by Fiona Jayde
“Same goes, Commander.” A fake to the left, a spinning wheel kick which he evaded.
“I should apologize.” He blocked her fist with a hard forearm, kept contact for a short, sizzling second. She forced herself to move away before his heat consumed her, before she gave in to the wild need pulsing between her thighs and wrapped herself around him, war and her mission be damned.
“No need.” Her thighs clenched at the memory.
“We both know what's happening.”
She didn't want to go there. “We don't.” A straight cross finally made contact. His head snapped back; those wild blue eyes flared. Excitement pumping through her blood, she lifted her fists, expecting payback. Instead, Stark caught her arm and spun her around so that her back pressed hard into his chest, his hand gripping her wrist, the heat of him fueling the tug of need inside her.
She couldn't move, couldn't force herself to think. In a slow, controlled motion, he banded his other arm around her and brought her flush against him, back to chest, her buttocks pressed against an unmistakable arousal.
A biological reaction. Nothing more. And yet her pulse shuddered in her throat, her muscles tightening against him, wanting to get away yet needing to get closer.
“I keep thinking about this,” he muttered in her ear, his rough voice an unwanted and delicious rasp over her senses. “I can't get it to stop.”
She couldn't speak because her throat went dry.
“You're my officer. Hell, you shouldn't be on this ship.” His breath caressed the sensitive shell of her ear. “And yet I want you so damned bad, without regard to sanity or protocol or code of conduct. Do you know why, Officer Scott?”
Bloodmatch. Wild, tight shivers danced over her skin. “It's not going to work.”
“We're in agreement.” He led her to the nearest bulkhead, turned her around so she faced him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. Her nipples stabbed out, aching for his touch. Her lips tingled when he lowered his mouth close to hers. “Let me propose a solution.” She felt his breath on her mouth, his lips inches from hers, his erection pulsing with heat against her belly. “We get it over with. And consider it done.”
She tried to speak but couldn't get the words out, didn't even know which answer she would give him. Then she licked her parched lips, and his mouth claimed hers and Zoya could do nothing but grip his heavily muscled arms.
His lips moved over hers, devouring her moans, her breaths, her hunger. His taste drove her mad. His skin felt moist under her fingers, heat over rock-hard muscles. Her pulse was a dull roar in her head when Stark tore his mouth away to spin her around so fast she had to brace her hands on the cool plaster of the bulkhead, facing away from him once more, vulnerable and aroused.
“Do you think of it, Officer Scott?” That dark, dangerous voice caressed her ear. His large palms spanned her waist, slowly moving up over her ribs. “Do you think how I would touch you?”
She couldn't answer through the roar of blood, remembering the heated fantasies of him above her, beneath her, his muscled arms banding around her waist.
“Do you think about what I'd do to you?” He cupped her breasts in those wide palms, lifted them, running his thumbs over the aching nipples. Mindless, she let her head fall back to be cradled on his wide shoulder.
“I know how you would taste. How you would feel when I'm inside you.” Rough, panting breaths and breathless words.
She shuddered when his teeth scraped at the sensitive skin just below her ear, then his lips trailed fiery kisses to the hollow of her neck. She wanted him to slide his hands under her uniform, to touch her skin without the barriers of clothing.
“Do you think about it, Officer Scott?”
She exhaled sharply, fought for words.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Just touch me.” Zoya didn't recognize the soft, low tone as hers. She pushed at the arousal pressing into her buttocks, grinding herself against him for some semblance of relief. Slowly, his hands left her breasts to start a torturous path over her belly, lower, finally cupping the center of her heat. The firm touch of his palm seared her through the dark fabric of her unisuit.
“Here?” Rough, breathless words.
Instead of answering, she pressed the core of her arousal into his palm.
“Spread your thighs for me.”
Mindless, her muscles clenching, she obeyed, trembling as he unclasped the front snaps of her uniform and finally slid his hand inside the fabric.
