Seeing Sergei in a haze of pleasure fed Mike’s own, and he jerked himself with greater force. The man’s eyes slid open, gray gaze latching onto him beneath pale blond lashes, and Mike closed his eyes, head falling back as he came all over the packed dirt of the floor where he knelt. Wave after wave, flowing through his body, and when it ended he could barely stay upright.
Definitely not what he’d planned. Mike slumped sideways onto the floor. The world tunneled and turned gray, and he squeezed his eyes shut, focused on catching his breath. After a minute or so, he opened his eyes, finding enough energy to offer a halfhearted grin, though it wasn’t much more than a twitch at one corner of his mouth.
Sergei took a few moments to gather his wits, then ran a hand over his face and brow. Some reason returned, and calculation with it, awareness, even. The first thing he did was glance at his clothes hanging from the nail, then he bent down and offered his hand.
Mike, however, didn’t think there was a shred of calculation left in him anywhere. He didn’t even give it thought before taking Sergei’s hand and using the strength in that grip to regain his feet. He didn’t have the brain power left to figure out what happened next. It was as if all his gray matter just crashed, and wouldn’t finish rebooting for another couple hours.
Sergei held his hand for a moment, then touched him on the arm, a touch not out of place in a more formal environment. The smile was the only thing that didn’t fit. “Thank you.” He cast another inquisitive glance at Mike’s face and then turned to begin dressing.
Mike wanted to laugh. The urge bubbled up in him suddenly, catching him off guard, and it had very little to do with Sergei. He squelched it, dragged on his pants and grabbed his smokes before planting his ass on top of his kit. No way could he stay upright at the moment. He was too relaxed, muscles like water.
Yeah, way too damned long. He lit the cigarette, took a long drag and watched Sergei get dressed, not caring what might show on his face. “I’d say you’re welcome, but that might keep you from finding me again soon.”
Sergei pulled his undershirt over his chest. “Again? When?” He seemed surprised at the prospect, but a well-fucked smile hid just behind the thoughtful demeanor. He looked up.
“I’m open to suggestions.” The stretch of thin undershirt accentuating the soldier’s well-defined chest distracted him from saying something more intelligent.
“Tomorrow.” The response was too fast to be calculated.
Mike thought maybe he succeeded in hiding his own shock but couldn’t do anything about his grin. “What time?”
“Late afternoon. Evening. I have a few hours then.” Sergei paused, looking pensive again.
Mike nodded, took a long drag off his smoke. “I can be here.” The expression on Sergei’s face made his smile melt away, though. “What?”
“Not saying…I didn’t mean to say hours.” He closed his uniform jacket, concentrating on the buttons. Officer insignia glinted in the light, polished metal sharp against the dark cloth. The blood-red pinstripe running down the outside of the trouser leg was a tease, pulling Mike’s focus to the soldier’s heavily muscled thighs.
Mike studied the floor between them, the pits and rocks, the smooth spots that looked as hard as granite. The puddle they’d left on the floor. “Oh. Right. Well, it’s not like the bed in here is worth shit.” He glanced back at Sergei and gave an apologetic grin.
Sergei smiled. “Barracks—no better.” He took the cap off the nail, brushed it thoughtfully and needlessly. “How long are you here?”
“Tomorrow?” Mike stubbed the cigarette out on the dirt floor and stood, stepping closer, the edge of caution returning now that Sergei was fully dressed. The uniform itself was intimidating enough, but the way he wore it, like armor, was even more daunting. “As long as you want me to be.”
Fuck. As soon as he said it, he wanted to take the words back. Too easy, too quick. He stopped, a few feet away, still and tense, waiting to see how Sergei would react.
“I meant days. In days. Or do you live here?”
“Yes, I live…nearby.” Mike brushed the dirt from his sweat-slicked arm, smearing it into mud, and grimaced at the result. “Why?”
“That’s good.” Sergei stood near the door, undecided, cap in both hands. “I’ll be stationed here for a while.”
