Love Partner

by Robie Madison

  “In the lab. I’ll take you there now if you like.”

  At the mention of the Speedlite’s lab, the tension inside her broke and she laughed.

  “You cheater,” she cried. “You told me I shouldn’t be wearing my jumpsuit because I wasn’t going the lab. But I am.”

  Judan shrugged. “That outfit of yours is still ugly.”

  “Then maybe I should change into something more comfortable,” she offered, her hands reaching up to open the snaps on the suit.

  His fingers moved restlessly against his sides until he forcibly halted their movement by clenching his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. Yet his eyes continued to track her every move as first one, then two, then three snaps came free. With a gruff sound he swung away from her.

  “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Chapter Four

  Judan didn’t activate the comlink until he reached the end of the corridor. There was one three paces outside the guest suite, but he’d forced himself to put some necessary distance between himself and the pale-faced temptation he’d left inside.

  “How long until our first jump?” he asked without preamble.

  While he’d been coaxing Myrina deeper inside the ship, his small crew had, at a prearranged signal, started the launch sequence. By now they should have decoupled from the TLC docking port and left the planet’s gravity to await permission to leave the Confederacy’s restricted airspace.

  “We’ve received permission to power the propulsion system to FTL2 for the first jump, Captain.” The voice of his navigator, Hylla, reverberated along the walls of the corridor.

  “Fine,” he said with a sense of relief.

  Usually, ships weren’t allowed to leave Confederacy space above a faster-than-light configuration of one, which was barely enough power to wrap space-time beyond a ten planet solar system. His ship, a sleek, tubular craft, was the most sophisticated FTL Speedlite model available. When the Ketiga Bulan powered up to full FTL capacity, panels unfurled along the slimmer outer edge and shutters slid over the bulge in the center of the hull, encasing the ship in a protective metallic shield. Right now, with clearance for an FTL2 jump, they’d move directly into free-space. This would enable them to power up to full FTL4 capacity in less time for their next series of space-time jumps.

  “I’m awaiting priority status clearance,” Hylla confirmed.

  “Excellent,” he said. Despite the fact the ink wasn’t yet dry on the treaty between Dakokata and the Confederacy, the Council hadn’t hesitated in expediting the Ketiga Bulan’s departure.

  “What’s the latest from Hitani?” he then asked, knowing his Second-in-Command, Chiara, who for this trip doubled as the communications officer, would also be on the bridge, listening.

  “I received a short-power-burst communiqué from the Outposters’ base just before we left the docking port, Captain,” Chiara reported. As usual her voice carried little inflection, so he couldn’t guess whether the content of the message was positive or negative.

  A competent woman, Chiara was a stickler for protocol. She’d now served as Second-in-Command on the Speedlite for three years and Judan depended on her good sense to keep the ship running efficiently. In return, Chiara had learned to accept some of Judan’s more unorthodox approaches to mission operations.

  “The situation on Hitani remains unchanged. The status code remains critical,” she reported.

  “Thanks,” Judan said. At this point, no change was better than the alternative, another dead Outposter. “I’ll be up as soon as I’ve escorted Dr. deCarte to the lab.”

  Shutting off the comlink before either Chiara or Hylla could question him, he strode back down the hall. All he’d succeeded in doing was postponing the inevitable. Yet a part of him welcomed any excuse to keep Myrina to himself for just a little longer, even if a door—and what little common sense he still possessed—stood between them.

  Back in front of the guest suite he rested a hand on the door. He wanted nothing more than to go in and…what? A sense of elation rippled through him at the thought of seeing her. Stepping away from the door, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  His mission was a desperate one. Already one man was dead and the lives of the other seventy-seven Outposters now depended on the success of his plan. He’d been coping with a potent mixture of grief and tension in which this sense of excitement by rights had no part. And yet, when he faced the truth of his feelings, a definite state of euphoria beat a rhythm in tune with his heart.

