by Susan Grant
Zarra’s mouth twisted uncertainly. Gann shot an annoyed glance upward. “Is it my day to instruct the lad, Rom? Or am I mistaken?”
Rom held up both hands and sat back down. The combatants resumed their drill. This time Zarra missed Gann by a foot. Rom slapped his hands against his thighs. “Too early!”
Jas smothered a laugh.
“What is so amusing?”
“Men and sports. You’re all alike.”
“Is that so?” he asked dryly. “I’m delighted to know I’m no different to you from any other man.”
She hesitated for a heartbeat. “No, you are different.” Her cheeks colored. “Better.”
Disarmed by her honesty, Rom searched for a suitable reply and found none. Such openness was surely an enormous step for her, given the heartbreak of her severed marriage.
Below, Zarra peeled off his blindfold. Gann spoke to him in private, then patted the boy on the back. After collecting the equipment and packing it away, Zarra left for the hygiene showers next door. Gann threw a towel over one shoulder and climbed the stairs to where Jas and Rom were sitting. “The lad did well. I was beginning to question whether he’d inherited any of his father’s blood at all.”
“Zarra’s father is Vash Nadah,” Rom told Jas. “A distant B’kah relation. His mother was of the merchant class.”
Gann sat behind Jas. He unzipped his Bajha suit and tugged off his gloves. Then he brought his mouth close to her ear. “Why don’t you have Rom teach you how to play?”
“He’s going to.” She stretched her arms and arched her back with the sensual, restless grace of a ketta-cat. “A private lesson,” she practically purred.
Without missing a beat, Rom matched the seductiveness in her voice. “As private as they come.”
Gann’s head pivoted from Jas to Rom. He lifted a brow and eyed Rom with interest. “I shall leave you two to your match, then. But go easy on him, Jas,” he cautioned, grinning as he headed downstairs. “I fear he’s out of practice.”
As the doors slammed behind him, leaving the whitewalled, featureless arena silent but for the steady hiss of the air circulators, Jas smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “Whew. The last thing we needed was an audience.”
Rom’s grin became positively rakish. “Agreed.”
“No, I meant—” She stopped, laughing. “Well, I don’t disagree. But my point was that compared to me, Zarra is an expert. My ego might allow me to make a fool of myself in front of you, but not Gann. Or anyone else on the crew.”
“Bajha is different from the sports you may be used to. Don’t be concerned. I will show you what to do.” He took her hand and led her to the playing floor. He appeared taller and more powerful in the arena, and his body radiated heat like a furnace. “Besides,” he said, his grin twisting into an inscrutable smirk, “had you not gotten rid of Gann, I would have.”
They exchanged knowing glances.
She waved her hand at the somewhat intimidating array of gear taking up most of the shelf space on the wall behind Rom. “What do we do?”
“First we change. Dressing rooms are to your right.” He took a folded Bajha suit off the shelf, handed it to her, and she carried it into one of the snug curtained cubicles.
Inside, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She’d crossed an imaginary start line, where the game of Bajha was but the first lap. She was in Rom’s domain, his area of expertise—now and for the rest of the night.
Thrumming with anticipation and nerves, she lifted the one-piece white suit from its clear wrapper. It was stiff and coated with a protective, rubbery substance on the outside, but silky soft against her skin on the inside. A series of fastenings similar to Velcro ran from each ankle to the neck. By the time she closed them all she was perspiring. “Think adventure,” she said under her breath, and pushed aside the curtain. Rolling her shoulders back, she strode into the arena in her stocking feet.
Rom was already dressed, and when he glimpsed her black woolen socks decorated with fluffy white sheep, he choked out a laugh.
“What?” She wriggled her toes.
“You choose to adorn yourself with…farm animals?” His eyes gleamed with mirth.
She stood proudly. “Sheep, we call them on Earth.”
“Do all Earth women wear such”—he waved one hand at her feet—“foot coverings?”
She baited him. “When they’re not wearing ones with little hearts or ducks or happy faces.”
