The Breaking

by Imogen Keeper

  He caught her and pressed her back; she would have fallen if he hadn’t.

  “It’s just—” He pointed down, at the long length of his cock stretching between them.

  “What?”

  “I just—” He looked back up at her and laughed. “Fuck it.” He stepped close again, thrusting his cock against her.

  What was that about?

  It didn’t matter, because his mouth closed over hers again and nothing separated their bodies anymore. The molten heat of his silky, harder-than-steel skin pressed against the wet flesh between her thighs.

  At the pleasure-bright rush of wet heat, she panted like an animal.

  “Fuck,” he breathed, his breath fanning over her cheek. Closing his hands around her bottom, he lifted her from the counter and walked with his briefs around his ankles, his hands still roving her body, their hands and mouths still trying to dig inside one another, to the front of the ship.

  He lowered her into his pilot’s seat. Dropping to a knee before her, he batted away her hands when she tried to reach for him, and parted her shaking thighs. He took one of her nipples in his mouth, and she groaned. He stroked up her thigh, and she arched her spine, closing her fingers around the arms of the seat. His hand was hot enough to brand.

  One of his long fingers pressed inside, and it felt so much better with him there. But it wasn’t nearly enough.

  “So wet,” he said, rough and hoarse, as if she were a wondrous, fascinating thing.

  He trailed his tongue down her belly, over the rise of her pubic bone. His hair tickled over the sensitive rise of her ribcage until she bucked and moaned, desperate for him.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, to rest on the heavy muscles of his back, and her eyes drifted shut.

  The man—her head dropped back—knew exactly what—she sucked in a deep breath— he was doing—her spine vaulted higher— with his tongue. She moaned.

  Magic, that tongue, and she had no idea how he knew what he was doing, but it didn’t matter. She’d never felt anything even half as miraculous as his hot, velvety tongue as it danced, even better when he pressed in a second finger. His voice traced over her skin. “So beautiful, baby. Come with my finger inside you.”

  His pale hair glittered in the lights of the cockpit, and his shoulders shifted as he stroked a palm up her belly and kneaded her breast. His thumb strummed her nipple, making every nerve tingle and sing and beg for release. She closed her fingers in his hair, pulling. An unseen force took over her body. She bucked, thrusting her hips against him.

  He smiled darkly, looking up at her. The moment she met his eyes, she screamed out an orgasm that tore from some untapped well within her body.

  She wasn’t quiet, and she didn’t care. They were all alone, surrounded by light-years of nothing, and if Utto felt her joyous, decadent, frenetic release across the Bond, so be it. Enjoy it, bastard. You wanted to share me—here you go. Share me with Ajax. He’s the one I choose.

  She screamed out his name, and his smiling eyes blazed hot enough to burn, telling her he liked it when she said his name. So she screamed it again as her body shook in the final fevered throes.

  He brought her down slowly, stroking, humming encouraging words that wrapped around her.

  With a dry grin and a rueful shake of his head, he leaned back so he knelt between her spread thighs. He took his length in his hands, stroking up and down. The muscles of his arm bulged.

  “Ajax, I wa—”

  “Shh. I know.” He quieted her with a kiss to her lips. “I know what you need.” His lips curved.

  He stroked his cock. She wanted him in her mouth so she could taste him on her tongue, wanted to feel him thick and hot and hard inside her. But she couldn’t move, mesmerized by the sight of his beautiful, gleaming body.

  She’d never seen anything more wickedly, seductively, intensely sexy than his pumping fist. After a moment, he gasped a curse, his eyes tightened, gaze locked on hers, the muscles in his neck corded, and hot serum splashed over her stomach and breasts. Moving as if compelled, she traced a trail of it with her finger, raised it to her lips, but he stilled her.

  “Wh—why?”

  His eyes were sad as he shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t know how you’ll react to it. For now, we know we’ve got enough time to get to Pilan and get the new ship. For all we know, you’ll be back to needing serum every few hours if I give you mine.”