  At the age of thirty-three, Judan Ringa was experiencing Rakanasmara. And, he was certain, Rakanasmara had come to Myrina deCarte as well. A human female who should have been biologically incompatible as a mate.

  And yet the signs were unmistakable, despite the lack of a reasoned explanation. When he’d returned to his ship yesterday, he’d accessed the archives, searching the ancestral data for some bit of history that would confirm the impossible. He’d found nothing, but Chiara had guessed the truth and the news had spread through the crew like white summer smoke. He’d have to wait until he returned to the capital to visit a more extensive archival collection. Nevertheless, he knew, Dr. Myrina deCarte was his.

  Opening his eyes, he pulled aside the fabric of his shirt and dipped his hand beneath the folds, where his fingers grazed the scars that marred his left pectoral. It wasn’t the puckered lines he cared about, but the faint traces of her imprint on his skin. Her touch yesterday had threatened his sense of control.

  Liar. You’ve never had any control as far as she’s concerned.

  It was true. Last night he’d been overwhelmed by Myrina’s scent. Despite pinning her hands so she couldn’t touch him again, despite his own focus on her pleasure, he’d fought every moment he’d been with her for control over himself.

  Humans, he’d once read somewhere, described themselves as hairless. An erroneous myth he’d happily disproved the previous evening. The sensitive pads of his fingers and his ultra-responsive palms had delighted in the fact that every millimeter of Myrina’s skin was covered with superfine hairs. A shudder of desire racked his body at the memory and he adjusted his position against the wall. Even now his fingers itched to weave themselves into the short strands of her brown hair, as soft as any Tigalian silk. But the immense pleasure he’d derived from touching her was only half the potent mix that stirred his blood and kept his cock harder than the trunk of the alam tree.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was that he’d also have to subdue her. Or that doing so would only inflame him further, bringing him greater pleasure. Her fierce warrior nature intrigued him. Made him want both to fight her and tame her at the same time, a paradox that made no sense, yet the fantasy of doing just that ignited his desire and threatened to cloud his brain altogether.

  He glanced at the door. Except it wasn’t the door that obsessed him, it was the woman behind it. His sleep, at least what little he’d had early this morning, had been haunted by the sound of her voice, urgently pleading with him to free her hands. No woman had ever challenged him like that, so determined to keep her autonomy while demanding his own surrender as he pleasured her.

  A thin layer of perspiration covered his already hot skin. Judan stared down at his hands. They trembled slightly, the way they had the day before, in the garden. In the confines of his leggings his cock throbbed with an intensity greater than the one he’d experienced as a young man suffering through the plague of sex dreams.

  For a year he’d endured the teasing of his older brother and the embarrassment of stained sheets. Eventually he’d been driven from his bed to the privacy of the forest. But the sex dreams had been little more than the awkwardness of an undisciplined boy heading into manhood. For the next fifteen years he’d kept a tight rein on his physical needs, taking what he needed but never again letting his cock have control. Until yesterday afternoon in Fenton deMorriss’ office when he’d met Myrina.

  Later that night, his own defenses had been powerless against her. He
r scent, the taste of her and texture of her skin had overwhelmed him. In truth, he hadn’t much wanted to resist her. The need for his own release had consumed him as much as his desire to satisfy her.

  Will it be this uncontrollable—this all-consuming—every time we come together?

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking and then sensing the kernel of sexual energy that sat at the base of his genitals. A white-hot flame licked its way up inside his body. Now that he’d found his life partner, the only way he could harness his growing desire was through the mating. He would have to be very careful the next time he touched her or he would have her backed against another wall, the Rakanasmara initiation ceremonies completed before the day was done.

  Despite the fact that he’d always known what would happen, at least in theory, he hadn’t expected Rakanasmara to be this intense. Nor had he expected to want a woman the way he wanted Myrina.

  He settled down on his haunches, his back still against the wall. Since the age of three or four, he’d accompanied his father most evenings up a hill behind their house and they’d sat, hunched like this, discussing life. Even after he’d grown older and left home, he’d still made the time, whenever he could, to visit his father and talk on their hill. Now that his father was gone, only the hill and his memories remained.

