The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  She saw him shudder again, and the sudden knotting of something deep inside her nearly made her reel. She moaned despite her effort to hold it back. And she couldn’t help herself; she reached out to him. He stiffened beneath her fingers, the muscles of his arm going rock hard at her touch.

  “Dax, please,” she whispered, not certain what she was pleading for, only knowing that she couldn’t bear to see him hurt like this anymore. He was torturing himself, and for something he’d had no more control over than she’d had over her own mind and body for the last year.

  Driven by an instinct she didn’t understand but had no urge to question, she bent and pressed her lips to his shoulder. He flinched.

  “Don’t.”

  It was muffled, but she heard it nevertheless. And she heard the undertone of desperation, the entreaty of a man so close to breaking that one soft word would send him over.

  “I can’t help it,” she said softly.

  She never knew if it was her tone, or the admission of helplessness that broke him. She only knew that he turned to her then, misery and grief turning his expression into a haunting mask she would never forget. And then he was reaching for her, clutching at her as if she could save him from drowning in a morass of pain and guilt and grief.

  She could save no one, she admitted. Not when somewhere a long time ago she had lost herself. But she could hold him, now, when he needed it and could ask it of no one else.

  She slid down to lie beside him and cradled his head against her breast.

  Chapter 14

  NOT FOR THE first time, Dax wished he could weep. But although he had often shuddered with the force of his grief, that final release was denied him as surely as any other kind of release. Tears, mating, death. All comforts denied him. He understood why; he was deserving of no release from his anguish, no comfort.

  Yet he was finding comfort, he thought through a haze of exhausted emotions. Comfort in an unexpected place. Comfort in the gentle arms of the woman who had once been part of the force that had caused his despair.

  She held him, crooning soothing words that he knew weren’t true, that he couldn’t have done anything, that he should quit torturing himself. But somehow her voice, or the feel of her embrace, eased his pain. He allowed it, because he seemed to have no choice. She held him, stroked his hair, murmured reassurances he knew he didn’t deserve, but he let her. And after a long time, the shudders stopped. He drifted, too exhausted for sleep yet feeling too lethargic—and, oddly, sheltered—to move.

  He’d told no one, not even Rina, what he’d told Califa. He’d never expected to tell anyone. He’d expected to go to his death holding in his ugly secret. A death that was long past due, as Califa had guessed, for in truth he had died that day five years ago, when his home had been destroyed; his body just hadn’t gotten the message yet.

  Yet he had told her. He’d been unable to stop, just as he’d been unable to stop himself from reaching for her, as a man caught by the vacuum of space reached for oxygen. How had she done it? How had she found the key, the words to unlock the surge gates and make him pour out his soul to her?

  He told himself it was because there was no one else, no one who knew he was Triotian except Rina. But he knew there was more to it than that. This woman had drawn him since he’d first seen her. Even before he’d realized her beauty, back in that cell she’d shared with Rina, he’d been struck by her strength and her nerve. And he’d soon learned she managed, as no one else could, to make him forget years spent learning patience and lose his temper faster than anyone ever had.

  And now he was sure of something else he’d suspected; her toughness was a bluff, as much an act as the slavelike submissiveness. Califa’s brusque, mocking exterior masked something entirely different: a gentle, vulnerable, giving woman capable of caring for a troubled girl she’d just met. And comforting a man who literally held her life in his hands and had threatened her with that power. He wondered what had made her bury that woman so deeply; even a year of slavery couldn’t have built a facade that impenetrable.

  Even through those walls, she had affected him like no woman ever had. She had made him feel, made his senses waken, made him wonder if he should try again . . .

  No sooner had he thought it than he became sharply, fully aware of the body that held him. He felt the length of her legs entangled with his, the gentle curve of her hip where it pressed against his belly, the incredible softness of her breast beneath his cheek. She was cradling him as a mother cradled a child, but suddenly there was nothing of the wounded child in his feelings.

  He edged closer to her, and she shifted to accommodate him. That simple movement sent heat flaring through him, tightening his body with a speed that took his breath away. He’d fought his growing hunger for this woman for what seemed like aeons. He wasn’t sure he could fight it any longer, wasn’t sure he wanted to, even knowing it was very likely that nothing had changed, that his body was still as stubborn as his father had once accused him of being.

  He hesitated. If he touched her, would she pull away, fearful that he might only want to use her as she had been used before? Or worse, would she allow it, perhaps out of pity? For an instant he wished he’d held back that outpouring of emotion, that purging confession. But he knew he couldn’t have; she’d been right, it had been tearing him apart.

  “Dax?”

  Her tentative, wary tone told him she’d felt the sudden stillness of his body against hers. Had she sensed as well the change in his mood? With her clever perceptiveness, did she know what he was thinking, what he wanted? Did she doubt it was real, after the harsh words exchanged between them?

  He wouldn’t blame her. His reaction to the revelation of her past life had shocked him, the more because of how he’d begun to feel. But the shock of learning the truth about his home had lessened the importance of that. Lessened it enough to where his need, his desire for this woman overcame it.

