The Robinson family has been on the run for 5 years, landing on a desolate planet on the verge of destruction. But the planet has a secret that unlocks the temptations that have been brewing in the crew.
Book 1: Lost in Space - Strands of Temptation
Chapter 1: Crash Landing
The Jupiter 2 hit the unstable planet's surface like a stone skipped across choppy water—hard, erratic, and with a final, bone-rattling crunch that echoed through every deck. Alarms wailed in discordant harmony as the ship settled into a crater rimmed with jagged obsidian spires, the hull groaning under the strain of redistributed weight. Red emergency lights pulsed across the bridge, casting bloody shadows on the faces of the crew who'd been running for what felt like lifetimes.
Five years. Five relentless years since the Resolute's destruction, dodging alien robot fleets, scavenging derelict colonies, and jumping from one hostile world to the next. The family—once hopeful, dreaming of a boundless future on humanity's first planetary colony—had become something sharper, more desperate. Isolation had stripped away pretenses. The tight-knit, battle-worn unit had begun to show signs of fraying—exhaustion. And now, with the ship crippled and life support flickering, that desperation had nowhere left to hide.
Maureen Robinson stood at the main console, her fingers flying over holographic diagnostics. At forty-eight (time blurred in deep space, but the lines around her eyes spoke of hard-won wisdom), she was still the unflinching engineer turned commander who'd dragged them this far. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical knot, strands escaping like they always did when stress mounted. She didn't look up as John approached.
"Damage report," she said, voice steady but tight.
John Robinson—a former Navy SEAL who now led this fractured family on a fight for their lives—leaned against the console beside her. His broad shoulders were tense, uniform torn at the sleeve from the impact; a thin line of blood had dried along his forearm. He was the rock, the protector, but even rocks cracked under endless pressure.
"Hull integrity at 62%. Engines offline. Life support holding at 48% capacity—oxygen recyclers are clogged with particulates from the atmosphere. We can stretch it to ten days if we ration hard. Maybe twelve."
Maureen exhaled sharply. "And the robots?"
John tapped a secondary screen. Red blips—robot signatures—flickered at the edge of long-range sensors. "Their trace algorithms locked onto our engine flare during the crash. Best estimate: ten days before the first scouts arrive. Less if the planet's magnetic storms clear up."
From the medical bay doorway, Judy stepped onto the bridge. Now in her mid-twenties, the accelerated medical training that had made her a prodigy at eighteen had hardened into quiet competence. Her tight black curls were tied back, lab coat smudged with soot, but her eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing. She carried a tablet loaded with planetary scans.
"Geological instability is worse than we thought," she announced. "Seismic activity is increasing, the volcanic vents could rupture any day. Safe window for repairs and liftoff: 9 days, maximum. After that, the planet tears itself apart."
Penny slouched in from the corridor, arms crossed, her once-teenage defiance now sharpened into something almost weaponized. At twenty, she spent her prime years in space, isolated, alone. She had matured into a beautiful woman with long legs, full round curves, tousled auburn hair, and a mouth that could cut glass. She'd traded her role as cheerleader for sarcasm years ago; she was done pretending that space was an adventure, the loneliness in her eyes showing how much she'd changed.
"Great. Six days to fix a broken spaceship on a death world, or we all die. Classic Robinson luck."
Will, the youngest at eighteen, hovered near the Robot. He'd grown into a lanky young man— brilliant, gentle, but the years had added a quiet steel. The Robot stood, a silent sentinel behind him, its slim silver chassis bound together in plates of armor that shifted like it was breathing, red scanner eye sweeping the room.
"Well it’s not entirely bad news, the atmosphere appears to have just the right amount of oxygen and nitrogen to be breathable. If the planet wasn’t about to implode it would have been habitable.” He paused, zooming in on the planetary scanners, “And…I found something else," Will said quietly. "Scans picked up an abandoned alien outpost about twelve klicks north. Power readings suggest intact tech—maybe fusion cells, repair drones, something we could use to patch the engines."
Maureen's head snapped up. "No. We're not sending anyone into unknown alien ruins. Not after what happened on Kepler-9."
"It's our best shot, Mom," Will pressed. "If we stay here—"
"I said no." Her voice cracked like ice. "You're not risking yourself on a crazy plan."
John exchanged a glance with Judy. Something unspoken passed between them—respect, trust, the easy synchronicity of two minds that had spent years solving impossible problems together. Judy stepped forward.
"Then John and I will go," she said. "We've mapped worse. We can handle it."
Maureen opened her mouth to argue, but John placed a hand on her shoulder—firm, grounding.
“We don’t have time to debate. Maureen, you coordinate repairs here with Don. If there is any hope of restarting the Jupiter’s engines, it's in that base.”
Maureen hesitated. She trusted Judy implicitly—her daughter’s cool head and medical training made her the perfect counterweight to John’s reckless tendency. Judy would keep him grounded, force him to think two steps ahead instead of charging in. But the outpost was twelve kilometers of unknown ground, seismic faults, and possible automated defenses. John had the combat experience, the weapons training, and the muscle if things went wrong. Sending them together was logical. It was also the only realistic option.
