“She’s going for the jumpgate. So are we,” she argued, without taking her gaze from her console. “It would be a lot safer if we stayed shadowed to her the whole way.”
“It’s not necessary, and it ties you up. You’re too tired to handfly this ship for any length of time.”
“Get me some coffee and I’ll be fine. And let me know if you see any blue glowing blobs in the galley while you’re there.”
He linked his handheld to the ship’s computer and, when his calculations were downloading smoothly, unsnapped his safety straps. ’Cybe senses at max, he performed a quick visual check in the cabins and corridor for any blue glowing blobs his datalyzer might have missed. He returned to the cockpit with two cups of coffee, knowing it would please her.
She inhaled the aroma, a small smile returning. “Mahrian blend, black. Thank you.” She tapped at the console, then looked at him. “I’m not trying to be a bitch. But there’s a lot to be said for trust no one, suspect everything, and never take your hand off your weapon. I know you don’t understand that. It’s instinct for me. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t.” She went back to the console, taking a sip of her coffee.
He watched the data flow from the handheld to his console’s screen, then he looked at her. “Does trusting no one include me?”
“You thought I sold you out to Zanorian back on that raft,” she said without glancing at him. “Yet I let you walk at my back with a loaded rifle. You tell me.”
He thought for a minute, wanting to make sure he said exactly what he wanted to say. He knew his timing was terrible—he probably should wait until they were safely in jumpspace. But she had asked him. “When I saw you with Zanorian, when I realized who you were, I thought nothing in my life could be worse than that. I was wrong. When that wall collapsed and you disappeared with it, that was far and away the most horrible moment I’ve ever had. And believe me, I’ve had some bad ones. But nothing could be as bad as losing you.”
She turned to him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You read my logs. Then you know I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
“You’ve been in love with Tasha Sebastian,” she said softly before going back to her screen. “She doesn’t exist.”
“Didn’t you read the very first letter I ever wrote you?”
She looked up from the console. “When I was on the Bogue? Yes.”
“I had no U-Cee profile on you. I didn’t even know your first name. I fell in love with you anyway.”
She was looking at him with that odd mixture of confusion and elation, but elation seemed to be winning this time.
He took a chance—a huge one considering the uncertainties, considering he was a ’cybe officer and she was Lady Sass. But when she fell through the corridor wall, something inside him had changed. “Will you please quit shadowing that damned freighter so we can finish what we started in the airlock accessway?”
A blush colored her cheeks. Elation? Gods, he hoped he hadn’t lost his ability to read human facial expressions. “I have to set a course for that jumpgate—”
“Already done.”
“Show-off.” She made the final changes on her console, turning the ship over to the navigational systems. Then, with a swift move, she unhooked her safety straps and flowed across the short distance into his lap.
He didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He pulled her hard against him, their mouths fusing. He wrapped his arms around her, not wanting to think about who she was or where they were headed. They had a half hour to the jumpgate, and he didn’t want to waste a second until the ship needed his attention again.
He had twelve years of emptiness to fill, twelve years of touching her only in his dreams, twelve years of imagining the softness of her body, which suddenly was real and his to explore.
He caressed the curve of her hip as she did things to his mouth—her teeth gently pulling on his lower lip—that made his breath hitch. He thrust his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and mimicked her movement, nibbling on her mouth, tracing her lips with the tip of his tongue. He was learning—though, gods, he knew he’d never had a teacher like this.
She arched back, guiding his mouth down her throat. He lost his grip on her hair and his hands fell to her waist as she—sweet holy gods!—rocked her hips against him, stroking him. He gasped against her skin, the unexpected pleasure of it almost blinding as he throbbed beneath her.
He licked her throat, trailed kisses over her collarbone as she arched again. The front of her uniform was open almost to her waist. He didn’t know how or when, but her hand on the back of his head told him that was where he needed to go, and he wasn’t going to argue. Not when the soft swell of her breast under his mouth felt so incredibly good. Then the tight bud of one nipple brushed against his lips, surprising him. He circled it experimentally with his tongue before taking the tip of her breast into his mouth.