“Happy faces,” he repeated flatly. Then he blinked, bringing himself back to the task at hand. “You’ll need these.” He stooped to reach for a pair of boots on the floor. His Bajha suit faithfully followed the outline of his thighs and the tight curve of his buttocks. “Try these on while I ready the equipment.”
Her flexible white boots were as comfortable as slippers. She stood on her toes and stomped a couple of times. “If it’s dark we won’t see each other. But with these on, we won’t be able to hear each other, either.”
“Ah, but we will. Though not with our ears and eyes.”
Doubtful, she asked, “With our neurons, right?”
“I’ll explain.” With reverence, he unpacked two blunttipped, roundish swords, handing her one. It was roughly the same size and weight as an aluminum baseball bat. Assaulted by images of Little League practice, she tapped it gingerly against the floor, causing the green glow emanating from within to pulse like a heartbeat.
“It’s called a sens-sword.” Rom reached around her from behind, curving his tall frame around her. “Hold it with two hands.”
She aimed the weapon away from her body. Placing his hands over hers, he gripped the base with her, moving it slowly from side to side. It was hard to concentrate with his breath caressing her ear and her bottom nestled against his abdomen. His physical closeness aroused her immediately. She recalled his last kiss, and craved the feel of his mouth on hers.
“That’s it, Jas. Good. Now we will talk about the senses you were born with, but have never fully used.” He continued, unaware that his words had temporarily tamped down her urge to turn in his arms for a kiss. “Certain neurons act as sensors for different parts of your body. Some are activated by movement. Others through touch. When an object is placed near that part of the body, the neuron responsible for that alert flicks on.” He tightened his hands around hers. “Once trained, your body does not forget.” His voice became softer, more intimate. “This is how we locate our lover’s mouth in the dark. Did you know that?”
Speech eluded her. She shook her head. By accident or design, his whisker-roughened cheek brushed over hers. “The neurons remember. Then the sensors associated with your lips guide your mouth to the kiss.”
That was all her neurons needed to hear. They went wild. They screamed and danced in circles. Kiss him, you idiot! Kiss him now!
But she paused, and, all business again, Rom backed away. Disgusted with her cowardice, her neurons howled and fell to their imaginary little knees.
“In this way, we will sense each other’s presence in Bajha. You will find, at first, that you’ll have to stop often to listen to what your body is telling you. But you’ll learn. Someday these instincts will come to you as easily as walking or reading. Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes,” she said as confidently as she could.
He circled her. She remained rooted in place, her clublike sword clutched in hands that were getting more moist by the minute. Then he disappeared behind her. Her stomach quivered.
“Are you afraid, Jas?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“Good. You mustn’t be,” he said. “Our code instructs warriors to be cautious, not fearful.” He stopped, facing her, his sens-sword held in his two large fists. “Say that. It will help you. ‘I will be cautious, not fearful.’”
“I will be cautious, not fearful.” Damn, but her heartbeat accelerated when he moved behind her again.
“Lights,” he said, and absolute darkness swallowed them both.
Chapter Ten
Jas’s hands clamped convulsively around the sens-sword, her lifeline in the most complete darkness she’d ever known. Deprived of sight, she was acutely aware of her body. Optical fireworks danced before her wideopen eyes. She heard and felt the blood coursing through her veins.
“Raise your sword,” Rom said in a quiet, even tone.
She lifted the weapon into the blackness, concentrating on his footsteps. Were they getting closer or farther away? She couldn’t tell. And why did the sword cast no illumination in the dark? She had no time to wonder.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
I want to.
“Good,” he whispered in answer to her silence.
“How did you—”
“Not mind reading, Jas. Intuition. Instinct.”
More footsteps. She bit back her moan of alarm. It was dark. And painfully quiet. She was clothed from head to toe in a protective suit. Yet, she felt naked. Vulnerable.
“Now we will play.”
Rom’s voice carried from across the arena, disorienting her.
