Collision Course 8w-1

by Zoë Archer

  Shut up, she snarled to her inner voice.

  She took off her jacket, removed her boots, had another moment’s debate, and then shucked her pants. That was as far as she could take it. Her tank top and panties stayed on. Anything else would be too much of a temptation. Already she found herself straining to listen to him, hearing him move through the galley and unfold the hovermattress.

  She waited, holding her breath, for the tell-tale sounds of clothes being stripped off. His shirt, at least, since he was on duty. Curiosity gripped her.

  As silently as possible, she crept from her quarters and padded down the short passageway that lead to the galley. She peered around the corner.

  He sat on the edge of the hovermattress, his knuckles braced against his knees. He stared straight ahead at the bulkhead. He’d removed his shirt, but, true to his word, kept his pants and boots. Oh, that was a torso to be inscribed in the stars. Hard and carved and meant for both combat and pleasure, dusted with dark hair. A few scars crisscrossed his bronzed skin. She stared at the gorgeous contours of his arms, the muscles tight with strain as if he barely held himself in check. She wanted those arms around her, holding her down as he took what she wanted to offer.

  He didn’t turn his head. “Unless you want me to bed you, I suggest you go back to your quarters immediately.” His voice was more growl than words, and she felt herself grow damp.

  Even so, she ran back to her quarters, bare feet slapping against the metal floor, then threw herself into her bed. Her heart pounded in time to the needy pulse between her legs as she lay back.

  She wanted a simple life, free of entanglements, free of complications. Commander Frayne was very, very complicated—and that made her want him all the more.

  Kell swore under his breath, trying without much success to find a comfortable position on the hovermattress. The mattress itself wasn’t the problem. Neither was the unfamiliar environment. He usually could sleep anywhere, at any time. A soldier grabbed rest whenever it became available. He could fall into a deep sleep in minutes and come to full wakefulness in a second.

  But that ability had deserted him. More specifically, his cock refused to let him sleep. It was hard and aching, demanding that he get up, stride the few short paces to Mara’s quarters, and lay his weight atop her. Sink into her heat.

  His peripheral vision was excellent. He’d seen the blatant interest in her eyes. The way she looked at him as if he was the last drop of water in the Gephel Sand Wastes. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  It didn’t make any damn sense—he was 8th Wing, she was a scavenger—and it also made perfect sense. Whatever either of them thought about the other’s ethics, or lack thereof, their bodies hungered for each other.

  She would be a wild thing beneath him, writhing and fierce. The kind of woman who wanted it hard and hot. He already knew she would leave scratches down his back. Just as he already knew he would leave marks where he gripped her thighs. Those thoughts alone made his cock swell even further.

  If he was alone, he’d take care of things. Finish himself off with a few quick, brutal strokes of his hand, and then finally get some sleep. But he wasn’t alone. The scavenger slept only steps away, no door on her quarters. He knew he wouldn’t be quiet. His need was too fierce. He’d come with a groan.

  She’d hear him.

  The thought aroused him even more. He’d never been an exhibitionist. But things changed.

  People changed.

  Was she lying in her bed now, thinking about him, quietly touching herself?

  Focus on the mission. Mara was conscripted, an unwilling collaborator. Having sex with her was a complication he, and the mission, did not need. No matter how much he and Mara wanted each other.

  Gods, this was torture. He needed to rest, an impossible feat if he kept tormenting himself. He drew upon every ounce of his training, all of his self-control and discipline. Slowly, in painful increments, he willed himself to relax, loosening the tension that ran like plasma fire through his body. His breathing slowed as sleep finally took him.

  His dreams were ripe with images of her. Tawny skin. Almond-shaped eyes closed in pleasure.

  Reckless, eager mouth.

  When the sleep protocol ended and the lights came on, he woke just as aroused and frustrated as he’d been hours earlier. Mara rustled around in her quarters.