Her low moan set hot, tingling sensations roaring through him. Something primal in him responded, his groin pulsing, his desire to bury himself inside her blanking out all thought, all reason. There was only Tasha, his Lady Sass, and the feel and taste of her as he found her mouth again, his hands on her waist grinding her against him.
He hated uniforms, he hated the restriction of clothing, he hated the damned confines of the captain’s chair. And he hated that incessant pinging noise…
Shit! The jumpgate.
She seemed to realize it as he did. She jerked back, reaching blindly for the console. But he was quicker and closer. He swiveled the chair around, bringing her back against his chest as he keyed in the gate codes and activated the preprogrammed course to Panperra.
“Branden—”
“Shhh.” He took a moment to steal a kiss from her lips. “Under control.” At least, the ship was, as the nav comp locked on a fix. He was another matter. He was well out of control. If PsyServ traced his emo-patterns right now, he knew he’d melt their damned systems.
He could feel her breathing hard against him as the ship flowed smoothly past the edge of the gate, all systems optimal. Two more taps on the console and the computers were in charge.
They had two hours.
He swiveled back around.
She leaned up, palms on his shoulders. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly parted and swollen. He thought she’d never looked more beautiful.
He ran his hands up the curve of her breasts until they came to rest on her shoulders, then drew her to him, kissing her softly, gently. She kissed him back with small teasing kisses that made his heart race. Someday he’d ask her how she did that, how she knew just the right amount of seduction and playfulness. It mystified him. She mystified him.
She pulled her face away, one side of her mouth quirked in a small grin. “Pick a number between one and three.” Her voice was breathy.
“One and three?” He shook his head quizzically. “The only possible number is two.”
“Ah, good choice.” She pulled out of his lap, one hand locked in the fabric of his shirt, bringing him with her.
He stood, tried to draw her back in his arms, but she was laughing softly. “This way,” she said, tugging him toward the corridor.
“This way?”
“You chose cabin number two.” She stepped over the hatch tread.
He followed. Cabin number two?
She tapped in a code at the second doorway. “Remember sooner or later, flyboy? Well, it’s sooner.”
The door opened. He saw a dimly lit cabin and a wide pillow-strewn bed.
His body heated.
Sweet holy gods.
Two things warred within Branden Kel-Paten as he stepped—almost stumbling—into the small cabin after Sass. The first was his overwhelming desire to make love to her. The second was his growing fear that in doing so, he’d lose her through ineptitude.
She knew exactly the right amount of playfulness and seduction. He had
no idea. Over the years, he’d read books on human sexuality and various articles on lovemaking. And he had one brief failed encounter with a prosti on Raft 309. He should probably call up at least a few of those articles from his memory banks, but, gods, she was unsealing his shirt, tugging it out of the waistband of his pants as they stood only a few feet from the edge of the bed. He wasn’t even sure he could find his memory banks right now.
“Sass.” He stilled her hands, bringing her fingers to his lips. If she removed his shirt she’d see the scars crisscrossing his body. Ugly things that had made the prosti recoil. ’Cybes didn’t get vanity-patched, because their bodies were made for war, not love.
And his hands…his black gloves were a stark contrast to her soft skin. Touching her perfect body with them seemed unnatural. Touching her perfect body without them was worse. His hands were synthderm and powermesh, with powernodes in his fingertips and palms. An abomination. He was an abomination. He had no right to—
“Branden?”
Her face tilted up to his, as if begging to be kissed. That he could do, because she’d taught him how. He brushed his mouth over hers, still gentle, then came back for a deeper kiss. But not too much. He had to control this, had to control his body’s reactions or he’d end up embarrassing himself. While her tongue toyed with his, he tripped the code in his mind, segueing into full ’cybe mode. Emo-inhibitors activated, hitting him like a cool draft of air. Her eyes were closed, but he put his vision on night function, just in case. No sickly glow as one more reminder of what he was.
