by Zoe York
Marat slapped the controls, hoping to wash to her satisfaction as quickly as possible. Water sprayed down on him, and he grabbed a washcloth to scrub his pits.
For a moment, she watched him as she leaned her hip against the sink, the sponge held in one hand. Then she said, “You’re not doing it right.”
“What?”
“Too fast, not enough foam.” She stepped toward him, her hips swaying, her pert breasts jiggling, the dragon tattoo wrapping around her calf seeming to shimmy as she moved.
Water ran into his wide, staring eyes, but he barely noticed. He couldn’t have torn his gaze from her if acid had been dripping from the shower head.
She, too, was staring at him, her lips slightly parted. He hoped she liked everything she saw as much as he relished what he saw. Never taking her gaze from him, Ying found some liquid soap and squeezed it into the sponge. Water splashed off him and sprayed her shoulders and breasts, the fine droplets gleaming on her bronze skin. She applied the sponge to his chest, following the contours of his pectoral muscles. Her other hand slid up to his shoulder and down his arm. His nipples hardened as the texture of the sponge rasped across them.
She was close enough that her thigh nudged his erection, close enough that he couldn’t have kept from touching her if he had wanted to. As she washed him with the sponge, leaving trails of fire everywhere it roamed, he grasped her hips with his hands and lowered his head. He nibbled her earlobe, teasing it playfully before dropping his lips to her neck, the taste of her mingling with the water droplets running down her throat.
Ying leaned into him, her hard nipples pressing against his chest. He wanted to taste them, to cup her breasts with his hands, but he clunked his elbow on the wall when he tried. As she had pointed out, the shower wasn’t very big.
“Do I smell better yet?” he asked.
“Yes.” She slid the sponge down to his crotch, the material slightly rough as it whispered over his damp skin. His body throbbed in response at the delicious sensation. “I’m just not sure I can stop touching you,” she added, kissing the length of his jaw, then finding his lips. She crushed them with her own, hungry and demanding.
He found himself panting, his body trembling. He drove his tongue into her mouth, tangling with hers, needing to be inside of her. The sponge felt so exquisite as it scraped against his flesh that he was already on the edge. He wanted to come inside of her, though, not in her hand.
Ying broke the kiss, almost shaking as she pulled back. Her chest was heaving, too, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. “My turn.” She smiled and pressed the sponge into his hand.
Though disappointed that she had stopped, the idea of exploring her flesh soon drove that feeling away. They shifted, hips brushing, until she stood in the water’s flow, her back to the shower wall. Finally he had access to her perfect breasts. He cupped one, stroking his thumb across her tight nipple as he rubbed the other gently with the sponge. Steam filled the air, obscuring the view, but he saw enough and drank her in with his eyes until he couldn’t resist the urge to taste her any longer. He brought his lips to her nipple, hardly caring that water sprayed the side of his head. He slid his tongue around her areola, then drew her into his mouth.
She groaned and arched toward him. He ran the sponge down her flat belly to her dark curls, then traded it for a soft washcloth. He slid it between her legs, feeling her heat through the material. She gasped and gripped his damp shoulders with her hands, fingernails digging in, the sensation sending a fresh surge of desire through him. He wanted to claim her right there, to back her into the corner and take her under the water’s flow, but all that she had gone through flashed into his mind then, and a wave of tenderness swept through him, subduing his lust. No, he didn’t want to leap onto her like an animal. He wanted to make sure she enjoyed this, enjoyed him. If Fate somehow allowed them to stay together on the ship, he wanted her to want him every night, and only him. He growled as he thought of all of the other men in the company, men who would be competition if she stayed aboard. For more reasons than one, he would make this wonderful for her.
“Marat,” Ying groaned, almost climbing onto him. Even as he’d been thinking of wanting to pleasure her, he’d kept stroking her back and forth with the washcloth, slipping it between her folds, gently teasing her most sensitive parts. And she was panting as she spoke, grinding against his hand. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her teeth scraping his throat, then finding his ear. “Faster,” she panted. “Please.”
He obeyed. Knowing that area was sensitive, he kept his touch light, but he stroked her more quickly, with more intensity, guiding the washcloth with his fingers. She squirmed against him, almost thrashing, and his hips twitched toward her. Again he had to sublimate that urge to take her with more than his hand. Finally, she tensed, then released, great shudders taking her body. Ying’s fingers curled into his short hair, and she rested her face against his throat. He kept his body still, stroking her back, though he still ached for a release of his own.
A beep came from the control panel, informing Marat that they had used their allotted water supply. He snorted, hit the body dryer, and gathered Ying in his arms.
“Are we clean enough for the bed now?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her fingers still twined in his hair, she raised her head to look him in the eyes as he carried her out. “You’re a good man, Marat.”
He made a face. The captain certainly wouldn’t think so, not now.
His expression only made her smile. She shifted her hand to the side of his face, her thumb rubbing the stubble on his chin. He should have shaved while they had been in there, but he had been slightly distracted.
“I’ve never been with a good man before,” Ying said.
He didn’t feel all that good, especially when he kept imagining parting her legs and sinking into her to sate himself, so he only offered a noncommittal “Hm” as he strode across the room, enjoying the feel of her in his arms.
