Salvage Rivals in a Red-Lit Airlock

Three minutes. Ivar said it against her ear, low and flat. His hand was on her hip. The airlock alarm ticked. Red light strobed over steel. His mouth was already on her neck. Her suit was already shoved to her waist. She shoved him back anyway.

He didn’t give her the wall. She took a fistful of his collar and slammed him into it first. His shoulders hit metal. The impact knocked a grunt out of him. She liked that sound. She bit his jaw. While he was still pinned she tore his belt open with one hand and yanked his fly down with the other. She got her hand inside and pulled him out. He was already hard. She squeezed once, hard enough to hurt. He caught her wrists, twisted, and put her where he wanted her. Back to the bulkhead. Cold steel through her thin undershirt. His thigh shoved between hers and she ground down on it before she could stop herself.

“Two and a half,” she said. Her voice came out rough. “Crew’s cycling the outer hatch. Move.”

He moved. He let her wrists go and ripped the rest of her suit down her thighs. She kicked one boot free and left the other. No time. The suit stayed bunched around her booted ankle. While he was bent to it she got both hands in his open waistband and shoved his pants down past his hips, buckle and all, until they caught on his thighs. His cock was out where she’d left it, thick, the head wet. She wrapped her hand around it again. He hissed. She stroked him once, mean, and he pinned that hand to the wall above her head.

“You feel that,” he said. Not a question. His other hand was between her legs, two fingers dragging through her and coming away slick. “You’re soaked. Weeks of trying to sink my bids and your cunt’s dripping for me.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He didn’t shut up. He let go of her wrist, hooked her under the thighs and hauled her up. Her back scraped the wall. Her undershirt rode up and bare skin hit bare steel. She locked her legs around his waist, one boot heavy against his spine. The head of his cock shoved against her, blunt and hot, and she tilted her hips to take it. He pushed in. One hard stroke. She was tight and he was thick and the stretch burned for a second before the wet made it easy. He filled her to the base. Her breath left her in a short, ugly sound.

He pulled back slow. She felt every inch of it drag out of her, the wet slide of it, her body gripping to keep him. Then he slammed in. Her shoulders hit the bulkhead. The impact drove the air out of her lungs and jolted her teeth together. He did it again. Short, heavy thrusts. Each one knocked her up the wall an inch and gravity dropped her back down on him. The steel was cold on her shoulder blades. His cock was hot. Her cunt made a sound every time he drove in. Wet. Obscene. Loud in the small steel box. The alarm ticked over it.

Sweat on his throat. Salt when she licked it. Sweat on his bare hips too, and her thighs slipped on it. She had to clamp harder to stay up. He felt the slip and his hands moved under her ass, fingers digging in, bruising, spreading her open so he could get deeper. Her clit dragged against the base of him on every stroke. She clawed his back through his shirt. She met every thrust. She hated how good it was. Her body opened for him and she hated that too. The crew was on the other side of that hatch. Somebody was already reaching for the wheel. It didn’t slow her down.

“Listen to you,” he said. His mouth was at her ear. His voice stayed even while his hips didn’t. “That little noise. That’s mine. You clench every time I say it. You belong on my cock.”

“I don’t belong to you.” It came out broken. He thrust and she gasped on the last word.

“Your cunt does.” He ground in deep and held. “Feel that. You’re squeezing me. You do it every time I bottom out. You didn’t learn that from anybody else. That’s mine. Your pussy figured out my cock in under a minute and it’s not giving it back.”

She bit his shoulder to shut him up. It didn’t work. He fucked her through it. Her boot heel dug into his back. One hand braced flat on the wall above her head. The other was in his hair, pulling, and he fucked her harder for it.

He didn’t pull out. He hitched her higher, got his forearms under her thighs, and pulled her off the wall. Her whole weight dropped onto his cock. She cried out. He turned. One step, his shoved-down pants hobbling him at the thigh. Her body jolted down on him. Two steps. Again. Every step drove him into her at a new angle and she had no leverage, nothing to push against, just his cock holding her up from the inside and the deck somewhere under her dangling boot.

Then he dropped her. The steel bench was bolted to the airlock wall at hip height. Her bare ass hit it. Cold. The cold went through her. The drop pulled her off his cock in one wet slide and she was empty. Her cunt clenched on nothing. She felt it. Open and wet and used and nothing in it. It took one second. It was the worst second of the three minutes.

He shoved her knees apart and stepped between them. One hand on her hip, dragging her to the edge of the bench until the steel lip cut into the backs of her thighs. Her feet hung. Nothing under them but air and red light. The other hand went into her hair at the crown. He fisted it. He yanked her head back. Her spine arched. Her throat went bare. Her eyes had nowhere to go but his face.

The head of his cock pressed against her. Blunt. He didn’t push yet. He let her feel the pressure of it, the heat, the slick smear of her own wet on him. Then he pushed. The angle was different. Her body resisted for a second, a hitch, her hips too far forward on the bench. He hauled her harder against the edge and the resistance broke and he slid all the way to the base. Deeper than the wall. The bench put him right where he wanted to be. Her bare heel kicked his calf. The booted foot swung loose, the suit swinging off her ankle with it. The bench edge bit into her thighs. She didn’t care.