She gave a single, tight nod. “Gear up. Get In and out. No heroics, John!”
John nodded, turning to the others, “Will, stay with the Robot and monitor the sky for probes. Dr. Smith, run diagnostics on the particles clogging the oxygen recyclers and clear them. Penny—”
Penny rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible.
“Let me guess. Stay out of trouble?”
“Something like that,” John said dryly.
Will glanced at his sister. She was slouched in the co-pilot chair, legs crossed, the hem of her sleep shorts riding up just enough to flash a glimpse of pale-blue cotton panties. She’d once been the family’s communications specialist, but now she refused to touch the comms array unless forced, her nose buried in one of those dog-eared trashy novels she hoarded like contraband.
His eyes lingered a second too long—on the long line of her legs and the curve of her hip against the chair. Then her gaze flicked up, catching his stare. The bratty scowl was instant—lips pursed, tongue poking out in exaggerated mockery.
Will deflated. The old warmth between them felt like a ghost. He turned away without a word, shoulders tight, and went back to the engineering console to monitor comms with Robot.
Penny huffed softly behind him, flipping a page in her book a little too forcefully.
Don West emerged from the lower deck access, wiping grease from his hands. The pilot—rugged, broad-shouldered, with that roguish grin that looked like confidence even after five years of hell. His flight jacket hung open, revealing the sweat-dampened shirt beneath.
"Found the gash in the lower hull," he reported, voice low and gravelly. "It's massive. We patch it wrong, we never break orbit. I'll need help down there—someone who knows structural integrity better than I do."
His eyes flicked to Maureen. She met his gaze, unflinching.
Maureen nodded. "I'll suit up. We start now."
John watched the exchange. He knew that look. Maureen never crossed lines, never would. But she respected Don’s skill, his nerve, the way he could make split-second decisions and walk away grinning. And John knew his own marriage had frayed under the weight of command disputes—who gave the final order, whose plan took priority, whose caution or boldness would get them killed next.
John turned away, busying himself with the outpost coordinates. Jealousy wasn’t useful. It was a distraction. Still, it sat there, low and steady, like a warning light that refused to go dark.
As the team split—John and Judy gathering rifles, scanners, and breaching tools; Will heading to engineering with the Robot to set up a long-range monitoring array; Penny stalking off muttering about being useless—Maureen paused at the suit locker. Don was already sealing his helmet.
She glanced toward the corridor where John had disappeared with Judy.
“He’ll be careful,” Don said, voice low enough that only she could hear. “He always is when she’s with him.”
Maureen gave a small, wry smile. She didn’t answer. She simply sealed her own helmet and stepped toward the lower-deck access.
Ten days until the aliens came. Six until the planet killed them.
Time was ticking.
Chapter 2: Hull Work
The lower prep bay smelled of scorched metal and ozone. Emergency lighting cast harsh shadows across the gaping tear in the hull—a ragged wound twenty meters long where the Jupiter 2 had kissed the planet’s surface too hard. Molten slag had cooled into black glassy edges; the breach sucked cold, thin atmosphere through the temporary force field Maureen had jury-rigged to keep them from depressurizing completely.
Golden strands drifted through the zero-gravity repair space—thin, shimmering filaments like milkweed seeds with long, gossamer tails that caught the emergency lights and shimmered like spider webs catching sunlight across the hull breach. They floated past Don’s visor in slow, lazy spirals, clung briefly to the edges of the gash, then drifted on like living confetti.
She and Don worked in tandem, suited up, magnetic boots locked to the deck plates. As Don fed alloy ribbon into the heavy welding torch, Maureen monitored structural stress readings on her wrist panel and directed the placement of reinforcement struts.
“Hold it steady,” she said, voice crackling over the suit comms. “If that strut buckles under thermal expansion, we’ll have to start over.”
Don grunted acknowledgment, muscles flexing visibly through the suit’s flexible joints as he braced the beam. He was good at this—precise, unflinching, the kind of competence that came from years of flying patched-together rigs through worse than this. Maureen had always appreciated it.
“What do you think they are?” he asked, his thumb brushing one of the strands from his visor.
Anything foreign on this ship—especially something that moved like it had purpose—set off every alarm in her engineer’s brain. Five years of surviving deep space had taught her one unbreakable rule: assume danger until proven otherwise.
Maureen switched her wrist scanner to active sweep—full-spectrum, bio-hazard protocol. The HUD lit up with overlays: atmospheric composition, particulate density, molecular breakdown. She tracked one of the strands as it floated past her visor, the scanner beam bathing it in faint violet light.
The golden filament hung there—beautiful in a haunting way, like liquid sunlight frozen mid-fall—then slowly began to dissolve into the air, leaving only a faint sparkle that faded within seconds.
Scan results populated the HUD in crisp green text:
Particulate analysis: Organic-analog fiber. Carbon-silicon hybrid lattice. No detectable pathogens. No corrosive enzymes. No neural-active compounds. Biodegradable in standard O₂ environments. Threat level: negligible.