When he laid her on his bed, he was relieved when she pulled him down with her.
“If I’d known mercenaries were different from pirates, I might have applied to join years ago.” She smiled and ran her hand over his chest, letting her fingers trail down his abdomen.
His groin tightened. He resisted the urge to push her hand lower, and the even greater urge to roll atop her. Instead, he propped himself on one elbow, enjoying the display of her body stretched out beside his, and lowered his mouth to her breast.
“How are we different?” he murmured, tasting her clean, warm skin.
“Much more fit.” While she let one hand descend lower, brushing the top of his groin, she slid the other over the swell of his shoulder. “And sweet.”
“Please don’t tell the other men you think I’m sweet.” Marat cupped her other breast with his hand while he lifted his mouth to kiss his way up her chest to the hollow of her throat. “Or good. Unless it’s describing prowess with a weapon. Or in bed. Otherwise, they’ll have another reason to kick me out of the outfit.” He kissed his way to her lips, pausing when her exploring hand found his shaft. He swallowed. “Ying, I need you.”
“Good.” She pulled him down for another kiss as she guided him atop her. “I want to see this prowess.”
• • • • •
Ying expected Marat to thrust into her immediately, to take his own pleasure. He’d been ready for that before they’d removed any clothing, so waiting must have been torture, but even when she invited him to do so, he did not rush. He stroked her hair as he kissed her, treating her like a treasure, as no one ever had. Who else would have stormed a dangerous pirate ship for her? Charged into the captain’s quarters to rescue her? Tried to save her from a life of slavery before he had even known her? The emotions welling inside of her were such a jumble that she couldn’t have explained them if she had tried. Desire and lust, she had known those before, but the tenderness she felt toward him, the raw satisfaction of knowing he cared for her... If it wasn’t love, s
he could see it becoming that. Already the thought of being parted from him, of not seeing him again, made her grip his shoulders tightly, determined to keep him close.
He couldn’t have known her thoughts, but her grip must have excited him. His kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, and she could feel his hard chest brushing her sensitive nipples, his muscles almost trembling from the effort of holding back. She pushed her fingers through his soft hair, clasping the back of his head and meeting his kisses with equal fervor. Didn’t he know he didn’t need to hold back? She had been ready for him since they first walked into the cabin—actually, she had been fantasizing about grabbing his ass and climbing onto him even during the brief shuttle ride that had taken them to his ship. Only the press of all of the other mercenaries, all looking at her with curious eyes, had convinced her to keep her hands to herself. And then Marat had been so glum when he’d slumped down on his bunk, she had worried she wouldn’t be able to convince him to relax and have some fun with her.
As he kissed her, his straining shaft rubbed against her lower lips, almost teasing her with the promise of more. Streaks of heat coursed through her nerves with each brush of her clitoris, and she found herself groaning into his mouth, her growing need flushing her entire being. He lowered his hand, circling her with his thumb, finding her wet and ready. His sure touch made her eyes cross and her body writhe. She had enjoyed the roughness of the washcloth in the shower, but having him stroking her most intimate areas with nothing between them had her shuddering with longing. She arched toward him, spreading her knees, inviting him to slide into her.
“Marat,” she whispered. “If you don’t take me now...” His deft fingers sent jolts of desire through her, making her gasp, making her half forget her words. “I’m going to roll you over and... show you who’s in charge.”
Without taking his lips from hers, he murmured, “Oh?”
“Yeah, and it’s not your thugly captain.”
“Good.” He sounded as breathless as she, with sweat gleaming on his torso.
Just in case he had a notion of delaying any longer, she hooked one leg over his shoulder, nudging his swollen head with her aching core, shifting up toward him.
He growled again, his eyes intense and burning with desire as he gazed into hers. Whatever he sought in her gaze, he seemed to find it, because he no longer held back. He eased into her, his thickness making her gasp, but she grabbed him with both hands, and pulled him deeper before he could think of pausing or asking if she was all right. She was more than all right, and she shuddered with pleasure as he filled her. Then he started moving, and the pleasure quickly escalated to something she couldn’t name, something she could only moan. He lowered his face to her throat, alternating between nuzzling her and nipping at her as he thrust deeper. His thumb found her clitoris again, even as he kept diving into her, his need building. Sensation seemed to explode from every corner of her body, and she dropped her hands, gripping the sheets, unable to think about anything except meeting his now-frenzied thrusts with her own eager demands.
She came before he did, a final touch from his thumb sending a flood of energy through her, followed by tremors of exquisite satisfaction. He stiffened and came on the heels of her climax, calling her name as he poured himself into her.
Ying lowered her legs—every muscle felt like liquid, wanting to melt into a pool on the bed—and draped her arms across his back. She guided him down so that his weight rested on her, wanting to know he wasn’t going anywhere. She kissed him on the neck, because she also wanted him to know that she wasn’t going anywhere. Not as long as he wanted her here. It might be too early to make promises of the long-term out loud, but after the story he had shared of his wife leaving him, she wanted him to know she did not mean this to be some fleeting tryst. With his future up in the air, he must wonder if he would have her—have anything—tomorrow.
