Catch a Falling Star

by Fay McDermott

  He touched the other knee; just a promise in his warm hand. “Ask what you will of me, querida. I have not much time.” His lips again found the soft flesh of her leg and parted, his breath hot against her, barely an inch from her scraped skin. “Ask.”

  Don't think, she told herself. Just don't think or you'll wind up doing what you know you should do and ask him – no tell him - to leave.

  She slowly shook her head and smiled. Taking one of his hands, she leaned toward him as she guided the hand up then released her hold on the blanket, pushing it out of the way. Not thinking beyond the need that dominated her existence at that moment, she placed his palm against her breast then closed her eyes, slowly exhaling a held breath. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Don't leave. Not yet.”

  Miguel rose up and over her, his free hand moving behind her to mirror the one she herself had placed, holding her upright between them. Catching her lips with his, he kissed her with need, his tongue stroking a plea for deeper intimacy.

  She arched her back to increase the pressure of his hand against her breast. As satisfying as it was, she realized she wanted more than just that single contact. Instinctively, surrendering herself to what her body was craving, she grew more bold. She managed to free her legs from the folds of the quilt and she wrapped them around his hips. With her hands buried in his hair she pressed her lips fiercely against his, responding to him then demanding more.

  A groan caught between them and Miguel's body reacted, blood rushing down to harden him, some hide and laces suddenly all that kept her virtuous. Both of his hands ran down to her hips and around, back over her heart-shaped bottom, sliding beneath to grip and pull her in tight. His erection throbbed as if with a mind of its own, seeking her wet warmth but denied by the material pinned between them. Opening his mouth with a rush of air pulled into his lungs, he caught her lips again and strove to fill her.

  She wasn't aware of when she started the low moan that came from deep within as each pounding heartbeat increased her frustration at not getting what she so desperately wanted. Her hands moved restlessly, finally sliding lower until she reached his hips. She broke the kiss, her eyes smoldering with the passion he'd awoken in her. Her parted lips, swollen and still as hungry as the rest of her, curved into a smile when one hand found the low waistband. She moved her own hips as her fingers worked the buttons loose and then she was touching what was beneath.

  Miguel jumped in response, seizing her by the wrist. His eyes were dark and burning, his smile shaking as he warned her quietly, “Careful, querida. It bites.” With his other hand, he reached over his shoulder to grab a handful of the shirt on his back, tugging it up over his head. He had to release her to kick the pants off but he was reaching for her again at once. His fingers squeezed her thighs and lifted, tipping her gently back to the bed. He followed, his knees coming up between hers to climb the mattress and support his weight.

  Still holding her legs firmly, he gazed down at her, the intensity almost threatening. And then he grinned rakishly and pulled, jerking her hard against his stiff erection, a fold of the quilt now used as a tool to torment.

  She moaned in protest, squirming against the interference. Her lips formed a pout that transformed into a smile as her eyelashes lowered half way. She rotated her hips again, taking pleasure from what the movement felt like against the grip of his hands in back and the pressure of his erection against her in front. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue then rotated her hips again, this time slowly and deliberately moving them in what turned into a natural rhythm.

  It was his turn to groan, the sensation exquisite agony but he wasn't ready to give in. Using his hands again to spread her legs further apart, his arms hugged her knees against his sides, trapping them, while his fingers snaked a path under her seat, tantalizingly close to her secrets.

  Catching her gaze once more, he watched her with ever growing heat as he traced the delicate folds of her lips from beneath, using her moisture to slick his fingers and slide them smoothly around the outside of her need.

  Her breath was catching in her throat as she arched her back again, trying to lift her hips to help him find the way. Unable to make that happen she discovered she was incapable of summoning up the words to tell him. Only inarticulate sounds and gasps made their way from her throat so she begged with her eyes for him to take her; to give her what she craved with every fiber of her being.

  Grinning devilishly, he winked an eye at her before leaning forward and slipping two fingers into her ready body, to plunder her depths in deep strokes while his tongue delved between her lips to steal her breath.