  “Do you see, Judan, how the Hunter’s patience has been rewarded?” his father had asked, gazing at a quartet of bright stars in the sky. “For five months the Hunter has chased his quarry across the sky and now he is ready to make his capture.”

  Judan, twelve at the time, wasn’t impressed. He didn’t really see a Hunter or his prey in the sky, just a bunch of stars. But, for his father’s sake, he’d pretended an interest in seeing for the first time in his life, the Year of the Hunter. Every evening for the last five months he’d trudged up the hillside with his father to watch the progress of the celestial phenomenon that occurred every twelve years. While they watched, his father had told him stories of the mythical sky hunter.

  “And so,” his father had continued, ignoring Judan’s silence. “Tonight concludes the Legend of the Hunter. What do you see in the stars?”

  Startled, Judan looked first at his father and then at the sky. He knew better than to mumble just any answer. Either a man had something to say, or he kept silent.

  “It is up to you to decipher the true meaning for yourself, Judan,” his father had said when the silence between them stretched as far as the night sky. “I have found the answers that satisfy me. Whatever you decide, your actions from this day forth will influence your life.”

  Judan blinked at the blank, tan-colored wall in front of him and shrugged the memory away. But his father’s question still lingered between them. He hadn’t been able to answer it all those years ago. He glanced at the door and wondered how far his actions in the Grove of the Three Sisters really had determined events.

  I have my answer, Bapa. I am the one who’s been searching like the Sky Hunter all these years. I am the Hunter and I want her, Bapa.

  The irony was, wanting Myrina wasn’t enough. His genetic bond was with a human woman who didn’t know the first thing about Rakanasmara or Dakokatan traditions. And, after their awkward discussion last evening over the word “affair”, he was convinced any explanation about the initiation ceremonies, which would make Myrina his life partner, would be met with skepticism. His gut knotted at the thought that she might consider Rakanasmara a “cheap thrill affair” despite his declaration that he wanted her.

  Whenever he’d thought about Rakanasmara, he’d thought first of Zane’s needs and his desire to be the boy’s father. He wanted the right to nurture Zane’s young mind and teach him how to be a man. Not once had he given any consideration to the woman who would be his life partner. Indeed if he’d given any thought to his mate at all, he’d assumed she would know her duty. And, once he’d introduced Zane to her, she would want the boy as much as he did. But would Myrina?

  What he needed was a plan, like the one he’d used to negotiate the alliance with the Confederacy. Then he’d used every resource at his disposal, every iota of strategy he’d learned from his father, to fulfill the new destiny that he, and others like him, had envisioned for Dakokata. Unfortunately, with Myrina, he was hampered by his lack of knowledge of human mating customs.

  After delivering Myrina safely to her apartment last night, he’d visited the TLC archives. All his research had yielded was an ancient human ritual called “wooing”. Apparently it involved the bestowing of flowers and chocolate, along with something called a “dinner date” as tokens of “love”, another equally unintelligible human concept. If you’d found the right woman to be your life partner why did you need to “woo” her to “win” her love? It made no sense. Besides, from what he’d learned about Myrina, he doubted any of those gifts would impress her.

  Dr. deCarte was an unpredictable force who’d stormed into his life, knocking him upside down and sideways. In the process he’d developed an insatiable hunger for her. He rather liked that peculiar English phrase, “knocked upside down and sideways”. It accurately described the powerful effect Rakanasmara and Myrina had on him.

  “You can wipe that grin off your face, I’m not wearing a skirt to the lab.”

  Startled out of his thoughts, Judan looked up into a pair of eyes the color of high meadow grass after the first thin sheet of ice had crystallized it. A potent reminder that, while the Rakanasmara was far stronger than he’d ever imagined, he was faced with an even more compelling challenge. Yesterday morning he would never have considered taking such an unimaginable gamble with his and Zane’s future. But now, their future was inexorably Myrina’s future, too.

