Page 41 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“Too many layers,” I murmur against his mouth, tugging ineffectually at the complex fastenings of his chest plate.
He draws back slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Zaterran battle armor is not designed for easy removal,” he informs me, as if discussing the weather instead of the logistics of getting him naked.
“Well, it should be,” I retort, fingers still searching for clasps or seams. “Seriously, how do you get out of this thing? Is there an emergency release? A secret code word?”
His laugh surprises us both—a deep, rumbling sound that I feel more than hear. “Allow me,” he says, reaching for a hidden mechanism at his shoulder.
With practiced movements, he releases a series of catches that I couldn’t have found in a thousand years. The chest plate separates into sections that he removes with efficient grace, revealing a fitted undergarment that does nothing to hide the powerful musculature beneath.
I watch, mesmerized, as layer after layer of ceremonial armor is set aside. The obsidian shoulder guards first, then the intricately etched chest plate with its crystalline inlays that catch the starlight. My mouth goes dry as each piece reveals more of him—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sculpted planes of his chest visible through the undersuit.
But it’s the crystalline markings that truly captivate me. What I’d seen as simple patterns on his face and arms extend across his entire torso, flowing like luminous rivers beneath his slate-gray skin. And they’re moving—not physically, but the light within them shifts and pulses, brighter now than I’ve ever seen them.
“They’re beautiful,” I breathe, reaching out to trace one of the patterns across his chest.
The moment my fingers make contact, several things happen at once. The markings flare brilliant white-blue, Henrok’s entire body goes rigid, and a sound tears from his throat that’s part growl, part groan.
“Suki,” he warns, his voice strained. “They are... sensitive.”
“Sensitive how?” I ask, fascinated, tracing the pattern again and watching his reaction.
His hands clench at his sides, the markings pulsing brighter under my touch. “They respond to... heightened emotion. Physical contact. Arousal.” The last word comes out rough, almost embarrassed.
“So when you’re turned on, they glow?” I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “That’s actually incredibly useful. No guessing games.”
“It is not amusing,” he protests, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“It’s not supposed to be amusing,” I agree, running my finger along another pattern and watching it flare in response. “It’s supposed to be incredibly hot. Which it is.”
His control visibly frays at my words, the markings now pulsing so brightly they cast shadows on the walls. “You are... unexpected,” he manages.
“Good,” I say, beginning to work on the fastenings of his undergarment. “I like keeping you off balance.”
With each piece of clothing removed, more of his alien beauty is revealed. The crystalline markings flow across his entire body in intricate patterns, some following the lines of his muscles, others tracing seemingly random paths that somehow create perfect symmetry. They pulse with his heartbeat, his breathing, his arousal, creating a living map of his internal state.
When he’s finally naked before me, I can only stare. His body is magnificent—powerful, scarred, marked with the evidence of battles fought and won. But it’s also undeniably alien, from the mineral-bright patterns covering his skin to the way his muscles move beneath that slate-gray flesh.
And lower... well. The crystalline markings extend everywhere, including areas that make my breath catch. His shaft rises thick and proud from a nest of darker curls, the length of him marked with those same glowing patterns. The head is broader than a human’s, with a slight ridge around the crown, and those subtle ridges I’d noticed before are more pronounced now—raised lines that spiral along his length like jewelry carved from flesh.
“You’re incredible,” I whisper, reaching out to touch him.
He catches my wrist gently, his skin almost burning against mine. “Your turn,” he says, his voice rough with need.
My courier uniform suddenly feels inadequate, utilitarian in the face of his alien magnificence. But I’ve never backed down from a challenge. With deliberate movements, I unfasten the OOPS insignia from my sleeve—the first time I’ve removed it since joining the service—and set it aside. The gesture feels symbolic, a shedding of my old identity as surely as Henrok has shed his armor.
The rest of my uniform follows, each piece removed with as much ceremony as I can muster. When I’m down to my undergarments, I pause, suddenly self-conscious. My body bears the evidence of a courier’s life: the faint scar along my hip from a docking clamp mishap, the scattered freckles across my shoulders from too many hours under alien suns, muscles lean from hauling cargo rather than sculpted for show.
Henrok’s gaze travels over me with reverence that makes my skin flush. “You are beautiful,” he says simply, as if stating an irrefutable fact.
“I’m human,” I point out unnecessarily. “Different from what you’re used to.”
“Yes,” he agrees, moving closer. “Wonderfully, perfectly different.”
His hand hovers near my shoulder, a question in the gesture. I nod, and his fingers make contact, sending a jolt of sensation through me. His skin is hot—not just warm, but genuinely hot, like touching heated metal. It should be uncomfortable, but instead it’s incredibly arousing.
“Your skin,” he murmurs, fascination evident in his voice. “So soft. And cool.” His palm spreads across my shoulder, the heat of it making me gasp. “Like water to flame.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask, worried suddenly that my cooler temperature might be unpleasant for him.