“Negative on bio-hazards,” she reported. “Some kind of local flora,” she muttered over comms. “Scans say benign. No pathogens. Just… pretty space pollen.”
Don grunted, feeding another ribbon of alloy into the blue-white arc of his torch.
“Pretty or not, they’re sticking to everything almost like they're attracted to us. Got one on my glove now.” He shook his hand; the strand peeled away reluctantly, trailing its long tail before floating off to join the others.
She admired him as he worked—broad shoulders steady under the suit, movements precise and unhurried even in the tight confines. There was something grounding about Don: the way he handled tools like extensions of his hands, the quiet confidence that never needed to shout. Five years of running had worn everyone down, but he still carried that easy competence, that rogue’s grin she remembered from the early days. It was… comforting. More than she wanted to admit.
They worked in near-silence for the first hour, the only sounds the hiss of the torch and the low thrum of the ship’s failing recyclers.
“Almost done with this seam,” Don said, voice crackling. “Hold the strut steady.”
She braced it, muscles straining. Then—without warning—the temporary force field flickered. A micro-surge from the planet’s magnetic storms. The breach widened by inches; atmosphere hissed out in a sudden rush.
Maureen stumbled backward as the strut buckled. The golden strands whipped into frenzy—caught in the escaping air—swirling around her like a glittering storm. A jagged support beam, already stressed, groaned and snapped free.
Don reacted faster than thought. He lunged—tackling her to the deck plates—shielding her body with his as the beam crashed down where she’d stood a second earlier. Sparks showered; the torch clattered away, still live. The force field snapped back online with a whine, sealing the breach again.
They lay there—chest to chest, suits sealed tight, no skin contact possible. But she felt it anyway: the solid weight of him, the rapid thud of his heart through layers of insulation, the heat radiating even through vacuum-rated fabric. A spark. Not static. Something alive.
Don lifted his head, breathing hard.
“That would’ve been a hell of a way to go. Five years dodging robots just to get pancaked doing a ship repair.”
Maureen managed a shaky laugh.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He grinned down at her—that roguish tilt back in place.
“You can get off me now.”
“I don’t know,” he said, teasing. “I kinda like the view from here.”
She felt heat flood her face beneath the helmet.
“Don.”
He rolled off immediately, offering a gloved hand to pull her up.
As she gave him her hand to help her up, she noticed a small tear in the shoulder seam of her suit. Luckily the environment was safe, she thought — the atmospheric readings had come back clean earlier. Still, it was a close call.
They stood—awkward for a second—dust and metal flakes drifting in the low gravity.
They finished the weld in silence after that, double-checking every strut, every bead. When the final reinforcement was in place, Maureen ran the diagnostic. Hull integrity climbing—slowly, but steadily.
But something had shifted. The near-death moment had stripped away the usual layers of guarded professionalism. As they packed up tools, Maureen found herself talking—really talking.
“I used to love this,” she said quietly, voice crackling over comms. “The problem-solving. The puzzle of keeping a ship alive. Now it just feels like… survival. Every day the same fight. No end in sight.”
Don paused, torch in hand. He didn’t interrupt—just listened.
“I thought John and I were a team,” she continued, softer. “But we’re not anymore. We’re just… two people trying not to get everyone killed. And half the time I feel like I’m the only one still fighting for that.”
Don set the torch down. Turned to face her fully.
“You’re not the only one. I see it every day—how hard you push. How you never let the kids see you break. That takes more strength than most people have in a lifetime.”
She looked at him—really looked—and felt something loosen in her chest. It had been years since she’d confided in anyone. Years since she’d let the mask slip even a little.
“Sometimes I just want someone else to take control, to know I am in good hands,” she admitted, almost surprised at herself. “It felt good. To talk. To someone who actually listened.”
Don’s grin softened—less rogue, more real.
“Anytime, Maureen. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”
She gave a small, wry smile.
“Yeah. Guess we’re all stuck together.”
Her comm chirped.
“Maureen, Don—hull integrity is rising. Fast.” John’s voice, clipped but relieved. “Good work. Really good.”
She thumbed the reply. “Copy that. We’re secure down here.”
She glanced back at Don. He was watching her now, expression unreadable.
She cleared her throat. “Let’s get decontaminated and go topside. The others will want an update.”
He nodded. “After you.”
As they climbed the ladder together, Maureen tried to ignore the way her pulse hadn’t quite settled. Tried to ignore the memory of his weight pinning her safely to the deck.
She watches Don strip off his suit in the decontamination chamber just outside the bay. The outer layer peeled away, revealing the sweat-darkened undershirt clinging to broad shoulders, defined arms, the hard planes of his chest rising and falling. He shook out his hair, damp and tousled, and caught her looking. He smiled and turned away, removing his shirt.
His back was broad and muscular. For a moment she thought she saw a golden sparkle — a gossamer strand clinging to his skin near his shoulder blade. As she stepped closer, it seemed to disappear, replaced by what looked like a fresh scratch.
Maybe it was just a scratch all along, she thought. Probably happened when he saved her.