  She wanted to argue, wanted desperately to break Utto’s last hold on her, but his grip on her hand was firm. “Later. I promise.”

  He ran his fingers through a stream of serum covering one of her nipples. Moving slowly, he stroked his fingers through the remaining splashes of serum that decorated her abdomen, rubbing it into her skin.

  She sagged on the seat, limp as a rag doll. He growled low, pressing forward to rest his forehead against hers.

  “You smell like me now,” he rasped out, low and awed. “I like it.”

  12

  You make me strut.

  Ajax strutted back to the galley, grinning like an asshole, which was fine. There was no one to see him.

  He’d carried Feola to his bed, and that’s where she lay now, limp and practically comatose. The smile on her face made him feel deity strong and prouder than he’d ever been in his life.

  He stroked a hand down his still-hard cock and gave it a pat of gratitude for fine services rendered.

  She’d probably want a bath soon, but he wasn’t in any mad rush to encourage her to wash off his serum. She smelled like his own little slice of paradise, all covered in him. Bliss would be seeing her, just like that—always.

  And fuck, he’d do anything to keep her with him and safely away from that bastard Utto and whatever the hell his cousin had done to her. He hadn’t missed the way she kept catching herself before withdrawing. She didn’t quite fear him, but she wasn’t entirely comfortable either.

  Not for the first time, he wished for a course of treatment he could administer that would erase the past, heal her pain, give her a fresh start. There was no medicine for what she’d survived.

  They’d hurt her. If she’d killed Rennie, it was self-defense. No doubt about it. He just hoped whatever the bastard had done, it wasn’t too bad before it ended. The look in her eyes, however, implied something else entirely. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on Utto.

  He made a new pot of eeffoc and drank down one of their old, now-cold mugs.

  He rolled his shoulders, scarfed down a piece of toast and some fruit, and swallowed a powdered protein drink, flexing the muscles of his back.

  Grabbing the eeffoc, he headed back to the front of the ship.

  He sat in the pilot’s seat. Naked. He’d never done that before. It felt decadent, obscene, and flagrantly rude, like something he’d never have done in a million years. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, spread his legs wide, and propped his foot on the dash—something else he’d never done.

  His body felt amazing. Relaxed, but energized. He stretched his neck from side to side and took another long, bitter pull on the drink. It burned down his throat as he checked their trajectory.

  They’d arrive at Pilan in a couple of hours. Now, he was ready for anything. Nothing in the universe could stop him.

  Well… except Feola. His stomach tightened, remembering the feel of her, the taste of her perfect pussy, dripping and clenched around his finger. She’d screamed out one hell of an orgasm. On this very seat. With her hands in his hair and her legs spread wide, fucking up against his tongue.

  Ay-shocks. Ay-shocks.

  Beautiful beyond reason. And his to protect.

  Whatever had happened to her back on R-2, and he was developing some theories, he knew one thing: Utto and his messed-up family weren’t getting close to her again.

  Life was weird.

  Fugitive, jobless, headed toward a hotbed of criminal activity—he’d never been happier. Not once in his whole damned life.

 
; 13

  Lost with you.

  Pilan was a dump.

  Ajax hesitated in the hallway outside the dilapidated dock in which they’d parked his ship. “Sure you’re okay?”

  Feola nodded, eyes earnest and clear. He’d taken her temperature, checked her oxygen levels, her heart rate. She was healthy—physically, at least.

  Her emotional landscape seemed uneven at best. Her expressions vacillated between fear, hope, and doubt. It would be interesting to see how she reacted to the presence of strangers. According to her, she wouldn’t need serum for another six hours. Plenty of time.

  He hesitated. “There will be a lot of men.”

  “Ay-shocks, I’m fine. Okay? Stop worrying.”

  He narrowed his eyes at that. During training, they’d spent some time on the psychological ramifications of violence… especially on people untrained to expect it, but he’d be damned if he could remember much of it. Psychiatry wasn’t his specialty. She exhibited the signs. Uneven moods. Shifty gaze. Suspicion. Withdrawal. But then it was all confused by serum and her dependence on it.