  She thought she was going to lose her mind. Her hips moved against his fingers, but it wasn't enough. And yet, she didn't want him to stop what he was doing; not with his kiss or his fingers. She'd never experienced anything like it and it was incredible but she wanted more. She had to have more. She wanted him to fill her and reach the fire within her. She could feel the flame growing past comprehension, building in intensity, pushing at the limits of her ability to cope until she wasn't sure she could take anymore. “Please, Miguel. Please.” She broke the kiss, speaking against his mouth in a breathless plea before he took her words away again.

  Sliding his fingers out and down the inside of her thigh, he then brought them back up to toy with her swollen need before continuing on his sensuous path to the gradual slope of her hips.

  Miguel drew his lips away at last and his hands clamped firmly to the shape of her, holding her pelvis still and at a tilt. “Tú eres muy bella,” he murmured, a tone of reverence in his voice and a smile hinting in his deep brown eyes.

  Moving his hips, he slid the hard stiffness of his erection over her wetness, teasing her open. Keeping his grip on her solid, he eased his throbbing head inside of her, watching her face and drinking in the pleasure he found there.

  What he found, what she felt, was a pleasure beyond anything she had ever dreamed. She had no idea how long it was before she drew in yet another gasping breath, this time forgetting to release it, losing herself in the pulsing, explosive sensations within her. When she finally was able to breathe again she opened her eyes to look into his and she felt as if she was falling into their depths. She was afraid to move, afraid she would lose the moment. Then her hips moved against him as her desire ignited again, building higher and higher. She was still watching his eyes, wondering how much more she could take, while a smile of pure sensual power curved her lips. She wanted to find out how much more and judging by the grin he returned, he was game to show her.

  Chapter 11

  Although neither Lyrianne nor Miguel were aware of it, Fat Farley's great escape was reaching its conclusion. The big man had achieved physical efforts beyond even his expectations. He peered through the dawn light, still shadow filled, hoping to confirm that his ears weren't deceiving him. He was sure he heard something and it wasn't coming from behind him. Choking on a sob of relief, he turned toward the sounds. It appeared luck was fated to be on his side.

  “Here! Over here!” Wheezing, his breath so tight in his chest it was like trying to breathe through pond reeds, Farley stumbled out of the tall grasses and into the cropped meadow. Brambles clung to his leggings, clawing at his sweaty flesh and tearing the low-grade material as easily as paper.

  “Here!” he tried again, his arms too tired to wave, instead flopping uselessly at his sides. He used both hands to hold the ancient rifle, unable to keep a grip on it with just one. He'd been on his way to town, homemade hooch and desperation dulling his wits. Had he headed for his farm first, he could have retrieved a vehicle. Instead, he'd set out on foot, running until his stomach hurt and he'd had to stop to empty it in the bushes.

  Convinced he was being followed by that crazy man, he'd tried to put as much distance between himself and the dumb broad's house, making it as far as the inner fence before the sweat was falling like rain into his eyes and he could smell his own sour scent.

  “Damned Fed pig,” he cough
ed, throat dry and burning. “I'll git you, you wait and see.” Stumbling over some obstacle he couldn't see in the dark of early morning in the dense forest, Farley went down like a felled tree. His weight was taken by gravity and slammed belly first onto debris, something sharp jabbing him hard in the cushy abdomen while his knee connected painfully with some nefarious rock.

  Grabbing his knee and rolling laboriously over on his side, the heavyset farmer gasped. It was worse than that time he'd collapsed a lung trying to work under a tractor that wasn't properly secured. In fact, he was pretty sure he was going to die.

  Twin spots of light appeared on the tree trunks above him, no doubt drawn by the moans and groans of his predicament. A third spotlight joined the two and in moments, there were no less than five bobbing beams growing stronger around him.