She shook the thought off and turned away, but the image lingered — that brief shimmer. After the decon cycle, Maureen insisted on extra precautions.
“Come with me to medical,” she told Don. “Just to be safe. That tear in my suit… and you took the brunt of the beam. I want to make sure nothing got through.”
Don shrugged but followed without complaint. In the small medical bay, Judy ran a quick scan while Maureen stood close, her hand sliding slowly down Don’s muscular back. She felt the slick of his sweat as her fingers traveled between the etched muscles, exploring the scratch she’d noticed earlier.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, fingertips tracing the faint red line.
Don shook his head, voice casual.
“Nah. I get scratches all the time. Occupational hazard.”
Judy’s scanner beeped. She frowned slightly at the readout.
“Nothing major. Slightly elevated temperature and a mild autoimmune reaction around the scratch — looks like your body is already healing it. Could just be from the physical exertion of the repair. No contaminants detected. I recommend monitoring for the next 24 hours, but you don’t need quarantine. You’re clear.”
Maureen exhaled in relief, but her hand lingered a moment longer on Don’s back before she pulled away.
“Thanks, Judy.”
As they left medical, the golden strands were already forgotten — just another harmless quirk of the planet.
Chapter 3: Departure
The prep bay smelled of recycled air and hot electronics, a familiar metallic tang undercut by the faint, musky sweetness of the golden strands that had drifted in from outside. Gear crates lined the walls—rifles racked neatly, med kits sealed and ready, portable scanners humming softly as they charged on their docking pads.
He checked the Chariot’s fuel cell one last time, movements deliberate, controlled—kneeling to inspect the connections while brushing away a cluster of the sticky golden strands that had settled across the access panel like forgotten cobwebs.
Judy stood beside him, methodically packing extra oxygen cartridges into her backpack. She paused to flick a sticky orange filament from the strap, wrinkling her nose at the faint, musty smell it left behind.
“These things are everywhere,” she muttered.
Maureen appeared at the hatch, arms crossed, expression tight. She’d come down to see them off, but the set of her jaw said this wasn’t just a maternal check-in.
“You double-checked the seismic predictor?” she asked John without preamble.
“Twice,” he answered evenly. “It’s calibrated to the latest readings. We’ll have a twenty-minute warning on any major tremor.”
She nodded once, sharp. “Good. Because last time you ‘calibrated’ something, we lost half a day rerouting power after the grid fried. We can’t afford another mistake like that out there.”
John’s shoulders stiffened. He kept his voice level. “That was three years ago, Maureen. Different circumstances. I’ve learned.”
“Have you?” She stepped closer. “Because from where I’m standing, you still charge ahead like the only opinion that matters is yours. And then we’re the ones cleaning up the mess.”
He exhaled through his nose, patience fraying. “I’m not charging anywhere. Judy and I are going in quiet, smart, and fast. Like we planned. Together.”
Maureen’s eyes narrowed. “You always say that. Then something goes sideways and suddenly it’s ‘adapt or die.’ I’m just trying to keep you from getting yourself—or her—killed.”
Don appeared in the doorway behind her, already suited except for the helmet tucked under his arm. He’d clearly overheard. “She’s got a point about staying cautious, John. That outpost could have automated defenses. No point in playing hero.”
John’s gaze flicked to Don—quick, hard. The other man standing there, calm, supportive, right at Maureen’s shoulder. Something hot twisted in John’s gut. He knew Maureen hadn’t touched him in over a year—not like that. The arguments had replaced intimacy; command disputes had replaced conversation. She’d withdrawn, turned inward, and he’d let her. But seeing Don step in, defending her like it was his place… it burned.
“I don’t need a lecture from either of you,” John said, voice low and edged. “I’ve kept this family alive same as you. Maybe longer, considering some of the calls I’ve had to make when no one else would.”
Don raised an eyebrow but didn’t bite back. Maureen opened her mouth—then Judy stepped smoothly between them.
“Okay,” she said, calm, authoritative in that way only she could pull off. “We’re burning daylight. Mom, we’ll check in every thirty minutes. Seismic alerts go straight to your console. If anything looks off—power spikes, movement, anything—we abort and return. No heroics.”
Maureen’s expression softened the instant Judy spoke. She reached out, squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. “I know you’ll keep him in line. Just… be careful.”
John forced a tight smile. “Hey. I’m right here.”
Maureen didn’t smile back. She turned and headed up the corridor without another word.
Judy exhaled quietly, then nodded toward the Chariot. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 4: A Run
Maureen sat alone on the bridge, the only illumination coming from the soft blue glow of the diagnostic screens. The self-healing routines she’d coded years ago were running—nanites crawling through damaged conduits, sealing micro-fractures, rerouting power—but the progress bar moved like cold molasses. She’d run the orbital escape simulations seventeen times in the last two hours. Every variable pointed to the same grim conclusion: even if the hull held and the engines spooled up cleanly, they’d still be cutting it razor-thin. Six days of planetary stability felt more like four now. Too many failure points. Too many unknowns.
She rubbed her temples, eyes burning from staring at numbers that refused to improve.