The grin on Mike’s face felt like it was going to split something. He stepped closer, leaned in and brushed his lips against Sergei’s. Just a light, teasing contact, but it made his blood race all over again anyway. “Come find me tomorrow, then. Yes?” he said, pulling back only a fraction, each word a brush of warm breath against that pale skin. Mike knew he was playing up the tease angle, but someone’s god would strike him down as a liar if he dared say he wasn’t enjoying every moment of it.
Sergei withdrew, startled, then put his cap on as if that would protect him from more advances. “Late afternoon, early evening. I’ll come here.”
Trying not to let himself feel the sting of that withdrawal, however fractional it had been, Mike took a step back, then another, and nodded. “Okay.” His gut told him the odds were low that Sergei would return. Much more probable that the Doctrine in him would rear back up in full force, that Sergei would work himself into a lather over having done this in the first place.
The second-guessing and regrets and self-flagellation always descended once the blood cooled.
“See you tomorrow, soldier.” He smiled, even though the expression felt empty, and turned away to collect his kit and tunic.
It was only after Sergei had left that the sliver of intel began to sink into Mike’s brain, as if working its way through a filter. Going to be here a while. How long was “a while”? Weeks? Months? Years? Mike rolled his eyes as he finished lacing his boots, then walked over to kick dirt over the mess on the floor.
The language barrier was irritating, to say the least. Sergei’s Cirokkan was rudimentary at best, and he had a perfectly sexy accent when he spoke Doctrine standard. Native speakers of Doctrine standard possessed a lilt, a nuance that came with lifelong familiarity, which couldn’t be gained through any amount of linguist therapy. Mike wouldn’t mind hearing more of that accent. It had been difficult to not respond to Sergei in Doctrine standard when he’d slipped, back in the sauna. Many of the native Cirokkans spoke the tongue of their invaders, so perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that his Doctrine standard accent wouldn’t sound Cirokkan in the least. Insecurity, despite knowing Herschel had created a bulletproof cover for him.
But to Mike’s mind, it was telling that Sergei hadn’t simply lapsed back into Doctrine standard and assumed he’d follow. There was consideration and something else—respect?—in the soldier’s effort to communicate in a language he wasn’t very comfortable with. That was the influence of culture, not Doctrine, and the disparity snagged his curiosity.
Chapter Seven
Back at his desk, Sergei found that the echoes of what he’d done were still rippling through him. First serious contact with a native outside duty, and the first thing that happened was sex. The man’s insistence on kissing him had caught him off guard. He didn’t do that, had had very little experience of that, didn’t know how to react. Kissing brought home what he was doing there, the regulations he broke, the laws—in short, he had to acknowledge the other person, and he preferred not to.
He could have perfectly gratifying sex without thinking for a moment who else was involved. Much like denying jerking off the next morning. The other man—Mike—insisted on not being that. Had asked him his name, knew what he was, even though that was no approximation of who he was. Which intrigued him. He wasn’t very good at picking up anonymous sex—he tended to not take the risk. The thing with the general was the closest to a habit he’d ever formed, and it wasn’t much of a habit if choice wasn’t involved, was it?
But he was most likely scratching the same itch in the other man, and that might be worth more than
the money on his head. A native with those tastes might have problems too. He hadn’t been trapped. Maybe they were just both facing serious censure if they were caught, and that bridged the gap that would otherwise keep them apart. Sergei liked that thought and hoped it was the truth.
He had a nap, then dinner, then returned to work. There was precious little else to occupy his mind, and he considered leaving early if he made good progress. To shorten the wait to another encounter. Would he? Yes, of course. This still posed a real danger of getting sold to the rebels, a chance that next time they would be lying in wait to capture him. He’d read reports on torture and murder and those were too gruesome and detailed to ignore.
He slept after he’d relived the encounter, the puzzling aspects about it—the kissing, the way the man had gone to his knees. Awoke, to exercise and work, feeling anticipation rise inside him. He’d be there.
Mike seemed self-sufficient, though Sergei couldn’t imagine what he lived off. Maybe an emigrant returning home? Everything else about the man was a mystery—then again, Sergei had never thought he might be important.