He released her hands, enfolding her tightly against him, and rested his face on her hair. He caressed her back, the rise and fall of her breath steadying him.
He had to be in control. He couldn’t let her find out how shamefully inexperienced he was. He couldn’t let her see the ugliness that was a biocybe.
Her hands splayed against his chest. For as wonderful as she felt against his skin, he wished he could close his shirt. They should sit on a couch—there had to be a couch in here somewhere. Sit on the couch and talk. Kiss, touch, but not too much. He wouldn’t be able to react beyond a certain point, anyway. His emo-inhibitors—
She lightly dragged her nails over his chest, raking a nipple he had no idea was so sensitive. Heat spiraled through him. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers moved across his chest again.
“Hey,” he said, letting the breath out, but that was all he could say, because her mouth locked over his. And she wasn’t being gentle.
He broke the heated kiss carefully. “Tasha.”
“Mmm, Branden.” Her hands slid down his chest and tugged the rest of his shirt out of his pants before he gathered his wits to stop her. When he finally did grab her hands, she’d shrugged out of her shirt and stood half naked before him—even more enticingly beautiful than his dreams, her skin soft and creamy in the cabin’s dim light. Without thinking he stepped forward, reaching to touch one perfect breast.
Her hands curled into his waistband and unsnapped his pants.
Oh, sweet holy gods! He took a half step back and realized that would only undo his pants faster. He moved toward her instead, before those clever fingers went further and tested the already strained limits of his emo-inhibitors. He grabbed her arms, trying for another kiss, but she was pulling him with her. He caught her against him just as the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed. Her knees buckled, and suddenly she was on her back and he was on top of her, his bare chest against hers. Warmth flowed where they touched. He levered up quickly on one arm, but she’d already locked her hands around his neck. Her impish smile pleaded for a kiss.
He fought the impulse for all of 3.25 seconds, according to the readouts in the lower left corner of his vision. Kissing was good. It was something he was getting better at. It kept her from seeing the patterns of his surgeries. It kept her hands—wrapped around his neck—away from his pants.
He rolled onto his side, taking her with him in the kiss, one hand against the small of her back. He could do this for two hours, holding her, kissing her. Letting this warm trickle of pleasure drift through him. It was just a small trickle, it was just…
Her hand slid down his abdomen into his half-open pants and cupped him, making his breath stutter in his throat as her clever fingers stroked his erection. Molten waves of passion crashed through his emo-inhibitors. Instinctively he arched into her hand, his mouth hard on hers, drawing pleasure from everywhere he could. He ached with the desire to love her—finally—after all these years. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He was a ’cybe, the Tin Soldier, an unholy creation, but gods help him, he loved her. And just once he wanted to be someone she could love—scars, synthderm, wrist ports, and all.
“We need to get rid of these,” she whispered, stilling her delicious torture to push his pants down his hips.
Briefly he thought of the scars encircling his thighs, but she kicked off her boots and, kneeling next to him, was shimmying out of her pants. He stopped and stared in unabashed admiration, his shame over his body’s imperfections usurped by his desire to feel, taste, and explore every inch of hers.
Heart pounding, he stripped off his gloves and the rest of his clothes and then pulled her down on top of him. Close like this was good. The cabin’s dim light was good. She couldn’t easily see what he looked like. He kissed her hard, heat and passion spiking and swirling through him, causing reactions in his body far beyond what he thought possible. His inhibitors were off-line, quite possibly decimated as she moved sensuously against him, their skin now slick from excitement. Her lips brushed his jaw, his neck, and when her tongue found the hard ropy scar on his left shoulder, he tensed involuntarily.
“Don’t,” he rasped, wincing when he realized he’d said it aloud.
She raised her face. “Does that hurt?”