The hatch hissed open behind her. Don stepped in, casual in a worn flight shirt and pants, hair still damp from whatever he’d been doing down in the bay.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Just checking on you. How are you holding up?”
Maureen didn’t turn. “I’m holding. Barely.”
He moved closer, leaning against the console beside her. “You’ve been staring at that screen since we finished the weld. You need to step away.”
“There’s too much that can go wrong,” she said, voice flat. “The ship repairs are too slow. The engine core doesn’t have enough power to reboot. The seismic readings are trending worse. If one more thing fails—if the power coupling overheats again, or the thrusters don’t gimbal right—we’re not getting off this rock. Not in time.”
Don studied her profile for a moment. “You’ve done everything you can for now. The ship’s working. The routines are running. Will has set-up proximity alarms to monitor for the aliens and the crew is outside clearing out the clogged oxygen recyclers. You sitting here grinding yourself down isn’t going to make the numbers change faster.”
She finally looked at him. He was right. She wasn’t being productive anymore; she was just punishing herself with repetition.
Her gaze drifted over the easy set of his shoulders, the way his shirt clung slightly where sweat had dried, the faint stubble along his jaw. Her mind slipped sideways, imaged Don on top of her again with that roguish smile, but this time without the space suits between them. His rough hands, confident and sure. Her arching into them as he took control of her—and heat bloomed low in her belly.
Damnit. What was wrong with her?
She forced her eyes back to his face. He was watching her with that half-smile, like he knew exactly where her thoughts had wandered but wasn’t going to call her on it.
“The last check-in from John and Judy was clean,” she said, changing the subject. “They’re fine. I’ve done what I can here. What did you have in mind?”
He grinned. “Let’s go for a run. Through the corridors, up and down the decks. Get your heart pumping. Clear your head.”
Maureen laughed—a short, surprised sound—at herself more than anything. She’d half expected, even hoped, he was making a pass at her but she deflated as she realized she had been reading signals that weren’t there. Of course, it was just a run. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”
They changed into light gear—shorts, tanks, running shoes scavenged from storage—and started on the lower deck. The corridors were narrow, the gravity plating still at 0.8g from the crash, but it was enough. Don set an easy pace at first, then picked it up, competitive glint in his eye.
She matched him stride for stride. Then she surged—lighter, more nimble, cutting the turns sharper. She pulled ahead on the second lap, lungs burning, a real smile tugging at her mouth.
“No fair!” Don yelled from behind, laughing. “You’ve got cheat-code legs!”
She laughed too—full, breathless, the sound echoing off the bulkheads. God, she hadn’t felt this alive in months.
They rounded the corner near the gym module, both panting, when her comm chirped.
Maureen slowed, thumbing it on mid-stride. “Go for Maureen.”
John’s voice came through, steady but edged with focus. “Maureen, everything okay over there? You sound… out of breath.”
She huffed a laugh, still catching her wind. “Yeah. Everything’s great. Just… getting exercise. Where are you guys at now?”
“We’re at the base perimeter,” John said. “Looks quiet—no active defenses we can detect. Running final scans, then heading inside. Should be in and out in a couple hours if it stays this clean.”
“Here you go, babe,” Don said, stepping up beside her with a water pouch he’d grabbed from the nearby dispenser. He handed it over with a wink.
Maureen took the water pouch Don handed her, their fingers brushing for just a second longer than necessary. She drank deeply. The cold hit her throat like heaven. “Mmmm.”
A pause on the other end. Then John questioned, his voice a bit annoyed, “Babe?”
Maureen rolled her eyes, but a small, spiteful spark flared inside her—something sharp and unfamiliar. She wanted him to feel it. Wanted him to wonder. Just for a moment. Just enough to remind him she wasn’t invisible.
She thumbed the comm again, voice deliberately light, almost lazy. “Oh, come on, John. Don is just helping me relax by taking me out for a run. We are letting off steam together with a little physical exertion,” she said with a breathy voice, “Don’t get bent out of shape just because of an innocent little nickname.” She paused, looking at Don as he leaned into her with a grin and a wink, letting her next words hang, soft and suggestive, the tiniest curl of mischief in her tone. “I mean, we are doing good, he knows exactly how to take care of what I need down there.”
Don—standing close enough to hear—didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in just slightly, voice low but perfectly picked up by her open mic. “Only doing my job, ma’am. Gotta make sure everything is fitting nice and tight.”
Maureen couldn’t help it—she giggled. A real, surprised sound that bubbled up before she could catch it. Her cheeks flushed beneath the helmet; she swatted at Don’s arm, but the motion lacked any real heat.
John’s silence stretched a beat too long. When he spoke again, his voice was tighter.
“…Copy that. Just—stay safe. We’ll check in again soon.”
The comm clicked off.
Don turned to her with a slow, suggestive grin, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I know how to take care of what you need down here, huh?”
Maureen felt heat rush to her face, but she couldn’t stop the small, flustered smile that tugged at her lips.
“Well… you do know how to put a smile on my face.”
“Honey,” Don said, his voice dropping into that confident, cocky drawl she was quickly becoming addicted to. A roguish grin spread across his face. “You give me the chance, and I’ll put more than just a smile on that pretty face.”
