by Kris Delake
Her mouth was busy, but her hands weren’t. She finally managed to pull off those pants, and the moment she was free, she moved as fast as she could, head up like he wanted. She was wet and she had made him wet and she slid onto him as if they were made for each other, and they pushed into each other.
He filled her, and she hadn’t realized she had been empty. It felt so good. So damn good.
She bounced twice, and his eyelashes fluttered, a flush working its way down his chest almost to his navel, and there was no more control—or so she thought until suddenly he grabbed her, flipped her, and thrust, hard fast perfect, perfect, she kept muttering perfect, and then he kissed her and as he did, she pulsed, pulsed and pulsed and shattered—
And he came with her, holding her tight. She could feel him, every bit of him—she had never been so attune to her body in her life—and they arched into each other, and for a moment, just the briefest of moments, they had achieve something she had never thought possible, something explosive.
Something perfect.
Something right.
Chapter 3
It had been a long, spectacular night.
Or at least it had seemed that way when she was drunk.
But the next morning she woke up sober, sprawled naked and sore on the bed of a man she didn’t know, in a room that had to cost as much as she earned in an entire year.
She remembered the bed—how could anyone forget this bed? It was the softest, warmest, most luxurious bed she had ever been in, with smooth covers, sheets that didn’t scratch, and a mattress (or something mattressy) that cradled her body.
The room itself looked familiar only in outline. She remembered the carpet because it surprised her (and scratched her bare back at one point), but she hadn’t noticed that it was the palest of blues. She remembered the windows because she saw herself reflected naked in them, and she hadn’t cared at the time.
Now she cared, and fortunately, the windows overlooked only the blackness of space. Unless a ship had pulled up right next to these windows, no one had seen her and—what the hell was his name? Jeez. She had done things with him she had never done with another human being, willingly done them (and she still tingled remembering them)—and she had no idea who he was.
He wasn’t in bed next to her. He was standing near the bathroom door, knee bent, one bare foot against the wall, and a smile on his face. He wore brown pants that clung to his magnificent legs, a half-buttoned, billowy white shirt, showing those abs that rippled all the way down.
With his clothes on, he looked slight, which was deceptive. He wasn’t slight at all. He wasn’t slight anywhere, particularly in the places (place) it counted.
At least he was as handsome as she remembered. Those high cheekbones, that perfect nose, those startling blue eyes. And the white-blond hair? It was his natural color. She had found that natural color nested between his legs, and she had found that unbelievably erotic too.
She still did, which disturbed her. Because as crummy as her head felt, she shouldn’t find anything erotic. She had clearly had too much to drink last night. He made things worse by holding up a glass of something foamy, which reminded her of the beer and made her stomach lurch.
“Misha,” he said.
“What?” The word came out mushy. God, how much had she had to drink? Her mouth tasted like dirty socks.
“My name,” he said. “It’s Misha. I figured you earned that much.”
Earned it. She didn’t like the idea of earned, as if she’d paid for it with sex. A lot of sex. Damn. How many times had they—
“And yes, we met,” he said, “but I doubt you remember.”
It was as if they were having a conversation she didn’t remember either. Her head hurt, and she brought a hand to her eyes. They felt gummy and sore. Everything was sore. And she had bruises on her wrist. Had he done that?
“Here,” he said and handed her the foamy liquid. “Drink it fast and try not to taste it.”
She glanced at him through her splayed fingers. He looked serious, and younger than she remembered. Hadn’t she thought him midthirties? His body was midthirties—flat abdomen, visible muscles, and at least half a dozen scars—but his face was maybe fifteen, at least at the moment. He had shadows under his eyes, and his mouth turned downward, as if a frown were his natural expression.
The sadness caught her—if indeed it was sadness and not something else. That, and the scars. She had been so involved (involved, what a euphemism) that she hadn’t even noticed. How could she have missed all those scars?
She had no idea who he was. Misha? She didn’t remember a Misha, even though he said they had met before.
She shouldn’t take the drink from him. God knew what was in it. But if he were going to hurt her, he would have done it last night, while she slept.
Jeez, she’d trusted him more than anyone in recent memory. She had slept with him, actually slept, her guard all the way down. He could have done anything to her. He could have killed her or kidnapped her (although, in all fairness, where could he have taken her on this ship?) or given her to the authorities. He could have had his way with her—in ways she would never have agreed to, not in the way that she had.
She sat up, the sheet falling away. Her skin had finger marks, bruises, love bites, scratches. She remembered each one, so she hadn’t been that drunk. Just the thought of his teeth grazing the tender skin above her breast made her shiver.
He leaned forward, handing her the glass as if he didn’t want their fingers to touch. A bit of the stuff overflowed onto her hand, warm and foamy. Her stomach lurched again, so she took the glass from him and downed the stuff.
It tasted like carbonated bile with a touch of dog hair, but she managed to swallow it all without getting sick.
Her stomach settled the minute the crap touched it, and slowly her headache eased.