He pondered gifts—food, cigarettes—but wasn’t sure what he required. Doctrine cigarettes weren’t good, if he trusted his smoking brothers in their assessment. And giving gifts? Wasn’t that taking it too far? He didn’t want the man to think he paid him, but he didn’t mind paying for it. Was that the reason? Would Mike come in calling favors? Possibly. He needed a special permit for something, paperwork to get approved?
The longer he turned it in his head, the less nervous he was about getting killed. He was more valuable to the other man alive.
After work, he had a wash and a change of clothes and headed back to the hovel, giving it a quick check for surveillance outside, and then knocked on the door. Feeling ridiculously nervous.
Boots scuffed on the packed earthen floor within, the sound deliberately loud to his ears. He’d watched the man move, he recalled, easing back from the door. Maybe it wasn’t Mike at all; or Mike was simply avoiding a soldier’s possible reaction to the element of surprise.
Though one usually expected a door to be opened when knocking on it. Nothing to catch him off guard in that. The latch slid audibly, the door swung inward. Mike’s bare-chested form filled the gap, oblique muscles prominently displayed above the loosely cinched belt, his pants just high enough to avoid indecent exposure. Not standing square, making himself a target, but off to the side, shielded by the jamb and Sergei’s own presence.
Mike propped his right arm on the wall, biceps flush to the cool stone, his forefinger bookmarked in the pages of a dog-eared, dinged-up hardback book, the sharp corner digging into the muscle of his shoulder where it rested. He remained where he was, pushing the door open with a shove of his left hand. A smile curved his lips, drawing Sergei’s attention to his mouth, making the heat rise in his blood at the memories of last night.
“Glad you came,” Mike said, the Cirokkan sounding strange, faintly accented. Familiar, almost. He cleared his throat and backed away from the door, gripping the thick spine of the book with both hands.
Sergei’s gaze flicked over the literature, curious, as he shut the door behind him and reached back to engage the lock.
It was an actual print copy of Sacrifice & Triumph in its original language, not so dissimilar to Doctrine standard. Not a translation, with all the magic lost. A remnant of his home planet Liberty before the Doctrine had claimed it. That book had to be priceless, and to see it in someone’s hands on this backwater rock made Sergei’s brows arch up his forehead. He snatched the cap from his head, remembering suddenly, with a surge of panic, to check every entrance and ensure his own safety.
No ambush. No rebels hidden to take him prisoner. The book. Part of him was flustered at that revelation, but it was really a hint, wasn’t it. An understanding of Liberty—in all ways. Awareness of culture. Heritage. History. Language. Mike wasn’t just an anonymous man Sergei met for sex.
Dangerous. Sergei paused for a moment, needed it to psych himself up. “It’s heavy going,” he said, not bothering with Cirokkan this time. “Sacrifice & Triumph. Not easy.” He turned the hat in his hands, the golden star catching his gaze for a moment.
“Nothing much about Liberty is easy, that I’ve found.” Mike’s voice was laced with humor, but the relaxed attitude wasn’t completely real. Sergei followed him in his peripheral vision, saw the tension in Mike’s shoulders. Faint, but he wasn’t as relaxed as he’d been yesterday. “But then, most things in life worth having, you fight for tooth and nail.”
Sergei focused on the voice, the enunciation and accent, struggling to place the influence. Trying to glean every scrap of a clue that would help him put this stranger into some frame of reference, a perspective, since currently he had none.
All this just added to his long list of questions. This was a lot more complex now than simple sex. “All life is a struggle. There’s the struggle of systems…pushing and resisting.” He turned to look at the man who intrigued him more and more. Good-looking, available, and an intellectual? At the same time, mysterious and guarded. “What would you struggle for? What’s worth fighting for?”
“Life, the next breath, the next beat of one’s heart.” Mike lifted his gaze, and the hard brown eyes lightened, a flash of some indescribable emotion burning in his expression. Just as quickly, the man turned away. Hiding himself. “What else is there worth fighting for?”
