“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 dangers 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.
She took a deep breath and walked from her quarters into the galley.
Hearing her footsteps behind him, Kell spoke. “We need to formulate a—” His deep voice trailed off as he turned and saw her, an expression of complete and total wonderment on his face.
“Formulate a what?”
“A…strategy.” He couldn’t even blink. “A strategy to…uh…to…” Then he simply stopped speaking and stared.
She resisted the impulse to pose, though she very much wanted to. She knew she looked good,
drew power from that, as she held herself still for his amazed stare.
Her typical uniform of cargo pants, heavy boots, tank top and nyyrikki-skin jacket was now on the floor of her quarters. Instead, a crimson koen-hide skirt clung to her hips, ending at mid thigh. Her cap-sleeved, gold tissue blouse scooped low on her chest, revealing an expanse of tawny skin. She’d laced herself into a corset of dark red Hadaza silk, which ended just beneath her breasts and lifted them up in unashamed display. Koen-hide gauntlets covered her from wrist to elbow, held in place by a series of buckled straps. Her matching sharp-heeled boots climbed to just above her knees, and more buckles gleamed in deliberate provocation. It would take patience and resolve for him to strip her of the boots, unlace her from the corset and unbuckle the gauntlets, but she knew the rewards would be worth it.
Naturally, she still wore her plasma pistol. And naturally, she could fight or run in her boots.
Unfiltered desire tightened Kell’s features. Slowly, he began to rise from his seat in the cockpit, his eyes never leaving her. A growl resonated low in his throat, making him sound more beast than man. It had been at least a day since his last shave, and the dark bristle across his jaw only strengthened his rough, animal appearance.
She pressed her thighs together as a rush of arousal flooded her. Last night, she had lain in her bed and listened to Kell moving his big body restlessly across the hovermattress. It had taken more self control than she’d thought she possessed to keep from pinning him down on that mattress. She’d had to sleep on top of her hands to keep from touching herself.
“Back on my homeworld,” he said, his voice low and roughened, “there were these feral macskacats. No one knew how such wild creatures got into the cities. But they adapted to their urban environment, hunted in the shadows. Sometimes street orphans disappeared, and we knew the macskacats got them. One cornered me, once, when I was alone after dark.” His dark stare burned her.
“Barely made it out alive.” He pulled on the cropped sleeve of his shirt to reveal an old scar across his shoulder—four deep gouges from an animal’s claws.
“But think of the thrill from facing the beast.”
“Foolish to discount the threat of a dangerous animal.”
“Better watch your back. I might leave you with more claw marks.”
There was nothing warm or friendly about his smile. It was pure predator. “In this analogy, you aren’t the animal.”
Mara sauntered forward, though her heart beat faster. “Whatever wildness you’re capable of, I can take it.” Then she started. “Fuck.”
His eyes darkened even further. “Exactly.”
“No, I mean—” she pointed over his shoulder, “— fuck.”
Kell turned and cursed under his breath. “That’s Ryge?”
“On a bad day.” Mara squeezed past him, and though her body heated as it rubbed so closely against his, her attention was fixed on what she saw out the cockpit window.
A swirling energy storm encircled the planet, its heavy mass broken by flashes of lightning. The roiling clouds were sickly yellow, and through them one could barely see the surface of the planet.
“The pollution on Ryge does this sometimes.” She sank into her seat. “Nobody can fly in or out until the storm abates.”
Kell took his seat beside her. “How long does that take?”
“Could be days.”
He cursed again, surprising Mara with his extensive vocabulary of foul language. She had no idea 8th Wing even knew such words existed.
“We don’t have that kind of time.” He growled his frustration.
“If we can’t get through, no one else can, either.” She pointed toward the forms of other ships orbiting Ryge, all of them waiting out the storm. “That means that whoever has the lieutenant and her ship probably won’t do anything until the storm clears.”
“‘Probably’ isn’t good enough. I need certainties.” His jaw hardened as he stared at the tempest surrounding the planet. “Have you ever flown through one of these storms?”
“No.” She fought against a rush of embarrassment.
After a moment, he said, “I’ll fly us through.”
Had she misheard? “Hell, no.”
“I understand if you’re scared—” She was, a little. Still, the thought of anybody but her at the Arcadia’s controls made her palms damp and her stomach hurt. She had fought too much to surrender her ship to anyone.
“—but I refuse to let the slightest delay keep me from securing Lieutenant Jur’s safety, or the safety of her ship.”
The man who’d spoken with fierce, sexual hunger moments earlier was gone. A hard-edged soldier had taken his place, one who refused any capitulation. She discovered she found them both equally alluring.
Beyond this, she saw that he worried for the safety of his squadron. The intensity of his gaze showed concern that went beyond mere duty. Lieutenant Jur was Kell’s friend, and that meant something to him. Had anyone ever cared for her with such ferocity? Being in the presence of that kind of loyalty humbled her, made her yearn for something she had never known.