  He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, feeling like ten kinds of hell. He dressed quickly, put away the hovermattress, then ducked into the narrow hygiene bay to splash water on his face and relieve himself. It took a few minutes before his throbbing cock subsided enough so he could piss.

  Reviewing evasive maneuvers and combat patterns helped distract him. After, he washed, and looked at himself in the mirror. A hard-faced man stared back, his mouth a tight line, tension vibrating through his shoulders.

  When he emerged, a mug of steaming kahve was pressed into his hand. A fully-dressed Mara slipped past him into the hygiene bay, avoiding his gaze, but he saw enough to note she looked a little drawn, as if she’d spent an equally unsettled night. That didn’t make him feel any better.

  He settled into the cockpit with his mug. A sip proved the kahve was dark and bitter, without sweetness. Exactly the way he liked it. Something he and the scavenger had in common. Including their shared preference for spicy food. He didn’t want to like her. That would be far more labyrinthine than simple lust.

  Kell drank his kahve and stared at the nearing Ilden’s Lash. The alarm blared, indicating they were less than a solar hour away from reaching it. Red light filled the cockpit as the ship flew closer.

  He studied the phenomenon. Few 8th Wing pilots ever got this near. He could examine it in greater depth, report back to command. The information could be useful for future operations.

  “Forget it.” Mara slipped into the cockpit, also cradling a mug. She turned off the alarm. “If Ilden’s Lash doesn’t kill 8th Wing pilots, the thieving scum that live in the Smoke will finish the job.”

  “You count yourself one of those scum?”

  She grinned over the rim of her cup. “Absolutely.”

  Kell couldn’t stop his own smile, especially when he saw how her grin made her appear playful,

  mischievous as a girl.

  “I didn’t think the Smoke Quadrant was that well patrolled.” He forced his gaze back to the display showing Ilden’s Lash. “Given that it’s full of thieving scum.”

  “No one is more protective of their possessions than a thief. They know how easily things can be stolen.”

  “Spoken from experience.”

  “Lifetimes of it.” She spoke with the kind of worldliness Kell only heard from retired combat pilots but looked like she had not yet reached thirty solar years. Her eyes held knowledge, hard-won.

  Her years had been full and difficult.

  Not unlike his own.

  He didn’t want to think about parallels between them, or anything else that might draw them toward one another. He was an 8th Wing officer, and duty meant everything. He held honor tightly, having had so little of it early in his life. To keep his mind on track now, he continued to stare at the display.

  “Tell me more about Ilden’s Lash.”

  “So you can make a report for the 8th Wing, like a good little soldier?”

  “Because I want to know, damn it. I’m always hungry for more knowledge.” He remembered being a kid, finding discarded digitablets in the waste heaps and reading whatever had been downloaded onto them. Didn’t matter if they held instructions for repairing hydro-regulator systems or the best lunar low grav spas. Every bit of information was devoured.

  Mara looked at him, contemplative. He held still under her perceptive scrutiny.

  “Didn’t expect that,” she murmured, more to herself than him.

  “Why would you? You’ve got the 8th Wing all figured out. We’re all the same.”

  “Just like all scavengers are the same?”

  He gave a rueful snort.
“I call a draw.”

  “Agreed.” This time, when they shared a smile, it was from a mutual, wry understanding. Neither of them was quite what the other had expected. She broke the connection first, turning back to the display. “Ilden’s Lash is what makes the Smoke so secure and how the Smoke came to be. It’s a band of protoplanets, some of them more solid than others. Even the more developed planets are still mostly magma.”

  “So they’re constantly shifting and re-forming. Like one of those old-fashioned magma lanterns.”

  Her laugh was low, husky—unexpectedly arousing. He suddenly imagined her sultry laugh as she tumbled across her bed, with him tumbling atop her.

  “Think I remember my older brother having one of those,” she said, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “He used to smoke bindleweed and stare at it for hours.”

  He tucked away the knowledge that she had an older brother as one might pocket a glimmering flake of zelenium. Each piece of information about her felt strangely precious.