Maureen’s blush deepened, her heart beating faster. She knew she should shut this down — she was married, for God’s sake — but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she met his gaze, still smiling, still flushed from the run and from him.
Don’s grin softened into something slower, more serious. He stepped closer — close enough that she could smell the clean sweat on his skin, feel the heat rolling off his body. It was intoxicating.
“He’s jealous,” he murmured.
Maureen held his eyes, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Should he be?”
Don didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to her lips for a heartbeat before returning to her eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was low and rough.
“I know I would be.”
Her cheeks burned hotter. She didn’t step back.
He leaned in until his breath brushed the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
“After all… I get to be here flirting with his sexy wife, making her work up a sweat, and he can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Maureen’s breath hitched. The words sent a forbidden thrill through her — dangerous, exciting, and far too tempting. She was married. She knew better. But right now, with Don this close, his body radiating heat and his voice wrapped around her like velvet, all she could think about was how much she wanted him to keep talking… and how much she wanted him to do everything he was hinting at.
She swallowed hard, voice shaky but honest.
“Don… I’m still married.”
“I know…and I don’t mind,” he said softly, not pulling away. “I’ve only got eyes for one Robinson, Maureen. And she’s standing right in front of me. When you change your mind just let me know.”
The air between them crackled. For a long moment, neither moved — caught in the tension, the pull, the undeniable want.
Then the moment stretched too thin.
Maureen took a small step back, heart racing, cheeks still flushed.
“We should… cool down. Check the systems again.”
Don nodded, easy smile sliding back into place like nothing had happened. “Yeah. Systems. Right.”
But as they headed toward the ladder, Maureen felt the shift in the air between them—charged, undeniable.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to cool down at all.
Chapter 5: Steam and Shadows
Maureen leaned over the bridge console, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead as she refreshed the diagnostic feeds. The self-healing routines were holding—hull integrity at 78% now, engines spooling simulations green across the board. Across from her, Will sat on the bridge with Robot checking on the proximity array. For the first time in what felt like forever, Maureen felt like she was able to breathe. It didn’t seem like imminent doom anymore. She exhaled a shaky laugh, leaning back in the chair.
John’s jealousy over the comm… it was almost funny. He had no right to bristle like that. Not after the way he’d pulled away over the past year — distant, cold, more commander than husband.
They had been in survival mode for so long — patching the ship, dodging death, putting the kids first — that any real intimacy between them had withered to nothing. He hadn’t touched her with desire in over a year. He hadn’t looked at her like a woman in even longer. Hell, back on Earth, before the Resolute even launched, she had already been quietly mapping out the divorce papers in her head, treating it like one of her engineering schematics — logical, inevitable, just another problem to solve.
The stars had simply delayed the inevitable.
So if she was attracted to Don — if she wanted to feel desired, wanted, and thoroughly taken for once — why shouldn’t she? John had already checked out of their marriage long ago. She was tired of pretending otherwise.
She grinned, thankful that Don had checked in on her and told her to take a break. It had been a long time since someone saw her — really saw her — and supported her like that. She grinned wider, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Penny entered the bridge then, sniffing discreetly and wrinkling her nose.
“Mom, you smell like you’ve been wrestling a reactor core. You need to take a shower.”
Maureen did feel ripe — sweat-soaked from the run, grime from the hull work clinging to her skin. A shower. That’s what she needed. Clear her head, wash away the tension coiling in her gut.
Her mind buzzed as she headed down the corridor — replays of Don’s teasing lean-in, his breath hot against her ear, calling her sexy. The way his eyes had darkened, challenging. She shook it off, or tried to. Distracted, she palmed the door to the shared shower bay without knocking, the hatch sliding open with a soft hiss.
Steam billowed out, thick and humid, carrying the sharp scent of standard-issue soap. And there he was—Don, under the spray, eyes squeezed shut as he rinsed suds from his hair. Water cascaded over his broad shoulders, down the defined ridges of his back, tracing paths along his hips. But her gaze locked lower, unbidden, on the length of him—long, semi-hard, swaying slightly with his movements. Holy shit. It hung there, heavy and unapologetic, veins subtly prominent under the wet skin, the head flushed just enough to hint at recent thoughts or simple biology. She couldn't tear her eyes away, a flush creeping up her neck as heat pooled between her legs.
The sweat from the run still clung to her skin, triggering something deep and unspoken—an enhancement of the attraction that had been simmering between them since the hull repair. The released pheromones, carried unknowingly on their bodies from the planet’s golden strands, amplified every lingering glance, every accidental touch, turning simple desire into something hungrier, more insistent. She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t explain, a pull that made her want to surrender control, to stop being the commander for just a moment and simply feel.
She stood there, lips already parted, watching the water pour off his cock, imagining it was his cum dripping down the thick shaft. Fuck, she wanted to taste it so badly.
Don opened his eyes in the shower and saw her.
He saw where her eyes were locked — on his cock.
He stepped out of the shower toward her, water still streaming down his body, towel forgotten on the hook.