  Slowly, he raised himself up on one elbow to look at her. The moment their gazes locked, he heard her quick intake of breath, saw her eyes widen, and wondered what was showing on his face.

  “I owe you thanks.” He was aware of the huskiness of his voice but unable to stop it. “As you said, I needed to talk.”

  Her tongue crept out to wet her lips, and Dax felt his body clench at the memory of that softness and how it tasted.

  “I . . . you’re welcome.” Her voice was tentative, wary.

  “We both hold each other’s secrets now, don’t we?”

  She drew in another audible breath. “It makes trust an easier thing, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it?” he asked softly. “Do you trust me, Califa?”

  “I . . .” She trailed off as he watched her intently. At last, with a rueful twist of her mouth, she said, “More than I should.”

  Somehow that answer, that she trusted him despite her doubts, forced him to rein in senses that were reeling with the vivid, erotic images that had been pounding at him since he’d come out of his emotional fog and become aware that the woman who held him was the woman he’d been fighting his response to since she’d come on board.

  “I told you before to get out,” he said gruffly. “I’m glad you didn’t then, but I think you’d better now.”

  She looked blank for a moment. He resisted the urge to take that slender hand that had been gently stroking his hair and drag it down past his belly to feel exactly why she should leave now; he settled for shifting his hips so that his hardened shaft nudged her thigh.

  She blinked. “Oh.”

  His mouth quirked. “Yes, ‘oh.’ You got what you came for, Califa. You’d better leave before you get more.”

  For a long moment she looked at him, and Dax could almost see the memory of that kiss, that hot, urgent kiss, come alive in her mind. Just knowing that she was thinking of it sent another burst of heat blazing
along nerves that had come cracklingly alive, teasing him with need.

  He should make her leave, he thought. He couldn’t go through this again. Couldn’t drive himself to the brink of insanity, knowing there could be but one result. But then she lifted a hand to his face, smiling slightly as she felt the stubble he’d neglected to use the eliminator on this week.

  “And if I were to . . . want more?”

  “Califa,” he said warningly, but his hand went out to stroke her cheek in turn, the backs of his fingers gentle on skin that seemed too soft to be real.

  “I know,” she answered softly. “This is probably a great mistake. But . . .”

  “But what?” he prompted when her voice trailed away.

  “I can’t help wondering . . .”

  He groaned, low and harsh. “Neither can I,” he muttered.

  And then he was lowering his mouth to hers, with the desperation of a man who didn’t know if he was winning or losing the battle he’d been fighting.

  In the first instant he knew that what he’d half convinced himself of wasn’t true; the first time hadn’t been a fluke. He’d kissed women before after a long period of enforced celibacy, and it had been nothing like this. What was it about this woman, about her particular combination of intelligence, nerve, and beauty that so got to him? That made him want to forget all the reasons—and God knew there were many—he shouldn’t be doing this, and made him want to pray that this time would be different?

  He thought there was a chance; he couldn’t remember ever being this hot, wanting so much, needing so much. At the least, he knew he could pleasure her, and if that had to be all there was, he would have to be content. That he’d never considered that enough before didn’t occur to him.

  When she parted her lips for him, he plunged his tongue forward eagerly, seeking her honeyed warmth. He slid his hands up the length of her rib cage until he could feel the soft curves of her breasts nestling against his palms through the fabric of the flight suit that barely contained them. She made no protest as he cradled the warm weight of her.

  He let his thumbs caress her, circling, as his fingers and palms flexed over her flesh. He waited until she moved, arching slightly, as if urging him that last small but crucial distance, before he moved to rub the rising peaks of her breasts. She made a tiny sound in her throat, a smothered cry that made his body nearly cramp in response; God, she was killing him, simply by responding to his touch.

  He sucked in his breath when he felt her hands move over the bare skin of his chest, and gasped aloud at the darts of fire when she mimicked his actions and her fingers found and stroked his nipples.

  He captured her face between his hands as he slid one leg across hers to lift himself over her. He deepened the kiss, and after a moment her tongue rose to meet his, tasting then retreating in a dance that made a shiver race down his spine, oddly chill against the rising heat of his body.

  He threaded his fingers through the short cap of her hair; it felt like the silkcloth fiber he’d thought of when he’d been studying her that night as she sat alone on the observation deck. His own hair fell forward, and he felt the sensuous tug as her fingers matched the actions of his own, as if she’d again been waiting for his move before she felt free to make her own.

  The idea made him freeze. He lifted his head, his eyes heated as he gazed down at her. Her hands fell away, as if she were afraid of what he would do now.

  “Not in this, snowfox,” he whispered hotly. “There is no leader in this.”

  Her eyes widened. “But—”

  “If you are here because you feel you must, that it is . . . your place, because of that”—he snarled as he flicked a finger at the collar—“then go. Now.”

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s because, for the first time since . . . even before the collar . . . I want. Truly want. I didn’t know I could.”