The steel of his arousal throbbed against her buttocks through the unisuit, teasing her with images of him sinking into her, driving into her from behind.
Strong, callused fingers brushed over soft, sensitive skin. He cupped her once again, held her in the vicious storm of spiraling excitement before sliding over moist, sensitive tissues, wickedly teasing a path between her nether lips before slipping between them to circle the throbbing knot of her clitoris. She held her breath when Stark suddenly stopped, then exhaled roughly when his finger teased her slick sex.
She didn't need this spiral of sensation, didn't want to draw out an encounter she had no business craving.
Just finish it.
He stopped to press his fingertip deeper inside her. Sparks of pleasure erupted into flames.
Zoya shuddered in his arms, would have buckled if his strength hadn't supported her. A long and wicked finger rasped her delicate skin, plunged into her clenching sex, withdrew once again to torment her with gentle, rhythmic caresses until the coiling in her veins imploded into sharp shimmering sparks.
She didn't know how long he held her, how long she gripped his wrists. Her eyelids were heavy when she was turned around, when his lips found hers again, when he tugged apart the front clasps of her unisuit.
The sound of someone clearing his throat went unnoticed. “Whenever you're done, Commander.” She cringed at the cold voice behind Stark's back. “If you could get your comm implant online. You're needed at Command Post.”
Zoya felt him tense before he even moved a muscle. And still, he made sure that she could stand on her own before he took his body heat away.
She didn't have a lot of time. Already she could feel the tremors usually accompanying the sudden drop in adrenaline. The chills already roughening her skin foreshadowed a seizure on a boil. With hurried fingers, she snapped her uniform back up and hoped that he wouldn't see the first telltale shakes.
“Excuse me, sir.” She had to find a warm dark place to fall apart in. Forcing herself to walk instead of run, Zoya passed by the sub-commander, her eyes straight ahead. She thought she heard a terse “fuck” just as she reached for her syringes. At this point, oral stabilizers wouldn't be enough.
* * *
Stark paced, since standing was impossible. Hours later he still could feel her touch, those moist pliant lips, the desperate clench of her inner muscles when she shuddered in climax.
The loss of control had been inexcusable and had to be addressed. He had avoided Dex, using the timely distraction of a possible Murk sighting, but he would not allow another loss of focus. As such, Stark figured this would be the perfect time for them both to deal with what had happened.
He didn't risk looking up the facts, not with Tactical monitoring all accessed data. All he had was the layman's term for that biological matchup of DNA: a bloodmate. An evolutionary twist for humans who extended their lifespan yet couldn't produce enough offspring to take their place.
Protocol dictated for him to report his findings to Central Research and submit a sample match of DNA. And when CR would insist on hauling him and Scott off Victory for further testing, everyone in the military would know that Galen Stark couldn't control his dick.
When he heard the soft, determined knock, he pushed away the sudden nerves and popped the hatch to let Zoya into his quarters. At least she had the balls to look him in the eye, her hands clasped tight in front of her, her red hair smoothed back into a braid as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't climaxed in his arms l
ess than two hours ago.
Desire tried to flare up again and was ruthlessly pushed down. He had to get it over with. Two stones with one fuck, as it were. “Again, I must apologize.”
“No need.” Her voice stayed calm, if a bit frigid.
Stark wondered what she would do if he pulled the clasp that bound her hair to let it spill over her shoulders and her back.
“We both know what is happening here. It's a perfect opportunity to get me off your ship.” Calm voice and distant eyes. Her skin was much paler than its usual gold tinge, a sickly cast that made Stark frown. “After a match is verified, you will claim inability to focus. I'll do the same.”
“You've given it some thought.” He saw the cold, sharp shield she had pulled around herself, but he couldn't see why she was angling to transfer. From what he understood, she had requested Victory specifically, and Pazlov found the strings to make sure she got here.
“Per protocol, we must report the DNA match to Central Research.” She sneered, a small curl of her upper lip. “I understood you always adhere to protocol.”