She whirled to face the direction from where his voice had come. Or from where she’d thought it had come. Waving the sens-sword in front of her, testing its weight, she tried to see into the wall of black, tried to hear above the thundering of her heart. Then she felt it: a breeze, the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. She gasped as the tip of Rom’s sens-sword dragged across her lower back, leaving behind a mild pins-and-needles sensation. “That hurt,” she blurted indignantly.
“It shouldn’t have.” Rom sounded defensive and somewhat worried. “My sens-sword is tuned to the lowest setting.”
“It didn’t hurt my back.” She swung her sens-sword in the direction of his voice, heard him step out of the way. “It hurt my pride!”
He chuckled.
She bolted toward the sound. She’d get him now.
Her sens-sword jammed into something solid and slightly giving. A vibration shuddered up the weapon to her arm and into her chest an instant before she slammed into one of the padded walls. “Damn.”
“Never act purely out of emotion,” soothed Rom’s deep voice from the far side of the arena. “Use your senses. Trust them. For they will bring you to me.”
He’s coming toward you, warned her inner voice.
She arched away. Rom stumbled past, and she cried out in delight.
“Excellent! However, triumph often leads to complacency.”
To prove his point he tapped her on both kneecaps with his sens-sword. She briefly saw a green glow before a shower of hot tingles suffused her knees and calves. “Hey, you turned up the level.”
He laughed at her accusation. “You’re catching on too quickly. I had to raise the stakes.”
“Thanks a lot. What’s my sens-sword tuned to, by the way?”
“Seventy-five percent of maximum.”
“Won’t that hurt you?” she asked worriedly.
“A lingering sting,” he replied, this time from well behind her. “Nothing more.”
“Good. Prepare to feel that seventy-five percent in places you’d rather not.”
She heard his bark of laughter—from the right. Sword extended, she spun slowly, around and around, reaching deep within her, tapping into a reservoir of what she sensed had always been there.
It came in a rush: the essence of Rom’s generous and wounded heart.
My soul mate.
She sought him with her weapon, reaching instinctively, symbolically, for the love she’d always longed for but had never found.
He inhaled sharply. Her blunt sword skimmed along the fabric of his suit, but did not contact hard enough to signal a hit. She felt his surprise in her very bones. “Almost got you, Rom!” She laughed with the joy of it.
“Enjoying yourself?”
She lunged. “Very much.”
His sens-sword slapped against the back of her thighs.
“Not so much.” She winced at the brief pinpricks. “You’ll pay for that.”
“We shall see,” he replied playfully.
Use your senses.
She paused…listening.
But not with her ears.
Saw…
But not with her eyes.
Hunting him in the darkness, she resumed the exhilarating and oddly arousing game of cat and mouse. Once more she grazed him, barely, only to receive a punishing whack in return on her bottom. She sucked in a breath and lowered her sens-sword. Tingling heat lingered between her legs. Suddenly the game lost its appeal; she hungered for Rom’s touch, not that of a dispassionate, cybernetic weapon.
Setting her sens-sword on the floor, she slowed her breathing and stood still. If neurons could remember, then maybe hers could remember Rom’s kisses. She certainly hadn’t forgotten. She’d never been kissed the way he kissed her. It was more than his consummate skill; it was his tenderness, the intense passion she sensed he fought so hard to control, and his obvious enjoyment of the act itself.
She willed her lips to remember it all, and for his to remember hers. Then, with all the yearning in her soul, she willed him to want her as much as she wanted him.
She waited…
Concentrated harder.
And waited…
Her lips tingled. Then she caught his scent, as if she were an animal in a primeval forest. Her nostrils flared.
So close now…
There. His lips, warm and smooth, brushed over hers. She let out the tiniest of sighs, magnified in the pounding silence.
He lingered, teased, sipped.
Arms limp at her sides, she opened her mouth in blatant invitation. Without touching her in any other way, he covered her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, passionately, the sensation of moist, searching heat powerfully erotic in the hushed darkness. She made a needy groan into his mouth. Anchored in nothingness by the kiss, wanting more, much more, she flung her arms over his shoulders.
