that you’ll stay flush on his lap, and he grinds shamelessly, finally breaking eye contact as his lids flutter closed and he puts his head back. He sucks his bottom lip under his top teeth and you watch him disappear into pleasure. You grind back, hard, and he growls hungrily. He’s gripping your ass so hard you can feel fingernails.
“You’re amazing,” you murmur between gasps. “God. Keep doing that, don’t stop…” You cry out sharply when he reaches fingers down to make it extra good for you. You make a really obscene noise, and you’re not faking it.
He groans out your first name.
It sends a sharp and surprised thrill through you. “Liam,” you purr, and begin rotating your hips more as you grind. His mouth falls open and he makes a helpless noise, almost a whimper, before you feel a spurt of warmth inside you. His hips thrust in hard, firm strokes, as if he’s trying to squeeze himself dry inside you. Holy shit, he’s hitting a really good spot, and it sends you following after him with your own orgasm. You have to reach out and brace one hand against the headrest to avoid collapsing on him.
The climax is done, but his hands are still restless, exploring every inch of your skin as the two of you settle. His eyes are hungry for more details about you. A glowing certainty steals over you that he is impressed by your body, and that is high praise coming from a man who could have several women just from flashing his pips the right way in a crowded bar.
“We are going to rest and then do that all again,” he pants.
--
Next morning, you wake to Shaw’s fingers idly exploring the inside of your thigh. You let your head fall to the side and gaze sleepily at him. He’s very awake but still under the covers, backlit by morning sun. You get the feeling he’s been gazing at you for a while.
You shift your legs further open. Shaw’s fingers tiptoe up, up, up your inner thigh.
“Good morning,” you say with a smile.
“Are you awake enough?”
“Oh yeah.”
To your surprise he slides down, taking the blankets with him, until you’re uncovered and his face is level with the place where your thighs meet your body. He presses his mouth down and two fingers inside and lets loose some very enthused, very talented pleasuring. You gasp at the speed with which it escalates. You come in record time.
When you’re done, he immediately gets on top of you. He is so strong. So heavy. If he’s gotten you off first, it can only mean he is ready to go rough and fast himself. If last night was about comfort, this morning is about control.
“You need to tell me if it’s too much,” he says, eyes blazing and mouth still wet from you, “because I’m going to fuck you.”
You shiver with delight.
He grabs your chin. “Promise you’ll say if you want it to stop.”
“Promise.”
With that, he grabs your hands, pushes them against the mattress, and slams all the way into you. He wasn’t kidding; this time is fast and hard, almost angry. It’s like he’s trying to reassert control over his world with this one act. He leans down hard against you, straining, and you feel almost too stretched. It hurts a good kind of hurt. His huge erection is beyond erotic, and another climax overtakes you, again much more quickly than normal. The room fills with your unsteady cries of bliss over the faint squeak of the mattress. Shaw slides out of you suddenly, shoves you onto your stomach, and reenters, landing one hand on your ass with a firmness that is almost a slap. You grip the sheets and ride the hurricane. Soon, his tempo changes, becoming almost desperate, and then Shaw finishes with ragged growls that slow along with his thrusts. His weight pushes harder on you as his body relaxes.
You’re a little shell-shocked, in a happy way. That was a kick! There is one moment of apprehension when he peels himself up, and you wonder if you’ll be dismissed immediately now that he’s gotten what he wanted. But your instinct about Shaw’s decency holds, and he doesn’t dismiss you. He pulls out carefully and flops down beside you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, breathless.
“Yes.”
“Sorry if I’m a brute,” he says, without sounding very sorry.
Your mouth quirks into a wry smile. “You’re not.” The ends of your fingers hook around the ends of his. He meets your eyes. He doesn’t look joyful, because Liam Shaw never does that, but he looks back to his old self. He looks like whatever passes for happy when you’re Liam Shaw.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you taking that transfer?”
You freeze. Him asking the question here, now, feels like just a little bit of a slap. He’s double-checking that he won’t have to deal with you much longer—that this encounter didn’t mean anything. You are planning to accept the transfer, but his question irks you just enough that you hedge to annoy him. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Good. Don’t go.”
Wait, what?
“Don’t?” you repeat.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t aware you could make that decision for me.”
“I can’t. This isn’t an order. It’s an ask. Stay on the Titan.” He closes his hand more firmly around yours.
--
You have every intention of accepting the transfer. But then, the day your decision is due, you turn it down.
Relationships that begin as a one-night stand when one party is dealing with emotional trauma are statistically unlikely to succeed. You’ve never been one to care about the odds, though.