“You understood correctly.” He fought the urge to shake her out of that cold bubble. To counter it, Stark sat behind his comm unit, putting the width of it between his need and hers. “Our current situation takes priority.” He matched her tone in cool, stiff nonchalance. “Despite your background, you are an asset to this ship. With the current shortage of personnel, transferring a skilled pilot on account of hormones is shortsighted.” He thought he heard her snicker, but her gaze remained the same. Cold, empty amber. “May I speak frankly?”
Her hands clasped in front of her, and she gave him a cautious nod.
“What happened in the gym is our business.” He saw a slight flush tint her cheeks. “Protocol aside, my hormones—and yours—are not something I'm prepared to report on or discuss.” Central Research would insist on a long study, and neither of them could afford a leave at this point in the war.
That stubborn chin came up. “Your privacy concerns won't resolve this issue. If I may be equally frank?”
“Please do.” Under her shell of cold control, Stark got a sense of something vulnerable, something she desperately needed to keep hidden.
“As you asked earlier, I think of…it.” Those distant eyes dared him to request an elaboration. “I'm finding it difficult to sleep or focus, a direct impediment on the duties you asked me to perform. Frankly, sir, I don't have positive regard for you. So you can understand my wish to avoid this”—she groped for the right words—“this biological connection. I would prefer to transfer to another ship.”
She might as well have told him to go fuck himself.
“I appreciate your candor. This 'biological connection'”—he used his fingers to form quotes—“won't go away, and I am not ready to get rid of you until the rooks are up to speed in their training.” He offered her a hard, sharp smile. “We could allow the urge to run its course in a controlled and scheduled environment. Your personal regard for me did not appear to be an issue at the gym.”
The flush in her checks fascinated him, the color a direct contrast to the cool nonchalance of her expression.
She gave him a cold smile of her own. “I appreciate your offer, Commander. However, I prefer a bit of romance when I fuck.”
Chapter Four
He had no business thinking of a smart-ass pilot with an erotic mouth. Maybe he hadn't slept because of hot and sweaty dreams or hadn't been able to keep his mind and body from remembering that carnal moment at the gym, but he didn't have time for it, and he refused to let his hormones control Victory.
Stark grimaced as he drank thick and bitter tea to counter the lack of focus as he studied the large hologrid of the surrounding space. The rounded X shape of Victory floated closest to him, with the supply ship close at starboard, and the planetoid field a dusty shield between them and the Murks.
“I'd say they're gauging their time.” Dex, with his face paler than usual, studied the map on the other side of the grid. “Waiting for us to make a move to see how much bang we're packing.”
“I'd say you're right.” They'd calculated three possible locations, each marked with a faint outline of a snub-nosed oblong ship. “Tactical should've seen it go past the blockade.”
A thoughtful nod as Dex turned the map on the z-axis to study the hollow center between the scattered rocks. The scars over his brow seemed darker than usual.
“You aren't looking good.” He'd been so preoccupied with his own shit, he hadn't noticed Dex looking worn out.
To his surprise, the sub-commander didn't reply with a joke. “Haven't been sleeping much.”
“I can relate.”
The eyebrow that wasn't split by scars went up into an arch. “Now that's surprising.”
Years of friendship trumped protocol. “I could order your ass to stop overtaxing the inputs you stuck in your brain.”
“You could.” A somber nod. “Won't work, of course, but nice to know you care.”
His arms crossed, Stark took another sip of bitter tea and waited
Dex held his gaze for a long moment before shrugging. “I rerouted Victory's communications into my ocular.”
Stark bit back an oath. “You're that bored? Or you just feel like violating privacy protocols?”
“I haven't been able to sleep.” Calm, even, self-effacing voice. Except those dark eyes held a hint of desperation. “It's been over five years since…” His voice trailed off. Whatever happened five years ago, Dex never talked about. “Still eats at me.”