“What was that?” she asked.
“A couple of alcohol antidotes mixed with an emergency scrubber that I always carry,” he said. “Works, even if it tastes like day-old vomit.”
She grimaced, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She no longer felt hungover, although she did feel wrung out.
“What happened last night?” she asked.
He smiled and looked pointedly at her breasts. “If you don’t remember—”
“I mean…” she said, not wanting him to continue. She wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or not. She certainly hadn’t been herself. At least, any kind of self she recognized. She’d been insatiable.
She’d never been insatiable in her entire life.
She cleared her throat. “What were you doing? Following me?”
“Of course I was following you,” he said.
She sat rigidly, her fingers still cupped around the glass. Her heart rate increased.
She hadn’t even seen him follow her. She hadn’t noticed him at all on this ship, and given her physical response to him last night (this morning too, dammit), she should have noticed him from the moment she had come on board.
Her mouth had gone dry.
He hovered close to her. He had bite marks, too, and scratches and bruises, as well as the mark of her teeth on the very pale skin of his neck.
She had given as good as she had gotten, at least.
“Who trained you?” he asked.
Whatever she had expected him to ask, it hadn’t been that. She licked her bottom lip, and noted with some satisfaction, that his eyes tracked the movement.
“Why do you care?” she asked. She’d been responding to his question on training, but she could have been asking about herself. Why had he cared about her?
His gaze dropped to her naked breasts. He visibly swallowed, then moved back to the wall.
Suddenly she understood the distance. He still wanted to touch her.
“Your training,” he said, his voice flat.
She would have thought him completely in control if it weren’t for his eyes. They moved toward her breasts, then
her stomach, and her hips, buried under the covers. Then, as if he had to use the force of his own will, his gaze moved up to meet hers.
His expression stayed flat, as if he didn’t care.
But she was paid to observe people, and she could see him. Of course, he could see her. Her nipples were hard, and she couldn’t blame the temperature in the room. It was balmy in here, much warmer than her room down on K Deck had ever been.
She needed to get out of here. He was making her nervous, and she had no idea what he was about.
So she gave him her sultriest smile. “My training?” She stroked her breasts as if she had just noticed they were bare. Her fingers lingered on her nipples, then she shifted slightly, so the covers fell away from her hips and pooled between her legs.
His gaze dropped, and she had to work to keep her smile from growing.
Then his gaze rose again.
“Not that kind of training,” he said in the same flat voice.
“Oh?” she asked, sliding out of bed. She crossed the distance between them in just a few seconds, and as she did, she slid her hand down the front of his pants. He was hard and hot, just like he had been the night before. “My mistake.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, as if he was trying to hold her back. He was trembling. For one moment, he didn’t move, and then he pulled her toward him.
The kiss was rough. She leaned into it, letting her breasts rub against his naked chest. His hands still held her shoulders, fingers tightening. She slid her thumb along his penis and he groaned against her mouth.
Finally he pushed her back just enough to separate their mouths. She kept moving her thumb, though, and his cheeks flushed.
“No,” he said, his voice as rough as that kiss. “No. I’ll die if I don’t eat something.”
“Ah,” she said, leaning into him. “Mais c’est la petite mort.”
“No,” he said. “I mean a real death.”
Then his flush grew darker. He seemed surprised at himself, as if he hadn’t expected to reveal his knowledge of yet another language.
Or maybe he was just surprised at the way his voice shook.
She continued to move her thumb. His whole body vibrated. She could feel it. With her free hand, she unbuckled him, and then she slid onto him.
He half closed his eyes, made a sound of surrender, and grabbed her buttocks, lifting her so that he could thrust. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him as close as she could, and kissed him, moving her mouth to the rhythm of their bodies, surprising herself. She had thought she was done with this—too sore, too tired, too achy.
And not drunk.
But he felt good, the movement perfect (that word again) and she tilted her head back, let him devour her neck, let him slide in and out of her, until his legs buckled. He sank to the floor, bringing her with him, and as he did, she could feel him pulsating inside her.
His eyes had rolled back for just a moment, then they opened all the way, and she saw unguarded surprise. And a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. And maybe just a bit of fear.
“See?” she said. “Just a little death.”
“It wasn’t little,” he said. “It wasn’t little at all.”
Chapter 4
What the hell was the matter with him? He had never reacted to a woman like this, not once in his life. Oh, he’d slept with them, and he’d enjoyed them, but he never got so aroused with just a touch, or if he was honest, just a look.
He had to get away from her.
Mikael Yurinovich Orlinski, Misha to his friends, put his hands on her shoulders and held her in place as he separated himself from her. Slipping out of her warm body felt like a loss, and he lowered his eyelids for just a moment, so that she would not see the emotion.
He couldn’t hide it from her, any more than he could hide her effect on him. He wanted to. He had never lost control like this, not once in his adult life.
He stood, knees still shaking from their inability to hold him a few minutes ago, and he looked down on her.