He splayed one hand behind her head, crushing her to him. Her hands twisted in the fabric at his collar, teasing the ends of his hair, which was damp with perspiration. Pulling away, she dragged breathless, openmouthed kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt on his skin, wanting to devour him.
“Jasmine, wait,” she heard him say as if from miles away.
She was beyond language, beyond reason. With the tip of her tongue, she explored the precisely cut, silky hair by his ear. “Rom—oh, Rom.” She worked her way from his ear to his beard-roughened chin, then suckled his tender lower lip.
He mumbled something and squeezed her shoulders, gently moving her back. “Lights,” he said.
She blinked, as much from the sudden brightness as the disorientation of her arousal. Then she lowered her forehead to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Great Mother, don’t be. I certainly am not. But our privacy is not guaranteed here.” He hesitated, tilting her head back, his thumb under her chin. “Privacy is what we want, isn’t it?” His eyes had darkened with desire to the color of rich sherry. In their depths she saw a question far beyond the mere issue of being alone.
“Yes,” she said on a sharp breath. “Privacy.” And more.
She longed to feel like a real woman again.
His gaze was oddly perceptive, as if he could read her thoughts. If only he could, then tonight might be so much easier. Tightening her arms around his waist, she played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He arched into her kneading fingers ever so slightly, then seemed to catch himself. Pressing his hand to the small of her back, he steered her toward the dressing room. “I’ll wait for you in my quarters.”
“I’d like to shower first.” Plucking at her damp Bajha suit, she felt her playfulness return. “How about it, Captain? My second of the day.”
“Permission granted,” he murmured, and settled his mouth over hers.
“It’s me,” Jas called to the tiny viewscreen above the entrance to Rom’s quarters. The doors parted and she walked inside. Already the room was aglow a
nd scented. Music played, barely audible, but loud enough to add to the atmosphere. Rom B’kah was a master at setting the stage for seduction. But then, unlike her, he’d had plenty of practice.
“Greetings, Jasmine.” He crossed the room to meet her. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he’d combed it away from his face. His white shirt, glowing with a pearl-like iridescence, was tucked into a pair of snug buff-colored trousers, half-hidden by soft knee-high boots. His overt confidence and precisely groomed appearance made her stomach clench all over again. Girl, you’re out of your league.
His appreciative gaze skimmed over her conservative floral skirt and lavender sweater, halting at the two bottles of Red Rocket Ale she clutched in her hands. “Since you introduced me to star-berry liqueur, tonight I thought I’d introduce you to my favorite drink.”
He took the bottles and squinted at the label. “An Earth beverage?”
“Yes. Beer. My friend Dan Brady’s Red Rocket Ale.”
He peered at the lids. “Interesting. How are they opened?”
She dangled a bottle opener from one finger. “First get them as cold as you can without freezing them.”
Rom opened the door to a small rectangular compartment in the wall, then punched a code into the adjacent control panel. The chiller hummed on. Seconds later he removed the frosty bottles and carried them to the triangular dinner table, where he had arranged a simple meal of cold meat, flat bread, salt, and two different kinds of preserved fruit. She tucked her legs under her and arranged some pillows behind her back. Crouched by her side, he watched her pry the lids off the bottles, staring at the five-dollar opener in her hand as if it were a wondrous and exotic marvel of technology. She chuckled at his boyish curiosity and placed a bottle in his hand. Vapor floated upward along with the tangy scent of ale. “Go on, try it.”
His tone was pointedly suggestive. “Take your pleasure first,” he said. “I’ll watch you.”
Her heart did a little flip. She sipped, trying hard not to look at his mouth. The single swallow of cold, crisp beer did nothing to cool her desire. He must have heard her overheated neurons rattling their cages, because he leaned closer and pressed his lips to the side of her throat. Shutting her eyes, she breathed in his exotic and distinctly male scent, while her hands rode the flexing of the muscles in his iron-hard thighs. When she lifted her chin and offered him the arch of her neck, he caressed her with his hot breath, nuzzling his way lower. She hunched her shoulders and shivered.