  Something let go inside him, some last remnant of doubt or hesitation. “I want, too, Califa. So touch me. As you wish, not at my lead.”

  She hesitated, as if she’d forgotten what to do with such freedom. Then she lifted her hands once more, tangling them in his hair.

  “I’ve wanted to do this,” she said. “It’s like the mane of an Arellian steed, thick and long and sleek to the touch.”

  Dax nearly blushed, but his embarrassment at her fervent admiration did nothing to cool his heated blood. Nor did the image her words called to mind: her riding him as she perhaps had once ridden the famous steeds native to her home world.

  “And this,” she continued, sliding her hands down over his shoulders, slowly, as if savoring the feel of his skin as he had savored the feel of hers.

  At the thought, he was seized with the need to touch more of her, and without the interference of cloth. He reached for the fastener of the flight suit she wore, and tugged it down. It parted easily, driven partly by the swell of her breasts. But when he moved to push it off her shoulders, he felt her go very still.

  If she had changed her mind he could stand it, he supposed. He’d certainly had enough practice at frustration. In fact he didn’t even know why he was doing this, when he was so painfully certain of what the end would be, except that he seemed to have no choice.

  “Califa?”

  She bit her lip. He leaned down to kiss her, forcing her to stop the savaging of that tender flesh.

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . I’m scarred, you know. Badly.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “I have a few of those, myself.”

  “Not like this.”

  “And you think it matters?”

  “I never did, before. I was still who I was. I would have sliced the throat of anyone who said otherwise,” she admitted honestly.

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “Did I mention a snowfox also fights like a demon when cornered?”

  She looked at him for a long moment. She lifted one hand as if to touch the corner of his mouth that had quirked upward. Then she let it fall back.

  “When I was . . . made a slave, it mattered. I had always accepted that, about slaves. That it lessened their value. I never thought about . . . Eos, I just never thought.”

  He didn’t want this reminder of who she’d been, what she’d done—and Dare. He didn’t want to think about it now, when his blood was running hot and the woman who’d driven him nearly mad with sudden, reawakened cravings was in his arms.

  “There is no place for those thoughts in this, either,” he said, his voice taut as he shifted once more, until she instinctively parted her legs for him to slip between. “No place for anyone else. Only us.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath as his weight came down upon her. She hesitated, then reached for him again.

  “Only us,” she agreed in a whisper.

  And then she was kissing him, her slender body arching beneath him to reach his mouth. The movement compounded the pressure on his already aroused flesh, and he groaned low in his throat.

  He kissed every bit of pale skin he unveiled as he slid the flight suit down her body. She wore nothing underneath, and the knowledge that she’d probably had nothing to wear did nothing to cool the fire that leapt to life in him again. He caressed her, cupped her breasts and lifted them, watching with heated pleasure as her pink nipples peaked under his gaze. He heard her low moan, and looked up to see her eyes had closed as she lay there, open to his hungry gaze.

  “Califa.” She moaned again, but her eyes remained closed. “Open your eyes, snowfox. I have to . . .” When she still kept her lashes lowered, he broke off for a swift flick of his tongue over one taut nipple. She gasped, and her eyes shot open. “I need to see your eyes,” he said hoarsely. “I need to know that you want this.”

  A look of understanding crossed her face. She smiled, a smile so nearly tender it made his knees weak; if
he’d been standing, he thought, he would have been hard-pressed to stay that way.

  “It is not the slave you hold,” she promised him, “but the woman.” Her smile changed to one of wonder, and its effect on him was no less potent. “A woman who has, it seems, much to learn. Teach me, Dax.”

  The sound of his name in that tender voice, made his body clench around a white hot shaft of need. The feel of her, soft and willing beneath him, wanting him, shattered the restraints that had held him in check since he’d first kissed her and realized just how potent this woman’s effect on him was. Once unleashed, he responded as he had learned to in the past five years; recklessly, fiercely, without hesitation.

  Not even the thought of the dismal ending to this that he expected could slow him. Neither did the faint, distant realization that she indeed trusted him; she made no move to hide her scarred leg from his eyes as he tugged the flight suit the rest of the way off her body.

  He saw the scar, it would have been impossible not to, as it streaked its way down the outside of her left leg, from midthigh to knee. It was wide, jagged, and made him ache to look at it, knowing what pain it had caused. As if he could ease that long-ago pain, he leaned down and trailed his lips over the mark that made the skin beside it seem even softer and more delicate by comparison.

  He heard her gasp, felt her tense, but he kept on. She was a fighter, his snowfox. She had withstood an injury that would have killed many, and had forced herself to adapt until the damage was barely noticeable. He had been right when he’d admired her nerve in those first moments; she was every bit as brave as he’d thought her then.

  “You are beautiful, snowfox,” he murmured as he blazed a path back up her thigh with his mouth, lingering at any place that made her catch her breath, teasing the dark triangle of soft curls with his fingers as his hands traced other paths, caressing, stroking, fondling.