Her cheeks were flushed, her long hair mussed, her lips swollen because of him. She looked like she’d been thoroughly fucked, which she had, only it hadn’t felt like fucking.
It had felt more personal than that.
His heart raced. He was still wearing his shirt, but nothing else. He didn’t reach for his pants—that would be an admission of a loss of control. Instead, he grabbed the clothes package from the bedside table. He thrust the package toward her, and was momentarily gratified to see her confusion.
“What’s that?” Her voice was husky and it sent a wave of desire through him. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought someone slipped an aphrodisiac into his food in the last twenty-four hours.
But even the most powerful aphrodisiac wouldn’t have done this. Oh, he’d have screwed her and she’d have responded, but by morning, they would have repelled each other. That was the first and best sign of outside-induced lust. First the incredible attraction, and then the almost sickening moment when they looked at each other and realized they loathed each other. They wouldn’t have done either normally, but it seemed that aphrodisiacs created two reactions: first the lust, then the loathing.
He felt no loathing. In fact, he wanted her again, even though his body was spent. He doubted he could do anything right now.
Even though he had doubted that about twenty minutes ago, and then he had responded to that thumb gently caressing him as if he were nineteen years old and able to rebound with a single thought.
Which he was doing now. He could feel himself hardening, again.
Fortunately, she hadn’t noticed. She was still looking at his hand. He wanted to take that clothes package and put it in front of him, hiding his growing arousal.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said, “Clothes for you.”
He was amazed he could sound so calm. He sounded disinterested. If he was dressed, he could have convinced her of his disinterest, although he had tried that before and it hadn’t worked.
“My clothes are over there,” she said, waving her hand toward the window.
He shook his head. “I sent them into the ship’s disposal. Your pants were stained.”
He didn’t add, It looked like blood, even though it did.
“So?” she said.
“So, no need to incriminate yourself.”
“I’m not,” she snapped, grabbing the package from his hand. “It seems like you’re doing a good enough job for me.”
Then she got up, and walked to the bathroom. He watched her. Not a roll of fat on her. Her body was all muscle, but not like his. Feminine muscle, covered by firm flesh that had felt so good under his hands.
She slammed the bathroom door shut, and then he heard the shower turn on. She didn’t say a word about the water, although he half-expected her to. Only luxury suites had unlimited water for bathing.
He wanted to go in there and get in the shower with her, to slide soap over that perfectly formed body—
He shook his head. He wasn’t going to do that. Instead, he grabbed a different set of clothes for himself, and walked to the other side of the suite to the other bathroom. He pulled off his shirt and its rich scent of her, and dropped it on the floor. He turned on the second shower, knowing he would be charged double water usage, and not caring. He stepped inside the heat, and scrubbed her off him as best he could.
It was just an attraction, combined with too much to drink, and the fact that she was more energetic than he expected. He had expected her to fight him, not jump him. If she had fought him—
He still would have found it arousing.
He leaned his forehead against the tiled shower wall and let the water fall on his back. He hadn’t planned for this. He was good because he was calm and he wasn’t vulnerable and he was always in control.
You have passion, his mother used to say. If you harness it, you can use it. If you let it consume you, it will destroy you.
He shook
that thought from his mind. His mother, cold and frightening, often looked at him like he was some subspecies of bug. His mother, who had trained him, registered him, and somehow kept him alive in all those early years.
She would have laughed at this. She would have said, How like your father you are. He had passion as well. But she wouldn’t have said that with affection or even a momentary pang of loss. She would have said it as the fact it was, and nothing more.
Misha got out of the shower and stood on the drying platform, letting the hot air touch him where Rikki had touched him not half an hour ago. He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful. Or so passionate.
Or so right.
He had noticed her beauty when he had noticed her, that first night as the ship left port. She wore a slight black dress that clung to her large breasts and narrow waist. He could have done without the chestnut hair and the emerald green eyes, although he knew why she changed them. He preferred the light brown hair she had had as a girl, and the way that her brown eyes matched exactly.
He had noticed that much about her back then, thinking she would be a striking woman someday, in that idle way that people did when they observed something from afar. She had been too young to notice as anything but a particularly pretty child. He had been twenty, obsessed with girls his own age and women much older. She had been twelve and serious and so damaged that it made his heart break, even then. He hadn’t even thought then that she would someday become a woman, let alone a woman who could make him lose his precious control with a single touch.
He had to stop thinking like that. He made himself take a deep breath and clear his mind, using old techniques, things he had learned in his teens when his passions, as his mother called them, threatened to destroy them both. She had found him training so that he could learn control, because she had realized early on that she couldn’t give him that herself.
Some of his passion had been directed at his mother. He had grown to hate her within a few short weeks of their meeting, and the hatred had become a live thing. Misha had hated his mother more than anyone else ever—except, of course, for the man who had murdered his father. That man had been the first person Misha had ever killed, and the only death that had actually felt good.