  Saved, Farley heaved back over and onto his throbbing knees, a hoarse howl of elation and a deeply satisfying sense of vindication driving him now. He was found and that thrice-damned spacer was going to face a firing squad. Then Lyrianne would be his!

  Snatching at the rifle as he grunted his way to his feet, he raised his arms to wave the approaching lawmen down. There was no one else it could be. Only the local law carried blue handlights.

  “Hold!” Someone shouted and the bouncing lights all zeroed in on Farley. “Who's that?”

  “You-” Farley wheezed, “You... bastard space... man.” Unable to catch his breath, his arms so tired they were like lead, he stumbled another two steps forward, still waving his arms, the rifle still firmly in his grip.

  “Stop! Stop right there!”

  “Gun! He's got a gun!”

  Farley squinted against the cerulean spots dancing in his eyes. “What? Damn fools!”

  “Drop it! Drop it!” Now many voices were shouting, the sudden sensory overload disorienting the inebriated farmer, who had gladly emptied the entire bottle of Devil’s Piss into his gullet earlier in the evening.

  Cheeks reddening, further flushed from the anger creeping its red madness up his neck, Farley blustered and pointed the rifle at the shapes he could now make out behind the blinding torches. “Not me, you -”

  Each round was like a punch that set the big man back a step. Bewildered, he started to lower his heavy arm, the limb lit up so that he could see neon purple liquid spilling down from a hole in his elbow. He stared, puzzled, until he realized it was blood, his blood, its red color tinted by the powerful lights trained on him. The rifle fell from his hand. His knees sagged and dropped him to the dirt, pain shooting straight up to his head.

  “Not me,” he coughed, blood filling his mouth, bubbling when he spat out, “Stupid bastards.” He was dead when his face hit the rock a second later.

  Six men moved up to gather around the dead farmer. The oldest, barely out of his twenties and the appointed Captain, stood from a cursory check for vital signs. He shook his head while wiping his hands on the dark blue kerchief he pulled from his pocket. “Damn, boys. It's just Farley.”

  He looked each of his men in the eye, most of whom were reluctant to maintain more than a brief contact and then shook his head solemnly. “Shouldn't have swung that gun at us, though, boys. Was his own damned fault.”

  With a sigh the Captain wiped at an imaginary spot on the official body armor he wore. The town's all-volunteer law enforcement brigade were proud of their newly issued gear, which consisted of military surplus long since outdated. The chest piece and helmet were rated to protect against most weaponry below Class 3. The arm units, slightly newer, had built in comms, which worked most of the time, and then they had the blasters. More than one of those, though no one was claiming credit, had found its mark with fatal results for their old drinking buddy and sometime boarder at the lockup.

  The control panel on the arm of the police lieutenant and full time bartender at the town's only cantina, lit up, static crackling noisily. He stuck his finger into his ear to try to hear whatever was being broadcast then answered with a crisp “Copy that!” Tilting his head, he raised his voice, “What?” He tapped his ear then spoke slowly, irritated now. “I said 'Copy that!' No! I said 'Copy'! Shit.” Grumbling, he slammed a thumb against the display to terminate the connection.

  With a grimace at the residual squeal in his ear, he looked up and addressed his leader. “Sir, the Alliance has ordered that we are to return to base and go to stand by. They will be taking over field recovery operations.” He toed Farley's body. “What should we do with him?”

  The Captain who was also the town's de facto doctor, sighed again. “Dammit, I don't know.” He raised a hand to scratch his head. Encountering the helmet, he turned it into an impromptu salute to Farley. “We'll send out a retrieval team for the body. Somebody'll have to tell his father and brothers. Damn fool was drunk off his seat again. Always said Fat Farley was gonna get hisself killed one day.”

  Chapter 12

  Miguel collapsed over her, spent for the second time and shaking from muscles burning with lactic acid. His breath was ragged and heavy where he buried his mouth between her shoulder and neck, and his back and chest heaved from exertion. He was exhausted and so was she as she lay under him, unable to summon up the energy to move and too warmly contented to want to do so. If this was what all the talk was about, she thought, maybe the girls at the Honey Pot had it right. Though, on second thought, their lifestyle might be too extreme. She did feel like she could stay right where she was forever, though.