The angle punched a moan out of her. He held her by the hair and fucked her in long, punishing strokes. The bench rang under them. Wet sounds. Skin on skin. His pants shoved down his thighs, the loose belt buckle swinging cold against her inner thigh every time he bottomed out. His free hand bruised her hip. Her head stayed back. Her neck ached from the pull. She could see the strain in his jaw.

“Say it,” he said.

“No.”

He tightened his fist. Her scalp burned. Her back arched harder. He watched her face while he drove in, slow once, then hard. “You shake when I pull your hair. You get wetter. I can feel it on my cock. That’s mine too. Every twitch. Every drip running down my balls. I own the way you come apart.”

She grabbed his wrist. Not to stop him. To hold on. Her other hand braced on the bench behind her and the steel was already warm from her skin. She was close. The alarm ticked. The hatch was eight feet away. Somebody’s hand was on the other side of that wheel. It made her faster. Needier. She rolled her hips up to meet him and he rewarded it with a grind that mashed her clit against the base of him and held it there.

“Ninety seconds.” He said it straight down into her face, her head still pinned back by the hair, her throat stretched bare between them. “Come before they open it.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s it,” he said. Filthy. Certain. “Take it. You spent three weeks trying to ruin me and you’re going to come on my cock in an airlock with the crew on the other side of that hatch. They don’t get this. I do. Your body answers to me.”

“Ivar—”

“Again.”

She said his name because her mouth did it without her. He liked that. The fist in her hair clenched tighter. His next thrust came faster than the one before it. He didn’t smile. He fucked her harder. His hand left her hip, caught the back of her bare knee, and shoved that leg up and out against his ribs so he could get all the way in.

One minute, maybe less. She didn’t know. She stopped counting. All she had was the stretch, the heat, the slap of his hips, the burn in her scalp, the obscene wet pull every time he drew back and slammed home. The bare thigh he held shook against his ribs. Her other leg hung off the bench, the boot and the bunched suit dragging it down, heel knocking his calf with every stroke. Her cunt clenched around him in tight, helpless pulses. His rhythm stuttered. One stroke came short, half a beat late. His fist tightened in her hair. He’d felt it.

“There,” he said. “Right there. You’re going to come because I tell you to. Because this—” he thrust, deep, and held “—is mine.”

She was right on the edge. Teeth clenched. Eyes open because he wouldn’t let her look away. Sweat ran down her back onto the bench. She hated him. She needed the next stroke more than air.

He gave it to her all at once.

One sudden thrust. Deeper than the rest. He pinned her to the bench with his hips and didn’t pull back. The head of his cock hit the end of her. Hard. A deep blunt ache at the top of her cunt that was pain for half a second and then wasn’t. Her whole body tried to buck off the bench and couldn’t. His fist in her hair held her head back. His hips held her pelvis down. His hand on her knee held her open.

He didn’t move. That was the worst of it. He stayed there. All of him, buried, the pressure constant and impossible, her body stretched around the thickest part of him with no give left. Her lungs locked. Her thighs locked. Every muscle from her scalp to the booted foot dangling off the bench went rigid at once and stayed that way. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. There was no bid, no salvage claim, no three weeks of sabotage. There was no hatch. There was his cock holding her open at the deepest point she’d ever been fucked and his eyes on hers and the seizure building in her gut with nowhere to go.

She came hard. A raw sound tore out of her throat. Her cunt clamped down on him and then pulsed, gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing, her muscles working his cock in a rhythm she had no say in. Her legs shook. Her hands left his wrist and the bench and scrabbled at his shoulders. Pleasure hit in blunt, stupid waves, muscle after muscle locking, then giving. Wet ran out of her around him. She heard herself. She didn’t care.

He groaned once, low, and stayed buried. His hips jerked. Heat pulsed inside her. He was buried to the base and holding her still, so she felt every pulse of it, every spurt, the throb of him going off deep inside her with nothing between it and her. He held her hair. He held her down. He didn’t look away while he finished in her.

“Mine,” he said again. Quieter. Still certain.

The latch turned.

Metal scraped. The inner hatch wheel moved a quarter turn and stuck, then moved again. Voices on the other side. Close.

Ivar let go of her hair. Let go of her knee. Pulled out. Fast. Wet. She felt it spill down her thigh onto the bench. She jammed her bare foot into the empty leg of the suit, missed, got it on the second try, legs still shaking. He hauled the suit up over her hips. She slid off the bench and yanked it the rest of the way, hands clumsy. One boot on. The other lay on its side by the wall where she’d kicked it. No time. Hair a wreck from his fist. His cock was still half-hard when he dragged his pants back up over his hips, shoved himself inside, and did the belt with one sharp pull. Neither of them spoke. Their breathing was too loud in the small space.

The hatch opened.

Dekker stood in the frame with a pry bar in one hand. Lexi stood with her back to the bench, suit crooked at the collar, one foot bare on the cold deck, sweat on her lip, his come slick between her thighs under the fabric. Ivar stood a foot away. Not touching her. His mouth was red. Dekker’s eyes went from her collar to the boot on the deck to Ivar’s mouth and stayed there.

“Seal’s clear,” Dekker said. Flat. “You two done?”

Nobody answered. Ivar’s eyes were on her. One second too long. Her jaw was set. So was his. She didn’t step away. Dekker saw that too. She watched him see it.