Escape Velocity (Off-World Series, Book 7): Sexy Science-Fiction Romance Novel

by Rebecca York

  When she had dressed in the musty shirt and opened the bathroom door, she saw Max through a bedroom door.

  “You can sleep in here,” he said.

  “With you.”

  “Rafe and I have to stand guard.”

  “You can take turns.”

  “I should . . .”

  Before he could finish, she crossed the space between them. “You should stay with me—because maybe it’s the last time we’ll have together.”

  She saw he wanted to protest. She also saw he recognized the truth of her words.

  “Let me talk to Rafe—and get cleaned up,” he said.

  “Then you’ll come in here with me?”

  “Yes.”

  She hoped he wasn’t trying to trick her as she closed the door and looked around the small room. It had a bed, with a little table that held a lamp beside it. Across from the bed was a chest with drawers. The lamp didn’t work, but in one of the drawers, she found some folded sheets. Getting them out, she laid two on the bare mattress. They did nothing to improve the look of the ugly little chamber, but at least they’d be a clean place to lie down.

  Still standing beside the bed, she looked up to see that Max had opened the door. He’d washed and was wearing only a pair of rough pants. In her own eyes, she still looked bedraggled after cleaning up. He looked like the sexiest man she had ever seen.

  The intensity of his gaze as he closed the door almost took her breath away, and she realized that he must be thinking about what she’d said earlier. This might be the last time they ever hold each other.

  They each took a step across the worn floorboards and met in the middle of the room. When he reached for her, she came into his arms, clasping him to her.

  The words he spoke surprised her. “Sing to me.”

  “Sing?”

  “With that sexy voice of yours. I love to hear it.”

  She felt almost too choked to comply, but she cleared her throat and took a small step back, looking up at him as she began a song she hadn’t dared to sing in years.

  “My lover is far away, and I think I will not see him forever. But the wind sweeps down from the mountains, swirling leaves off the trees, and blowing him toward me.”

  She sang in her own language, and he asked. “What does it mean?”

  “Lovers reunited.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “I made it up.”

  He stared at her, shocked. “It sounds very . . . polished.”

  “Thank you. It’s from my childhood, when I still dared to think that I was normal.”

  “You are!” he said, punching out the words.

  “No. Not on Naxion, and not here.”

  “Why not here?”

  “Because, I am a fugitive.”

  “And we’ll take care of that.”

  She wanted to tell him it seemed less and less likely, but she wasn’t going to waste this time with him by laying out her fears. Instead she cupped the back of his head, bringing her lips to his as they swayed in the middle of the room.

  This time was different from the others. The first time she hadn’t known what to expect. And in the cargo bay their passion had been fueled by Max’s anger and the aftermath of her shame at attacking Rafe.

  But this time was slow and sweet—a celebration of love between a man and a woman. She couldn’t tell him it was love. And maybe that wasn’t what he felt. But if she had a lifemate, this was the way she would want him to show her his true feelings.

  As they kissed, he reached for the buttons at the front of her shirt, slipping them open, fumbling a little. He had no shirt, and as he pushed the sides of hers out of the way, she laid her hands against his chest, stroking him as he was stroking her. But she could only do it a little because his skillful touch on her breasts made her dizzy with desire.

  She wanted Max with a strength she would never have believed possible. She wanted him now. Yet at the same time, she didn’t want this magical time to end. So, she let him play with her breasts, closing in on the aching crests, drawing smaller and smaller circles around them, then sliding a finger along the side of each erect nipple.

  The sensations made her gasp. And when he bent and sucked one peak into his mouth, she gasped again.

  “I can’t stand up any longer,” she managed to say.

  “I’m with you.”

  They made their shaky way to the bed. Lying down, she eased over to make room for him. He came down beside her, half covering her body, his erection wedged against her thigh.

  When she reached to clasp it, he moved her hand away.

  “You’ll push me over the edge,” he said in a gritty voice

  “I want to push you. I want you inside me.”

  “And I want to feel this charged up for hours.”

  “Could you?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know.”

  She laughed with him, just for the pleasure of doing one more intimate thing together.

  Then she began to caress and kiss him, avoiding the part of him he had told her not to touch. She sucked on his earlobe, stroked her hands along the muscles of his arms, and then switched to his chest, drawing circles around his nipples as he had with her, inching inward, finding they had tightened to hard points.

  He groaned, levering himself over her. And this time, when she took him in her hand, it was to guide him to the warm, wet, welcoming place between her thighs.

  He plunged into her, then went still, looking down at her as though trying to commit this moment to memory.

  And she did the same, staring up into his taut face.

  She wouldn’t push him. She would only go where he led. And when he began to move, she did the same, her hips rising to meet each of his thrusts.

  The intensity couldn’t last for long. They exploded together in a burst of rapture, and she felt him come down on top of her.

  She clung to him, knowing that something beyond her imagining had happened between them.