“So you fill up your brain with ship's communications.” He couldn't ask about what happened to make Dex shove that much tech into his body, but he could at least be concerned about the result. The strain was probably enormous, having that much data processed by a feeble human brain.
“It's too much to get individual conversations, if you're concerned about protocol.” A shrug that could've passed as a short shudder. “I'm focusing on output logs, see how much data I can process.”
“In case every comm backup shuts down?”
Dex simply shrugged.
“You can't sleep, so you fill your brain with shit to keep yourself from sleeping. Makes perfect sense.”
“We're talking sense?” Over the planetoids, Dex tilted his head and gave him a long, questioning stare.
His turn to shake his head. “It's nothing.” Stark hadn't known whether he should've laughed or beat his head into the wall when Zoya exited his quarters, her stubborn chin held up, her neat braid all but pointing at her buttocks.
He wondered if she'd contacted Pazlov to have him pull his strings, though Stark doubted the admiral could once again dictate something outside of his particular department. Intelligence and Tactical didn't exactly get along.
“Really.” Dex gave him a brief look.
“What do you know about bloodmates?” He hadn't meant to ask, yet when the question came out, he realized the word felt right over his tongue.
The change in Dex was subtle—a brief flash of pain and grief and rage. “Why do you…oh.” A pause followed by a swift, sad smile. “Shit.” He strung out the i like a long, meaningful whistle. “I've…” A short pause. “Central Research tried to duplicate it.” Already pale, Dex's skin was near white against the dark trio of diagonal scars. For all the tech he shoved into his body, he'd never allowed any sort of procedure to have those things removed.
There was more to the story. Frowning, Stark studied the man he'd known since childhood. They had grown up together, fought and played, competed at the academy. “Was CR successful?”
“No.” A lot of fierceness in that short statement. “You figure all that out in the gym?”
Heat licked at his skin with the memory of her shuddering in orgasm, her sex scorching and wet under his hand. “Let's say we both confirmed it there.”
“No shit.” Dex ran a hand over his cropped pale blond hair. “You've reported it?”
Now Stark could laugh. “Imagine
the general questioned by Central Research about my reproductive skills.”
“He'd have a field day.”
The map flashed red just as his comm implant signaled priority incoming. Dex rubbed a fingertip over his brow and winced. “Looks like you're too busy to report it now.”
Stark borrowed his friend's phrase. “No shit.”
Command post buzzed with shift changes and roll call. The central hologrid mapped Murk fighters approaching.
“Birds?” Stark swallowed a grim curse as he ran the numbers. At this point, stats ran one to two, and they still hadn't sighted all the enemy ships coming in.
“Sabres en route.” The comm chief, Alta Hahn, took her position by the trio of hologrids, the loose folds of her jumpsuit indicating she was probably roused from sleep. Despite the tired eyes, she kept her posture ramrod straight.
“Cannon fuel?”
Beside him, Dex moved virtual blocks on the gray supply grid. “We're got five straight shots, a good amount for snuffing theirs. I could squeeze out six if you don't ask me how.”
“Do it. Sabres.” He knew Zoya could hear him as she prepped for another fight and forced himself not to consider he was sending her into a potentially losing battle. “Alternate between fire and pursuit. Let's see where those motherfuckers feed from.”
“Understood.” Poll's voice, which in itself was a small blessing.
He refused to think about her flying into battle while he stayed relatively safe behind Victory's hull. “Engine plasma?”
Hahn spared him a nod. “All go.”
The birds were on the grid, five finger-four formations blinking toward the planetoids. The net of Murks remained steady and still. The grid tracked their last known energy sigs. No weapons yet.
The field of planetoids moved with unhurried speed, its trajectory the same as they'd originally mapped. Except Stark didn't remember a rock with that much mass on the outer perimeter.
No movement from the Murks. All comms stayed silent. Stark took cannon controls and debated briefly about wasting fuel on a guess without factual backup.
He didn't have time to be wrong about it. “Sabres, watch for friendly fire.”