Sweet gods, she was so beautiful it made his throat tight. “Not anymore,” he managed, brushing her hair back from the side of her face.
She lightly ran her fingers over the scar that circled the point of his shoulder, then found the wide one that went straight down his upper arm to the inside of his elbow. “Bet it hurt like hell at one time, though.” Her voice was soft, almost understanding.
“Yes.” He watched her face, saw the slight dip of her eyebrows into a frown. He was breathing hard, the warmth of her fingers on his skin mesmerizing.
She glanced at him. “Kisses make it better.” She brushed her lips over his, then kissed his left shoulder again, then the wide scar on his arm. His right shoulder and arm were next. He was amazed, humbled, and very aroused by her gentle touch, by her loving his ugliness. He twined his fingers in her hair, wanting her mouth on his—the only activity in which he felt confident—but she shook her head and angled back.
“Tell me what you like,” she said, her voice throaty.
“What I like? Just you. With me.” He touched her cheek.
“Nothing…special?”
He closed his eyes. He knew what she asked, but the descriptions of positions he’d read failed to surface in his mind. “I wouldn’t know,” he said finally, honestly. Because even if he could lie, his body couldn’t. “I never…” and he let the sentence trail off.
Her eyes, half hooded with desire moments before, widened slightly. Her lips parted. “You mean—”
“You’re the only one.” His voice was rough from desire and shame. “My whole life, you’re all I’ve wanted.”
She closed her eyes briefly, that impish smile returning when she looked at him, something twinkling in her eyes. “Don’t worry, love. I won’t be gentle.”
“Sass—”
But she’d already dipped her head, her tongue trailing down his stomach. She lightly nipped his abdomen, then took him fully into her mouth.
“Oh, sweet gods!” he gasped. Pleasure beyond description flowed through him, swirling, as she licked then stroked him. He was at the very edge of what little control he had, his body heating, his breath stuttering at her touch. Finally, at his lim
it, he reached blindly for her, found her hair, urged her up his body. A soft, wicked giggle rumbled against his chest, then his throat. Damn her, what she did to him! He loved her so much.
He found her mouth, kissed her as if she was the sole thing keeping him alive—because she was. Trembling now, he ran his synthderm and powermesh hands over her, wanting to give her the pleasure she gave him. But he didn’t know how, didn’t know where to start or what she wanted, so he caressed, kneaded, the feel of her body moving against his intoxicating and dangerous. Too dangerous. If they didn’t slow down, he was going to—
She mounted him, taking him into her body, a heated wetness enveloping him. He sucked in a harsh breath of surprise and astonishment and then he was thrusting greedily into her, hands clasping her hips, matching her rhythm. All rational thought ceased. There was just overwhelming pleasure, cresting ecstasy; there was her low moan of desire and his own rasped utterance of her name, over and over. Then Admiral Branden Kel-Paten’s orderly cybernetic world exploded into a cascade of heat, pleasure, and passion.
Gods’ blessed rumps, he’s a virgin! Well, not anymore, Sass corrected herself sagely, her wry grin hidden by the fact that her face was snuggled against Branden’s neck. It made sense. His hesitancy in touching her, his shyness—and that was the only word for it—in dealing with her. His sudden almost about-face when she’d brought him to Angel’s cabin. Somehow she thought her friend wouldn’t mind.
But Kel-Paten did mind once she’d started removing his clothes. When she saw the scars, she understood. They weren’t like Zanorian’s thin affectations. These were knotty, full of pain and bad memories. Unpleasant. Best kept hidden.
She understood that too. She had scars. But hers were inside, while his were on the outside. Her experience on the raft had forced her to reveal hers to him, though far less pleasantly.
His arms tightened around her and he rolled over onto his side, taking her with him. She brought her hands to his shoulders, her face up to his, sensing a kiss coming. He needed a lot of kisses. That was okay. She did too. Kisses were reassuring. They both needed reassurance.
Games of Command Page 34