“Come here,” he told her, voice low and commanding.
She did as she was told. She couldn’t understand why. Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, drawn to him by a force she couldn’t name.
He stood before her, naked and dripping, offering his cock to her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Is this what you want, Maureen?”
She nodded, unable to speak, her mouth dry despite the heat flooding her body.
Oh god, what has come over her?
She descended to her knees and kissed his cock — soft, reverent, lips brushing the thick head. Then she opened her mouth and took him in, sucking him slowly at first, tasting the clean water mixed with the faint musk of his skin.
She had never liked doing this before — not really. It had always felt like a chore, something to get through. But here, now, with Don… she loved it. She loved the taste of him — clean, slightly salty, masculine. She loved the way his cock filled her mouth, the way it throbbed against her tongue.
She licked his full shaft slowly — long, wet strokes from base to tip, savoring every vein, every ridge. Don groaned, one hand gently threading into her hair as he watched her.
“Fuck… Maureen… your mouth feels so good…”
She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his thickening girth as he grew fully hard in her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the head, tasting the salty precum that leaked from the tip. She was so hungry for him, so hungry for his cum. She wanted it so badly — wanted to feel him throb and pulse on her tongue, wanted to swallow every drop he gave her.
Don’s hand tightened in her hair, guiding her pace as he began to fuck her face — slow, deep thrusts that pushed his cock toward the back of her throat. He watched her the entire time — her full lips stretched wide around his girth, her eyes watering slightly as she took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing with every suck.
“Fuck… look at you,” he groaned, voice rough with lust. “My commander on her knees, sucking my cock without me asking. So fucking hungry for it.”
Maureen moaned around him — the vibration shooting straight up his spine — her head bobbing faster as she took him deeper, gagging softly when he hit the back of her throat. She loved the way he filled her mouth, the way his thickness stretched her lips, the way his hand controlled her movements. She was so wet between her thighs, her body aching for more, but right now all she wanted was to make him cum.
Don’s hips rocked faster, fucking her mouth with controlled thrusts, his balls tightening as pleasure built.
“God, Maureen… your mouth feels so good… keep sucking… just like that… I’m gonna cum down your throat if you keep going…”
She moaned louder around him, sucking harder, her tongue working the underside of his shaft as she looked up at him with watery, lust-filled eyes.
She wanted it.
She needed it.
And Don — watching his commander on her knees, lips stretched around his cock — gave it to her.
With a deep, guttural groan he thrust deep and came — thick, hot pulses flooding her mouth, spilling down her throat as she swallowed greedily, not wasting a single drop.
When he finally pulled out, a thin string of saliva and cum connected her swollen lips to the head of his cock for a heartbeat before it broke.
Maureen looked up at him, lips glistening, chest heaving.
Don reached down, thumb brushing her lower lip.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
The pheromones still hung heavy in the steam-filled air.
And neither of them was done yet.
Chapter 6: Too Far
Don reached down, his strong hands gently guiding Maureen to her feet. She rose on shaky legs, her body still buzzing from the intensity of what she had just done. He didn’t speak — he simply pulled her close and began undressing her, his fingers eagerly finding finding the hem of her shirt, lifting it over her head and arms with deliberate care. He kissed her the entire time — soft, deep kisses that stole her breath, his lips trailing from her mouth to her jaw, down her neck, and across her collarbone.
Her breasts heaved as she watched his fingers hook around the waistband of her shorts and panties and tug it down her vanilla thighs. The fabric peeled away slowly, revealing her flushed skin inch by inch.
When the last piece of clothing fell to the floor, he lifted her effortlessly onto the edge of the sink, spreading her legs wide. Maureen gasped as the cool porcelain met her heated skin.
His free hand slid between them—slow, deliberate. He let her feel the anticipation build, the pad of his middle finger tracing her folds—light, teasing—gathering the slickness already pooling there. She was soaked—hot, swollen, aching—and the discovery pulled a low, satisfied rumble from his throat.
“Goddamn, Maureen,” he murmured against her neck, voice gravel-rough. “You’re dripping for me.”
She whimpered—soft, involuntary—hips twitching toward his touch.
“Don…”
He pressed in—one finger first—slow, so slow—feeling her walls flutter and yield around the intrusion. Her head fell back against the bulkhead with a quiet thud, lips parting on a shaky exhale. He curled the digit inside her—gentle at first—searching, stroking, until the pad brushed that sensitive ridge deep within.
Her thighs trembled—hard—muscles jumping causing her legs to spread as she eased back down.
“That’s it,” he whispered, breath hot against her ear. “Right there, isn’t it?”
He added a second finger—stretching her wider—curling both now in a slow, deliberate come-hither motion that made her gasp, high and broken. Her hips rocked forward—instinctive, needy—chasing the pressure, the fullness. His thumb settled over her clit—pressing down in firm, steady circles—matching the rhythm of his fingers inside her.
Maureen’s hands flew to his shoulders—nails digging in to his clean muscular flesh —trying to anchor herself as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in her belly. Every slow drag of his fingers, every precise swirl of his thumb, wound her higher. Her breathing turned ragged—short, desperate pants—each exhale edged with a tiny, helpless moan.