  “But that’s an apt analogy,” she continued. “Ilden’s Lash looks almost exactly like that, except you’d be incinerated if you just stood and stared at it. A passage through might look clear one moment, and in the next, it’s a wall of molten rock.”

  “Unpredictable. That’s what keeps everyone out.”

  “Except the scum.”

  “Except the scum,” he echoed.

  They both took sips of their kahve. Sitting with her in the small confines of the cockpit, both nursing their mugs—it felt intimate. He had sat in the base’s mess more times than he could remember, sharing the day’s first cup with other members of the squad. Even when it had been just him and one other person, male or female, discussing the latest briefing or plans for R & R, he hadn’t sensed the same kind of intimacy as he did now.

  She must have sensed it, too, because she cleared her throat and shifted awkwardly in her seat.

  “Just because there are some who know the Smoke and know Ilden’s Lash doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Pilots die trying to make their way through, even ones who’ve taken the Lash a hundred times before.”

  “Doesn’t sound like an even trade,” Kell mused. “Risking your life again and again just for a bit of privacy.”

  “Two things, Commander. First, never underestimate a scavenger’s need for privacy. We spend our lives running from the law, constantly looking over our shoulders. Having a place that’s all our own is a gift.”

  He mulled this, considering how it reflected on her needs. “And the second?”

  She gave him another blood-heating smile. “Risk turns us scavengers on.”

  “Us scavengers? Or you?”

  “Yes to both.” She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “But especially me.”

  He fought a shudder of need. When he spoke, he was surprised how level his voice sounded,

  instead of the growl he thought it would be. “You should consider becoming a fighter pilot.”

  “A bunch of thrill seekers?”

  “Worse than kids darting between laser trams.”

  She shook her head. “And here I thought you 8th Wing types were all rule and regulation.”

  “A lot are,” he admitted. “Couldn’t fight PRAXIS if there wasn’t discipline and order. But Black Wraith Squad—we’re the wild ones.”

  Her gaze turned contemplative as she stared at him. “I like the sound of that.”

  Kell seriously wondered if she was trying to kill him. Every word out of her mouth seemed laden with erotic promise. Deliberate or not, it played havoc with his willpower. He felt tightly wound, as if it had been two months and not two weeks since he’d last taken a woman to bed. It took him a moment to remember who that woman had been—a lieutenant from the Engineering Corps who’d been looking for a night’s release—but everything about that night vanished in the heat of Mara’s presence.

  How the fuck was he supposed to get through this mission with his mind and reflexes intact? He had thought the danger would come from either PRAXIS or negotiating the Smoke Quadrant. Turned out that the biggest threat sat right beside him, in the form of a scavenger with wide-set eyes, silky white hair and a thirst for excitement.

  It was a relief when the control panel blared, breaking the moment. Mara straightened and set her mug down at her feet.

  “Better drain your cup, Commander,” she said, all business. “It’s about to get rough.”

  He did so, and just in time. They had reached the outer perimeter of Ilden’s Lash. Giant, shifting masses of molten rock seethed and moved, and clots of partially-formed asteroids careened between them. A hunk of scrap metal drifted through the Lash. The moment it contacted a swell of magma, it incinerated.

  Seeing Ilden’s Lash through the cockpit’s window sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. A normal person would be frightened. Kell grinned.

  She caught his grin, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  “Let me fly us through.” He leaned forward, barely able to contain his excitement.

  “Don’t trust my skills?”

  “I want to take a shot at it.”

  “Decelerate your thrusters, Frayne. This is my ship, and my run through the Lash.”

  He growled his displeasure. Whenever he saw a challenge, he ached to conquer it. But unless he wanted to tie Mara down and wrest the controls from her, he was going to have to content himself with letting her do the work.

  “I hate being a passenger,” he muttered.

  “Me too.” She took the controls.

  And then all arguments about who would and wouldn’t be piloting the ship disappeared as they breached the Lash.