  With his cooperation she eventually wriggled out from under him then snuggled against his side to retain maximum contact. She was facing him on the pillow they shared and she gazed at his face, feeling a tightness around her heart. She concentrated on trying to memorize every line of his face. She wanted to be able to call up his beautiful dark eyes that had the uncanny ability to swallow her up when she looked into them. She loved his smile and the velvet sound of his voice; craved the feel of his body and would always cherish learning from him how amazingly wonderful making love was.

  She smiled finally then pressed herself against him even closer, tucking her head under his chin. She knew what she wanted in a very selfish way, but what purpose would that serve? When they came for her, he would be taken, too. Her wish to be with him wasn't going to happen no matter what choice she made. She had to face that and do what she knew would be best. For both of them. That meant he had to reach a safe place to await those who would rescue him.

  “Don't fall asleep. We need to get up and get moving. I changed my mind on my hoverbike, though. I'll take you out, wherever you want, and drop you off. I'm going to be needing it. After you're gone.”

  He sounded as sleepy as she felt when he mumbled, “Still trying to get rid of me, eh?”

  “That's not my choice, spaceman.” She defended herself with sincerity though it was lightened by the same teasing tone she'd heard in his protest. Putting her weight into encouraging him to roll onto his back, she straddled him then held him down at his shoulders. She moved her hips suggestively. “Now, get up or I'll give in to my urge to take advantage of you again.”

  Miguel chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. “I give up. You have won.” His smile vanished and his eyes flickered, but only the surface of the irises, like water disturbed. All at once, the pilot's pupils shrank to pinpricks before opening wide and nearly consuming the whole of the iris.

  When the man was able to focus on the woman over him, he said plainly, “They are here.” He sat up with her still in his lap, his arm around her waist holding her tight before moving her off of him. He looked as serious as she had ever seen him.

  “Dress quickly, querida. We do not have much time.”

  Unaware of what the spooky change to his eyes meant, she wondered how he knew. She hadn't heard anything so she listened more closely now for sounds from outside or at the door. Nothing. Rather than be difficult, however, she did as he said, going to her dresser for a pair of pants and a shirt for herself. She turned to him as she slipped the shirt on. “Get dressed and
if you need anything else, get it from my father's closet. You know what might fit you better than I do.”

  She thought very briefly of teasing him for how quickly he ran through clothes but she took his warning seriously. She'd thought he was talking about Farley and the authorities, whether Locals or Alliance, and was concentrating on them. It was too soon. She wasn't ready.

  Miguel left the room with the pants and shirt he’d discarded and a nod of his head, returning before she had sat down to worry about covering her injured foot. He'd found boots and was lacing them up as he walked in to get her, his leg rig already in place with his gun tucked inside.

  “We will have to circle around the crash site,” he was saying, his focus and attention divided between Lyrianne and the display feeding him information through the LED lenses implanted over his corneas. He couldn't yet determine the exact location of the extraction but the moment a HUB was within range his lenses had activated and the team would have had access to his coordinates.

  “I do not want to lead them here.” He paused and watched a series of numbers scroll down the right side of his vision. “Hurry, Lee-ree-anne. Hurry now.”

  She dressed for the hot weather of summer in a sleeveless dark blue shirt with pants made from the same lightweight fabric. She sat down on the bed, trying to decide between a pair of sandals to accommodate the bandage easily or the more sturdy boots. While she was trying to make up her mind she was pulling her hastily combed hair back into a ponytail.

  She looked up at him and, hearing the urgency in his voice, slipped her feet into the sandals. They took less time so that made up her mind for her. Only then did she give voice to what had puzzled her about what he'd said. “What did you mean when you said you don't want to lead them here? Miguel, Farley will have told them where we are. Or where I am, anyway. You won't be leading them here.”