“Your people…spreading the Doctrine…” Terribly loaded question. Maybe it was this planet’s primitive glory that allowed him to entertain the thought at all. And speak words that weren’t just about the Doctrine. “Improvement. Betterment.” He shrugged. “But if we go for body functions, then…there’s one I’d add to the list.” He smiled.
Mike’s stance loosened and he turned his head in profile, the visible corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Worth fighting for?” A laugh, then, and though the sudden tension in the room eased, whatever shadowed the man wasn’t so swift to recede. “I had no idea you’d think so highly of my…oral skills.” He lifted a hand, long fingers disappearing into his shaggy hair as he fisted a handful atop his head before carding through it, the gesture rough and edgy. Almost as if he wanted it gone. “Improvement, betterment…I prefer to leave those things for each individual to define for themselves. To fight for, themselves. Because ‘all warfare is based on deception.’”
“Literature and philosophy.” Sergei smiled slightly. “And even more ‘oral skills.’” He leaned against the wall, relaxing a bit. “You’re not a Cirokkan rebel.” He studied the man, trying to piece together what he had, but there was still too much missing. “Or not a typical one…not the way they say they are.”
“Life makes philosophers of us all, doesn’t it?” Mike shrugged, the tension bleeding from his body. His flash of a smile was brief, dismissive. “I’m a student, actually. Working on my Ph.D. I’ve been studying the sociocultural psychology of this planet’s tribes as a part of my thesis. Bad timing on my part, yes?” He returned to what had likely been his perch before Sergei arrived, back against the wall, legs folded, on the decrepit excuse for a cot along the far side of the room. “Whether I’m a rebel or not…” Here, Mike’s shoulders rolled again, and he grinned more warmly as he leaned down to rest the book on top of his kit. One knee came up, leg tucked tight to his chest, forearm propped on his knee. “You’ll make that decision for yourself, and it matters little what I say.” And he winked.
“You fit in well.” Sergei came a little closer, took in the expanse of sunburned skin, hair, lines of muscles, all tempting and freely displayed like it didn’t matter. “And to complete your studies you find a Doctrine officer?”
“I’m sure I could write a complete dissertation about the disparities between Liberty’s indigenous culture and Doctrine collective society.” Mike canted his head a fraction and let his gaze wander down the length of Sergei’s uniform, then back up to meet his eyes. No smile, now, but the eyes seemed bright
er. He pushed off the cot and stepped toward him. “But I can think of other things I’d rather be doing.”
“You think there’s a difference?” Sergei moved closer and placed a hand on Mike’s chest. The touch gave him a thrill, held all kinds of possibilities, just like being alone with another man who liked the same things. He read Mike’s eyes while he brought his face close enough to feel his breath. Kissing. Almost. Soon. An alien but enticing concept.
“You think there’s not?” The words were whispers, the warm moisture of each syllable a teasing puff of air against Sergei’s cheek. Mike’s gaze lowered, then met his again, the irises a blend of brown and blue and green.
Sergei gave a small smile, not sure what to answer when the question was simply returned to him inside out. He liked the man’s smell, even though it didn’t remind him of anything in particular, just a clean, fresh, male smell, warm, deep. He tilted his head to touch those lips with his, brushing, then more insistent, that connection like a punch to the chest. His hand rested along Mike’s jaw, fingers curled a bit to hold him closer.
For a few moments, he simply let Sergei kiss him. Lips soft against his, pliant, a contrast to the rest of him. And then like an electrical circuit being completed, Mike suddenly took control, kissing him back, voracious and hungry, his hands coming up to frame Sergei’s face. He could feel the calluses on those hands against his cheeks, his neck.
They weren’t the hands of a scholar.
Maybe there was an explanation for that. Sergei was too dazed to care, didn’t want to think about it, because the kissing demanded all his attention. It seemed complicated and clumsy, but so right, so powerful, nothing quite like it. His free hand came to rest on Mike’s back, pulling him closer, pressing against him, the simmering arousal coming to the fore of his mind. He wanted more than this, but he was the one who was mostly dressed, so he had to break the kiss to undress. He didn’t want to. He managed to pull away, slightly, and pull at his uniform. “You think that bed can hold us both?”
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