  Calm but focused, Mara angled the ship to swerve through a narrow opening between two protoplanets. The ship shot forward, then banked hard to port when a cluster of asteroids spun toward them. Three asteroids collided with one another, shattering into clouds of jagged debris. The ship shimmied with the force of the concussion.

  “Having fun?” Mara shouted above the rattle of the hull.

  “Hell, yes,” he shouted back.

  “Good—because it gets better.”

  Someone else, someone sane, might have said that the going got worse, but clearly Kell and Mara had different ideas as to what constituted “fun.”

  They flew toward massive shapes of nascent planets that spewed arcs of magma, stretching like fiery bridges between the protoplanets. Just beyond lay the relative calm of the Smoke Quadrant.

  Mara pushed the ship onward, accelerating. Great technique. A lesser pilot would think to slow down when approaching a dangerous obstacle, but those with more experience knew that greater speed meant greater maneuverability. And Mara guided them with a skilled, fearless hand, swooping and diving between the protoplanets. Several times, it looked as though she steered them directly toward a surge of magma, but just as the ship neared the molten rock, the surge shifted out of their path, leaving them a clear route forward. Meanwhile, the clear routes suddenly were blocked by seething columns of magma.

  “That’s how these wily fuckers work.” She laughed like a madwoman. “I love it.”

  He grinned. Unpredictable—the Lash and the woman. It surprised him how much she made him smile.

  They were almost through. Mara pushed the accelerator.

  “Starboard,” Kell murmured.

  She banked away just as an asteroid flew at them from the starboard side. Then they were out,

  Ilden’s Lash retreating behind them in a fiery red haze. Adrenalin continued to pour through him, even though he hadn’t been the pilot. Another day.

  “Appreciate it, Commander.”

  “Kell. Seeing as how I just saved your ass, you can call me Kell.”

  “You didn’t save my ass,” she argued, but she didn’t sound angry. Far from it. She laughed again, and the sultry sound curled warmly in his groin. “I had everything under control. Kell.”

  Hearing her say his name, his pulse spiked—far more than it had when navigating the d
angers of Ilden’s Lash. Hunger gripped him, and it was all he could do to keep from dragging her out of the pilot’s seat, having her straddle him. He wanted his mouth on hers, his hands all over her body. His cock felt huge, demanding. It wanted inside her.

  Focus, goddamn it.

  “We’ll be at Ryge soon,” she said, totally unaware of the fact that he wanted to fuck her up against the control panel.

  He barely managed to growl his assent. They couldn’t get to Ryge soon enough. Even a man as tightly controlled as Kell had a breaking point, and he was getting dangerously close to his.

  Chapter Four

  She played with fire.

  Mara studied her reflection in the mirror, a knowing smile curving her lips. It was dangerous,

  what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. After breaching Ilden’s Lash, she’d seen the raw hunger and need in Kell’s face, and the same impulse that had her laughing all the way through the band of dangerous protoplanets made her choose the clothing she now wore.

  She had gone a little overboard—deliberately. Yes, the scavengers and smugglers on Ryge liked to dress flamboyantly. Calling cards for how successful they were. A drab scavenger clearly wasn’t doing well, and they were a collection of braggarts. Nobody respected the soft-spoken, the humble.

  Reputation wasn’t everything, but it counted for a lot.

  Mara’s reputation gleamed, and everybody in the Smoke knew if they wanted merch moved, or prime scrap, she was the one to see. So she dressed the part.

  As the Arcadia neared Ryge, she had slipped into her quarters to change from her usual working clothes to her Smoke persona. The rationale being she needed to learn any intel on the whereabouts of Lieutenant Jur and her Wraith ship, and the best way to glean intel was to cut a wide and respected swath through the watering holes of Beskidt By.

  But, as she stared at her image reflected back at her, Mara knew the real reason she’d selected these particular clothes. And he was sitting in the cockpit right now.