  He rolled to his side, and she adjusted herself to him as he cuddled her in his arms. Closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek to his sweat-slick chest, breathing in his scent. She had thought her life was going to be a disaster. It still might. But she would always have the memories of this man.

  They lay together for long moments. After their breathing returned to normal, she wanted to say they should start giving each other pleasure again, but she sensed that he had put a little silent distance between them.

  “What?” she murmured.

  “I want to stay here with you, but I can’t leave Rafe down there alone. I need to help him keep guard—or let him get some sleep.”

  She longed to protest, but she knew he was right. Rafe had given them this private time, and she couldn’t make him take all the responsibility for guard duty.

  “You get some sleep,” Max said as he climbed out of bed and reached for the pants he had discarded. She got up, too, and found the long shirt she had been wearing.

  Sure she wouldn’t sleep, she made a quick trip to the bathroom, then came back and straightened the sheets before climbing between them.

  But the long day and the dangerous tramp through the swamp had taken its toll. Her eyes closed, and she was soon lost to the world.

  She wasn’t sure how long she slept, but when she opened her eyes, she saw weak sunshine streaking in through the broken window. Still, the light hadn’t woken her. It was the sound of loud voices coming from the floor below. And from outside, the barking of dogs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Max’s voice came shooting up the stairs. “She isn’t here. Get the hell off us.”

  Amber knew at once that a search party had found them, and Max was trying to warn her so that she could get away.

  She shot out of bed, found the boots she had worn in the swamp, and looked toward the window. There was a large tree outside with a branch within reach, and she moved instinctively toward the escape route.

  Raising the sash as quietly as she could
, she stuck one leg outside—then stopped.

  Suppose she got away? Then what?

  Escape into the swamp by herself? She didn’t even know where to find the ship. And she certainly didn’t know how to fly it. Plus, she wasn’t going to leave Max and Rafe to the mercies of the swamp rats. Pulling her leg back into the room, she picked up the knife that she had laid on the bedside table and started for the door.

  With the weapon in her hand and wishing she had on more clothing, she walked down the stairs toward the room with the sofa and chairs.

  Halfway down, she stopped, staring at Max and Rafe who stood with their hands tied behind their backs and with a mob of swamp rats around them. Most were young men, and all were disheveled from a night in the wilderness. But neither the head man nor the security chief was with them. She was pretty sure that meant this was a rogue search party.

  Max looked up when he heard her, his eyes full of pain. She knew he had hoped she would try and escape, yet here she was walking toward the men who had hunted them through the night.

  Those men were staring at her, too, and what she saw in their eyes was hostility and determination—along with an appreciation of her bare legs. Again, she wished she were properly dressed, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  “You were stupid to think you could get through the bayou at night,” one of them said.

  “We made it this far,” Max shot back.

  “Yes, to the house that the outlanders from the city used when they came to steal our wealth. Before we rid ourselves of them.”

  “Oh great,” Rafe muttered.

  “And now you have brought a spy to our camp.”

  “No,” Max objected. “None of us is a spy.”

  “LaTour speaks the truth,” another man yelled, and there were murmurs of agreement. “The woman is a spy for Commissioner Tudor.”

  The attention of the group switched back to Amber, and she held up the knife, making a slashing motion. “Stay back unless you want to get cut.”

  Some of the men took a step back. Good.

  Her eyes fixed on the man who had accused her. “Why do you think I am a spy for him?”

  He raised his chin. “The disguise is washed off your face. You look like the women who are brought to Tudor’s house. But I could tell who you were, even with the camouflage.” His voice hardened. “Put down your knife, little deceiver.” He made a harsh sound. “Why don’t you try another song instead? Maybe that will charm us.”

  “No.”

  He turned, saying something she couldn’t hear to the men behind them. In the next instant, four of them sprang into action, grabbing both Max and Rafe by the arms and holding them in place while two other men pulled out knives and held them against Max and Rafe’s throats.

  “Put down the weapon,” LaTour said again, “Or they die.”

  Suddenly Amber felt as though she’d been frozen inside a block of ice. She had come boldly down the stairs without a plan. Now she was going to get Max and Rafe killed.

  Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly speak, but she managed to say, “Yes, I look like those women. And yes, I am one of them.”

  “You admit it.”

  She ignored him and kept talking. “He brings us to his secluded house to torture and kill us because it gives him sexual pleasure. And I have vowed to die rather than let Tudor do the same to me.” As she spoke, she turned the knife around, aiming it at her own chest, willing herself to keep her hand steady.

  The whole scene seemed fixed in an endless second of time.

  But something did change. A look of panic crossed LaTour’s face. “Wait.”

  “I will die before I let him have his pleasure with me,” she repeated.

  Into the roiling mix of her emotions, a voice from the back of the room rose. “I have seen it.”

  LaTour whirled around. “Seen what?”

