“Tell me about your first officer,” he demands, stripping her trousers from her waist and latching onto her neck with sharper-than-human teeth.
Of all the thing he could ask of her, this has to be the worst.
She winces as he bites, and it floods into her groin. And so she pushes back against him. He yanks her underwear away, and they tear in his huge hands and he tosses them aside.
As he bends her over the desk, and she lets him, she thinks of the woman she used to be.
Would Mark’s fiancée have done this?
She doesn’t need to answer a question she’s answered a million times already.
Where’s the rule book when you need it?
There’s no Prime Directive for this, and nothing she can do to protect those people in her cargo bay but this.
This will do it, she tells herself.
“No,” she bites out as his fingers enter her.
“Put some music on, captain,” he orders.
So she does - she calls up Rachmaninov and it fills the room and by the seventh bar she’s coming harder than she thought she would, or if she thought she would at all then she realises she’s surprised by it.
She didn’t want to give him that.
“Were you thinking of him?” he continues, liberally stripping her of her jacket and tossing it aside. She pivots and returns the gesture by undoing the straps on that ridiculously utilitarian tunic to reveal a pale, translucent chest.
“No,” she lies.
“Such a human,” he whispers, and it’s almost reverent in its disgust. “I’ve never had a human woman at all, and one whose subordinate is so taken with her, and certainly not one who’s so powerful.”
She doesn’t feel power in that moment. All she feels is need, and humiliation.
“What would your First Officer say, Kathryn, if he walked in here right now?”
He spins her again, and she braces against the desk and he drops to his knees behind her.
“Would he like me doing this?” He spreads her legs, pulls against her hips so she’s open to him and presses his mouth to her.
She sidles away, because the intimacy is too much, but he grips her thighs and returns her to her place.
There’s more of a metaphor in it than there is a literal act.
“He would…” she can’t answer.
“Would he punch me?” he bites. “Congratulate me?” Sucks. “Envy me?”
He doesn’t give her the chance to answer and, as tears spill down her cheeks and she doesn’t know whether to come or run or sob, he mercifully starts talking again.
She fucking hates men who talk too much.
“Or would he join me?”
She twists and pushes his head away, even though the angle is awkward.
“He’s the only thing that gets under your skin,” he says as he undoes the fastening of his trousers.
She swipes angrily at her cheeks and turns, defiant, propping herself against the desk and opening her legs.
Safe passage for the ship. Not a huge price to pay.
He stands between them, and lunges into her.
She grimaces, and moans, and whines.
“Human,” he says, accusingly. “Just picture your First Officer, and it will be easier.”
She’s fooling no one.
“He’d be jealous, I think,” he asserts as he pushes her backwards. “I’m jealous of the way he looks at you, but I’m not afraid.”
His breathing becomes erratic.
“He’s no match for me.”
No, he’s not, and that’s why she’s never let him do this to her.
He deserves more than a passing, soulless fuck in her Ready Room, and that’s all she can give to anyone.
“Do you always talk so much?”
The music grows louder, and drowns him out and her orgasm is silent and she despises it.
They dress in silence, and she aches as she moves. She needs to shower.
He stops at the door as he makes to leave, and she finally finds her voice again.
She looks him in the eye, deadly. She is still tingling from his touch, inside and out.
“He’d pity you.”