“Don—please—”
Her body ratcheted tight, fast—too fast—coiling like a spring. She begged without shame, hips grinding against his hand.
“Please—please—”
Maureen’s mouth fell open on a silent cry—body tensing like a drawn bowstring. Her walls fluttered wildly around his fingers—clenching, releasing, clenching again—as the coil inside her snapped.
She came—hard, sudden, shattering—back arching off the bulkhead, thighs clamping around his wrist, a raw, broken moan tearing from her throat. Her release flooded his hand—hot, slick—dripping down his wrist as her hips jerked in helpless little pulses.
Don didn’t stop.
He kept the slow rhythm—fingers curling, thumb circling—drawing every last tremor, every aftershock, until she was whimpering, oversensitive, thighs shaking so violently she might have fallen if he wasn’t holding her up.
Don eased his fingers out slowly—deliberately—watching every flicker across Maureen’s face as her walls fluttered around the sudden emptiness. Her hips chased the retreating touch, a soft, desperate whimper escaping her lips. Her thighs trembled, slick and quivering, her cunt still pulsing with aftershocks, glistening under the low emergency lights.
He dropped to his knees between her spread thighs without a word.
Maureen’s breath hitched—sharp, anticipatory—as he hooked her legs over his broad shoulders, opening her wider. The position tilted her hips up, exposing her completely: swollen, dripping, clit throbbing visibly. She looked down at him—eyes dark, pupils blown—and bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark.
“Don—”
He didn’t let her finish.
He buried his face in her.
His tongue was relentless — flat, broad licks dragging from her entrance all the way up to her swollen clit, slow and possessive. Then pointed flicks — quick, teasing — circling the sensitive bud before he sucked it between his lips with firm, wet suction.
Maureen cried out — loud, raw, the sound muffled slightly by the still-running shower but still echoing off the tiled walls.
“Oh fuck—Don—yes—!”
Her fingers flew to his hair, threading through the damp strands, gripping hard as her hips bucked against his mouth. He groaned into her — deep, vibrating rumble that shot straight through her core — and the vibration made her thighs clamp around his head.
“God—your tongue—fuck—don’t stop—!”
He doubled down — hungry, insatiable — tongue plunging inside her, fucking her with wet, curling strokes before returning to her clit with ruthless focus. Flat licks, swirling circles, then hard suction again — sucking her clit like he was starving for it.
Maureen screamed — high, broken, head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud.
“Don, oh my god—yes—suck it—harder—fuck—!”
One of his hands gripped her thigh — hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh — holding her open while the other slid up her body, finding her nipple and pinching it between thumb and forefinger. He rolled the tight peak — slow, then sharp tugs — matching the rhythm of his tongue on her clit.
She was shaking now — whole body trembling — hips grinding shamelessly against his face, smearing her wetness across his lips, his chin.
“Fuck—yes—eat me—eat my pussy—Don—don’t stop—gonna cum—gonna cum so hard—!”
He groaned again — deeper this time — the sound vibrating straight through her clit. He sucked harder — lips sealing around her, tongue flicking fast and merciless — while his fingers twisted her nipple and his other hand gripped her thigh tighter, anchoring her as she bucked.
Maureen’s screams turned incoherent — raw, desperate, rising in pitch.
She screamed — long, shattering — back bowing off the sink, thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking violently as pleasure tore through her. Her cunt pulsed — hard, rhythmic — flooding his mouth with fresh wetness. He didn’t stop — kept sucking, kept licking, drawing every last tremor, every aftershock, until she was sobbing with overstimulation, thighs shaking so hard they threatened to give out.
Only then did he ease off — slow, gentle laps now — lapping up every drop like he couldn’t get enough.
Maureen’s hands loosened in his hair — trembling — her chest heaving, tears of pleasure streaking her cheeks.
“Don…” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Fuck… you’re gonna kill me…”
He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes — lips glistening, chin wet, grin slow and filthy.
“Not yet,” he rasped. “I’m just getting started.”
He stood slowly — towering over her — cock rock-hard and throbbing between them, the head flushed dark and leaking. He stepped between her thighs — hands gripping her hips — lifting her just enough to line himself up.
But before he could push inside, the ship-wide alarms screamed.
Red lights strobed across the cabin. The klaxon wailed — sharp, insistent, emergency tone.
“Proximity alert,” the ship’s computer announced, calm and mechanical. “Unidentified signatures approaching from orbit. Multiple contacts.”
They froze.
Don’s forehead dropped to hers for one heartbeat, breath ragged.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Maureen closed her eyes, chest heaving. “Of course.”
He pressed one last, hard kiss to her mouth — promising — then pulled back, grabbing the fallen towel and knotting it around his waist.
“Duty calls,” he said, voice still rough with want.
She sat up, legs shaky, dragging her tank top back on with trembling hands.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Duty.”
But as they hurried toward the bridge together — skin still flushed, bodies still humming — the promise lingered between them, unfinished, electric, and far from over.