  “You know I work on the grounds of the estate—for a pitiful amount of credits. I have seen the women. I have seen them walk in. And I have seen them carried out—dead.”

  Amber shuddered at the image, as a babble of conversation erupted around the room.

  The man named LaTour turned his attention back to her. “Why did you not speak up?” he demanded. “Instead of coming to our camp posing as merchants.”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  “We still have no proof of what you say.”

  She raised her voice above the din. “Take the knives away from my friends’ throats so we can talk.”

  For long seconds, nobody moved, and she was afraid her words had had no effect. Then LaTour said in a grudging voice, “Do it. We still have control of them.”

  The men with the knives lowered them. And the ones holding Max and Rafe let go of their arms.

  Amber saw them both let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The spokesman’s gaze drilled into her. “If your story is true, why did you come to our camp with your pretense of selling clothing?”

  She wanted to look down at her hands, but she kept her gaze fixed on him. “Because we intended to ask for your help, but we had no idea what you thought about Tudor. We couldn’t just walk into your village and assume you’d be willing to go against a powerful man who works for the government. We had to find out how you felt about him. For all we knew, you could be working with him. Or you could be so afraid of him, that you would prevent us from attacking him.”

  A muscle ticked in Latour’s jaw. He said, “You made no mention of him.”

  Max spoke up. “I did,” and he repeated the question he’d asked at dinner the night before.”

  “That was hardly anything.”

  Max’s gaze bore into the spokesman. “What I wanted to ask was, ‘Does he treat you fairly? Or does he lord it over you because he is high up in the government?’ But your security chief acted like he didn’t want to discuss the subject, so I decided to speak to your head man in private.”

  Talk erupted around them once more, and this time Amber sensed a change in its tenor.

  She saw Max drag in a breath and let it out before continuing. “There are only three of us. We need your help to get rid of him and make sure nobody finds out what happened.”

  LaTour scoffed. “You want us to attack his compound? He is well guarded. He would send his troops to wipe us out.”

  “No, we will operate by stealth. We were hoping you could help us come up with a plan.”

  “You must have some strategy in mind,” the interrogator said.

  “We can’t finalize any strategy until we know the situation better.”

  When LaTour made a dismissive sound, Amber answered. “You live in the swamp because you pride yourself on being free. I had no such choice. Like all the women who are brought to his house out here, I am a slave—sold away from my home world.”

  She heard exclamations from some of the men, but she kept speaking. “He bought and paid for me. But I will not let him torture me to death. No woman or man should be sold as a slave—a slave who will face only horrors before the mercy of release.”

  There was absolute silence in the room.

  It was broken by a voice from the doorway. “I agree.”

  Everyone turned to find out who it was, but from her position halfway up the stairs, Amber could see the newcomer plainly.

  The speaker was Gatroux, the leader who had been their host at dinner.

  He pushed his way into the room, then through the throng to the stairway where he climbed onto the first step and turned to face the room.

  “We have talked many times about driving the interloper from our territory, but nobody has been brave enough to make a move against him.”

  “Because the Feds will come after us for murdering one of their officials,” someone shouted.

  Gatroux shook his head. “Not if his death looks like an accident. Not if it looks like it’s too dangerous for city dwellers to live out here.”

  “How would we accompl
ish such a scheme?” LaTour demanded.

  “I have been thinking about that for a long time. The swamp will swallow up his house,” the elder said calmly.

  Again, talk sprang up around the room.

  “How?” LaTour challenged.

  “By digging under the foundations until the water rises up to take the structure.”

  “You must be mad,” the younger man countered.

  “The water is just below the ground. That’s why our houses sit on stilts. That’s why we change locations if the water rises.”

  The man in the back who had supported Amber’s claim spoke up. “I have worked at the estate many times. The ground is boggy, and there are open pools.”

  “Yes,” Gatroux agreed. “If enough of us work at flooding Tudor’s mansion, we can do it.”

  “Especially if our ship’s weapons blast into the ground,” Max added.

  All around the room, men were talking excitedly as they sensed that this new strategy could work.

  Gatroux let the conversation swirl for several minutes before raising his hand and calling for silence. When the babble had stopped, he said, “We should get on with it.” He looked at Max and Rafe. “Untie them.”

  The men on either side of the captives complied, and Max rushed to Amber.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Yeah. Because you saved our butts.”

  A whole room full of people was watching. Ignoring them, he took her in his arms, holding her close, and she reached to return the embrace. He held her for only for a few moments before he eased away.

  She wished they could be alone—in the room where they’d spent the night, but she knew that was out of the question now.

  Before they could say more to each other, the older man was speaking again. “Our guests will come back to the camp with us, and we will make our plans. But first. . .” He gave LaTour a stern look. “Where did you get the notion that you could simply act on your own without consultation?”

  The other man scuffed a booted foot against the floorboards. “I knew they were lying. That made them a danger to us.”

  “If you thought that, you should have brought that concern to me or Dubois,” he said.