  He suppressed the urge to sigh or kick the wall. Nothing was more frustrating than being unable to help someone he cared about.

  He couldn’t leave her behind. He had to take her with him. But what would happen now with regards to serum? He shouldn’t have rubbed his serum into her skin, but he’d lost control. How much could be absorbed that way? What if it messed with her chemistry?

  It just seemed too easy.

  “No tingling? No nausea? No… heat?”

  “None. I’m fine, Ay-shocks. Really.”

  He doubted it, but whatever terrors lurked in her brain would have to be sorted out later, when they had the luxury of time and safety.

  Which they didn’t now.

  He extricated his palm from hers. Holding hands wasn’t appropriate. Not at the moment. At least not for the roles they’d chosen.

  He’d never been to the out-of-Argenti-jurisdiction offshoot, Pilan. A few hundred years ago, a mess of antique and retired ships had been fused together to form one great cancerous mass that functioned as one of the few neutral zones.

  Since it didn’t fall under Argenti or Vestigi law, it had become a melting pot of drugs, illegal weapons, sex trafficking, smuggling and probably about a hundred other crimes he couldn’t even imagine.

  The hall they walked down seethed with unwashed people, unhealthy-looking animals, far too few lights, peeling paint, and market stalls with noisome wares.

  Algae, or more likely mold, climbed the walls. It reeked of urine. And the scurrying dark spots along a crack in the wall—cockroaches, if he’d ever seen one.

  “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, for not keeping her hand in his. He indicated down the dank hall toward the main body of the space station.

  “Of course,” she said, in that soft musical voice. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  He frowned, shifting the bag on his shoulders that carried all the items they hadn’t wanted to leave on the ship. He’d have liked nothing more than to saunter through the space station with her hand in his, publicly claiming her, but it would have to wait. Some other place.

  She fell into step behind him, refusing to meet his eye.

  “You should, Feola. You should touch me whenever you want. Just not here. Later.”

  She didn’t respond, and he sighed, confused.

  She looked like a short boy. A short, fat, mistrustful boy with a pigeon-footed gait. Though it had hurt a bit, before they set foot on Pilan, he’d led her to his ship’s bathing pool and left her in peace. He’d given her epicanthu oil to slather under her arms and between her breasts and thighs to mask her scent.

  She’d even dusted the shadow of a mustache across her upper lip using momadrac powder in the galley. She’d pulled her hair back in a low tail and obscured it with a cone-shaped black sunhat. A pillow in her shirt, and she was pretty effectively disguised.

  Hopefully, they’d give the impression of an Argenti aristocrat on a tour with a slovenly servant in tow. A passing glance would reveal her to be nothing more than a rotund youth in ill-fitting clothes. Anyone looking for longer than a split second would see those puffy lips, the delicate bone structure, the long lashes.

  No one would have call to look, though. Not here.

  The market was endless. And disgusting.

  He stopped three times to get his bearings.

  From a squalid stall, a dirty man wearing stained rags spat at them, a globule of spit landing an inch shy of Ajax’s left boot.

  He’d prefer to just return to his ship and get off this ugly heap, but they needed a new ship. One that wasn’t traceable, and this was their only hope.

  Each hall worsened. Deep fissures ran along the foundation. Old, rusty stains spread like decaying vines, rotting and climbing up the walls. Blood.

  “What’s wrong with this place?” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?” he asked over his shoulder, hoping they were getting closer. When he paused to look down yet another hall, she bumped into him, the squashy pillows shoved in her suit pressing against his elbow.

  She smelled like a woman. Like his woman. Even under the layers of epicanthu, he could smell himself. Primitive pride had him walking tall, steadying her with a hand to her waist in a way he’d never have touched a fat male servant.

  “Why does it look like it’s about to crumble?”

  “It probably is.”