She ran one hand up the muscles of his back, along his neck, and into his hair. She rubbed his scalp with her fingertips and relished in his contented sigh. “I want to stay with you, Marat,” she murmured. “Whatever happens tomorrow.”
He lifted his head enough to look at her face. Before, his gaze had been intense and hungry; now it was back to regarding her with warmth and appreciation, as if she were someone precious and not simply a homeless pirate with no family and no future. “I want you to stay with me, too,” he said and kissed her.
She returned his kiss and many more. She didn’t know what the following days would bring, but as long as the nights brought this, she would be content.
— EPILOGUE —
Ying followed Marat through the gunmetal gray corridors of the Mandrake Company ship, resisting the urge to hold his hand. Or smile. Even if Wolf’s death had left her feeling satisfied, and her interlude with Marat had her feeling downright cheerful, he was still in trouble. She intended to stand up for him if his captain proved unfair. Maybe it wouldn’t mean much to some mercenary leader, but she would do it anyway. Her father would have shot a man who had disobeyed orders, especially if the choice had put his ship at risk. If this Captain Mandrake was thinking anything of the sort, she meant to disabuse him of the notion, one way or another.
Fortunately, she no longer wore the sickbay gown. It would have been hard to disabuse anyone of anything in that. Early that morning, Marat had gone on a clothing scavenging mission for her and had collected donations from the handful of women on the ship. One borrowed outfit would have been fine, but Ying must not be the only one who considered Marat sweet and appealing, because he had come back with his arms full. She now wore a pair of slacks that were only slightly too roomy in the hips and a thin sweater that covered her tattoos—probably a good idea for an official meeting with the captain.
Marat led the way into a briefing room with a large, old wooden table taking up most of the space, a surprising contrast from the textured metal and drab gray of the rest of the ship. A single man waited inside the room, standing near the portholes rather than sitting at the table. It was Ying’s first time seeing Captain Mandrake outside of combat armor. He wore a black short-sleeve T-shirt that accented brawny arms and broad shoulders that appeared capable of snapping men in half. He wasn’t as old as she would have guessed from his gruff, humorless commands, but he did have some flecks of gray at the temples, and nothing about him left her doubting that he was in charge.
“Sir,” Marat said, coming to a Fleet-style parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back.
Ying leaned against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. When Mandrake glanced at her, she stared back at him, her chin up, her expression unyielding.
“Four weeks of double shifts, Azarov,” Mandrake said, “and in your free time, you’ll help Striker clean all of the weapons and armor on the ship.”
“Sir?” Marat looked like he wanted to scratch his head, but he kept his hands behind his back.
“You have a problem, Sergeant?” Mandrake’s tone said he had better not.
“No, sir. I just thought you might kick me out.”
“Nobody gets out of my outfit that easily. You’ve got twenty months left on your contract.”
“I... Yes, sir.”
“But if you disobey my orders again, I’ll shoot you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Uhm, out of curiosity, will you be keeping the ship? Or selling it?” Marat glanced at Ying. “Since she killed Wolf, she should get at least part of the spoils.”
“Selling it,” Mandrake said. “I have no interest in becoming a fleet admiral. The spoils will be split fairly. Dismissed.”
Marat looked at Ying. “Uh, both of us, sir? Or...?”
“You.”
“Oh.” Marat frowned and opened his mouth.
Ying waved for him to leave. She doubted she had anything to fear from the captain, no matter how gruff he seemed. She might never have been a soldier, but even she knew he was getting off light for what he had pulled.
Marat closed his mouth. She thought he would marc
h straight out, but he did pause to clasp her hand before leaving. Even if she didn’t consider herself the type to need comfort or condolences—at least not often—she appreciated the gesture. The warmth of his strong, callused palm made her think of their night together, and her cheeks flushed at the memory. It was too bad he would be busy with all of these double shifts. Not that she knew how long she would be allowed to stay on board. Hadn’t Striker said something about only crew being allowed? No wives or girlfriends? Marat had implied there was a cook’s position that she might apply for, but would Mandrake offer her a job if he knew her past? He might not believe someone with a history of poisoning people through her food would make a desirable cook for the ship.
The door slid shut, leaving Ying alone with the captain. His expression hadn’t changed, though he couldn’t have missed the handclasp, even from the other side of that massive table.
“Bryony Brooksmouth?” Mandrake asked.
Ying shifted uncomfortably, remembering she had given Marat her birth name to share with the captain. “Not for a long time.”
He nodded. “Understood.” His voice and demeanor were different than they had been with Marat. Not gentle, exactly, but less intense. “I’ve never had a cook for the ship before, but I’ve been informed it would be good for morale. I agreed to it if we could find someone with combat experience.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I was never professionally trained as a soldier, if that’s what you’re asking, but someone comes in my kitchen and has a problem with my food, I have no trouble killing him.”
Mandrake gazed blandly at her, perhaps not certain what to make of the comment. Maybe he wanted a more straightforward answer as to her qualifications.
“I can pilot a shuttle in a pinch, make up poisons for assassination missions, and I’m proficient with a number of pistols,” Ying said.