  He would “win” Myrina deCarte by wooing her. Only forget the chocolate, the taste of which he didn’t much care for anyway. The initiation had already begun. And Myrina had responded. Henceforth, like the Sky Hunter, he would pursue her and woo her, Dakokatan style.

  The decision made, Judan allowed his lazy grin to turn feral as he examined her outfit.

  Skirt or no skirt, Dr. Myrina deCarte was worth the wait. She wore beige pants made from a loose fabric that caressed her legs with each tiny movement and emphasized the gentle curve of her hips. Above the waistband he caught a generous glimpse of skin where she’d left three buttons undone on the short-sleeved brown shirt that otherwise hugged her slim frame.

  Her expressive face, surrounded by golden brown spiky hair, was reminiscent of a drawing he’d once seen. The picture claimed to be an accurate depiction of the indigenous hill dwellers of Dakokata, said to live in the Gunun Mountains. But despite the numerous reports, to his knowledge, no one had actually seen a hill dweller for seven cycles of the calendar, a period of over eighty years.

  He stood, keeping the wall at his back. Then he reached out and pulled her a little closer so he could trace the edge of her shirt with his free hand where it gaped open. Deliberately he brushed his knuckles across her exposed skin. A tiny flare darkened the pale green of her eyes, sending a signal straight to his cock. As if she suspected the effect her appearance had on him, her eyes roamed down the front of his shirt straight to the bulge in his leggings. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

  “Glad you approve,” she said, with a wink. Her tone dropped into the sultry range that pulled him dangerously close to sweet temptation.

  Soon, but not yet.

  Beneath his feet, he sensed a very faint rumble signaling the final shift in the propulsion system’s calibration. The ship was preparing to jump. Instantly Myrina tensed and her hand gripped his like a prickle-thorn sticking to clothes. Her awareness surprised him. Not many people were that attuned to the subtle displacement of a spacecraft this size, especially as no two ships reacted in exactly the same way before a jump. For a woman who hadn’t done much flying, it should have been impossible.

  He studied her to make sure she was all right. Under the bright corridor lights, her already pale skin appeared nearly translucent, e
mphasizing the tight, tiny lines around her eyes. And the pulse at her wrist raced beneath his thumb.

  He didn’t comment on her anxiety, simply eased his big body away from the wall. Intentionally he moved close enough to brush his erection against her hipbone. “Thanks for changing,” he said. “This outfit looks much better. Matches the walls, too.”

  She tipped her head back and huffed. “After a few days, Captain, you’ll be just as bored with my civilian attire, which is almost as limited as your basic black.”

  He laughed, pleased rather than annoyed that she’d held her own against him. It made the prospect of “wooing” her an exciting challenge. One he greatly anticipated. But, more importantly, while he’d distracted her, the Ketiga Bulan had made its jump.

  Gently tugging her hand, he set off down the corridor toward the modest onboard lab. He matched his pace to hers. However, she pulled him up short once they’d turned the corner past the comlink he’d used earlier. He turned toward her.

  “I can look after myself, Judan.”

  “I know.”

  Instead of accepting his statement, she shook her head.

  “I don’t expect or want special treatment and I don’t want you trying to rescue me every time I…”

  “Have a panic attack?” he said when she hesitated.

  She immediately pulled her hand out of his. “All right, how do you know that?

  “Your service record is listed in the data-chip we received outlining your credentials. You haven’t gone on a field assignment in eight years, Dr. deCarte.”

  He’d noticed the oddity in her work record when he’d investigated her personal history for a clue explaining Rakanasmara. The incident that had caused the attacks had obviously occurred eight years ago and explained how a TLC scientist with Myrina’s specialization in colonization dissonance had avoided field work for so long.

  “How did that tell you anything?” she demanded. “I know damn—darn—well my service record doesn’t mention my panic attacks.”