  Her hand came up and touched his back for the briefest of seconds. Had he imagined the look in her eyes that spoke of comfort? He’d spent his life administering medicines, staying up late to analyze the risks to other men’s lives—being responsible for others, but never for anyone who was his.

  This was new. He’d checked his weapons before they’d arrived. Three times. He ran his hand over his rezal. He’d never had to use it outside of target practice. He practiced with the knives regularly as well, both in close combat and throwing, but this was different.

  Something had changed.

  He studied her wide yellow-green eyes. He’d wanted her from the first second he’d seen her, but now it was different.

  She’d bucked her hips against his tongue, trusted him with her body. The game had ended fast.

  It got real. At least for him. She might need a little convincing.

  “Stay close, okay? And be ready to run if we need to.”

  Feola knew it. Deep down in her bones, she knew it.

  Ajax isn’t Utto. He isn’t Rennie.

  But still, every once in a while, she looked at him, so tall and broad and strong, and had to remind herself that no matter what Utto had done to her, Ajax was not him. She didn’t need to fear Ajax.

  They couldn’t be more different, except for one thing. Utto had hated asking for directions too. It had infuriated him.

  Evidently, Ajax had the same aversion.

  But this endless circling was frustrating.

  Enough.

  “Ajax,” she said after they passed the same filthy market stall for the third time. “I think we missed a turn. We should ask someone.”

  “It’s just up here on the right. The map Reyba—”

  “It’s not,” she said baldly. She refused to be afraid of him. She was done being scared.

  She took a deep breath, glancing around. An old man sat behind a drooping stall, selling some sort of strange, oozing gray fruit.

  “Excuse me?” She minced awkwardly toward him, with the round swell of the pillow projecting in front of her.

  The man had sallow skin, hair the color of iron, a large mole on the tip of his nose, and crooked brown teeth. His face was wrinkled in a suspicious frown.

  Remembering she was supposed to be a man, she deepened her voice. “Could you direct us toward Quasilliaro?”

  The man flinched, his face shuttering. She shifted her gaze to Ajax, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering up and down the length of his knife-covered body. Ajax with all his we
apons, his massive boots, and his hard body in the black flight suit was truly fearsome. To anyone who isn’t me. The thought gave her a thrill.

  Her own personal guardian. Too bad he hadn’t been there when Rennie… No. She’d saved herself.

  “I’m Argenti, sir,” Ajax said in his smooth, mellifluous voice. “But I’m just here visiting. I mean no harm.”

  As her gaze settled on the bulge between his thighs, heat crept up her neck and she remembered exactly how it had pressed against her. She turned back to the man. “We just need to find Quasilliaro.”

  The man rubbed his fingers together, eyeing Ajax. He pointed at his knives, and she resisted the urge to flinch away.

  He pulled a small one from a sheath across his ribcage. “My dad gave these to me when I came of age.” He stroked along its surface, balanced it on the tip of his finger. He rubbed his thumb along the handle for moment.

  She shook off the memory of another knife. “Maybe we co—”

  “It’s okay.” He handed over the knife, and it promptly disappeared into the folds of the old man’s sleeves.

  “This the wrong floor,” the old man said, blunt and cold, in a thickly accented voice.

  She bit her lip to keep from saying I told you, but couldn’t resist glancing over at Ajax.

  He pursed his lips, having the good grace to at least look vaguely contrite.

  “Four floor up. Stair there.” The man pointed with a gnarled finger. “Turn left out of staircase. Long hall, all the way at end, on right.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Ajax nodded ruefully, and she couldn’t suppress a triumphant smile when he paused awkwardly. From the way he froze with his hand in midair, she knew he’d been about to gesture her to precede him. He caught the movement in time and headed toward the door. As his “servant,” it was appropriate that she follow him.

  It took fewer than five minutes for them to find the offices of Quasilliaro. The hallway on the fourth floor was far cleaner than the dank market pit of the lower level. One whole side had a massive view of the center of the galaxy, and it spread like a cloud of glittering dust on black so big that it boggled, shamed, and inspired.