Collision Course

Chapter Three

They shared an awkward meal at the cramped and now-dented table in the galley. Neither Mara nor the commander spoke as they ate. She burned with questions about him—where he came from, what made him join the 8th Wing, if he liked reading or preferred watching vids—and her curiosity unsettled her. Normally, she didn’t give a damn about someone’s life story. Learning more about them made her own life too complicated.

But something about Commander Frayne spoke to her, reached her, no matter how much she wanted to preserve her isolation. And that bothered her.

She spent most of her time silent, going about her business without speaking to another person for hours, if not days. Yet the silence between her and Frayne grated, reminding her how those silent days were often more lonely than peaceful.

“Food’s not too spicy, is it? I developed a liking for Tulian peppers and put them in everything.”

Gods, could she be more banal?

“Not too spicy. I like it hot.”

Of course he did. More than the Tulian peppers made her face heat. She took a long pull from her bottled water and vowed to keep quiet.

As soon as they finished eating, they returned to the cockpit. He filled the small space, not just with his size, but his presence. A radiance of energy around him, male and potent.

She needed to get away from him.

With almost eighteen solar hours to kill before reaching the outer perimeter of the Smoke, the best use of time would be to get some rest. She had navigated Ilden’s Lash dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But it was still dangerous, no matter how familiar, and she needed to rest before threading her ship through the belt of neoplanets and magma. A tired pilot was a dead pilot.

“I’ll take the controls while you sleep,” Frayne said when she told him her plans.

“Nobody touches the Arcadia’s controls but me.” She punched in the directional coordinates and set the ship to autopilot. All sensors were engaged, so if anything or anyone came within a solar hour of the ship an alert would sound, waking even the deepest sleeper. Just one of the many modifications she’d made to her baby. “Can’t be a solo flyer without a little technical assistance.”

The commander didn’t look pleased to be superseded by the autopilot, but she didn’t care. This was her ship, her rules.

“If you don’t like it,” she suggested, “you can get out and walk.”

He did not bother to respond to this. Instead, he stared out the front display, eyes intent on the red miasma of Ilden’s Lash in the distance.

From the corner of her eye, she followed the hard, clean lines of his profile, the strong nose, full bottom lip. A few creases in the corners of his eyes from years of squinting in the unfiltered starlight.

That tiny scar at the very edge of one eyebrow—it looked like it came from a knife, not a plasma weapon. He was rugged. A fighter.

She had to wonder—what truly made him want to protect her from the PRAXIS captain? Had Frayne been a fellow scavenger or smuggler, she would immediately know the answer to that. Self interest. Had the commander been anyone else in the 8th Wing, she would make the same guess.

But he wasn’t a scavenger, smuggler, pirate or some lackey trying to protect the 8th Wing’s agenda. She was beginning to learn that Commander Kell Frayne was his own man, with his own drive, his own strength. Both of which he had been ready to use to protect her.

No one had done that in…ever.

She slid out of her seat and ducked into the galley. She didn’t want to think about Frayne defending her, or his reasons for doing so.

“Heading back,” she said. “You may as well get some rest too.”

He turned and stared at her. “This ship has only one sleeping quarters.”

She felt a thick pulse of heat through her body at the unspoken words. One sleeping quarters. One bed. A bed they both knew could accommodate two, even if one of its occupants was Frayne’s size.

And wouldn’t she love climbing over that big, hard body of his, exploring and learning its potential and promise. She’d seen his reaction to her back at the 8th Wing base. They could do some wicked things to each other.

The cosmos knew she’d taken men to bed on shorter acquaintance. But the circumstances had been very different. She’d been able to say goodbye, or, in some situations, kick them out in the morning. Not an option with the commander. Their mission together had barely begun. Sure, she could enjoy his body for the next few hours, but what about afterward? She didn’t know what would be worse: if he dismissed her, or if he wanted something more. She had no desire for anything lasting, anyone that wanted true intimacy.

And he was 8th Wing. The other side of the law.

Complicated. Too complicated. She wanted simplicity. That’s what her life had been about, ever since leaving Argenti.

She broke away from his gaze. “I keep a hovermattress, in case of emergencies.” From one of the bulkheads, she pulled out the compacted mattress, then tossed it toward him. “It should fit in the galley.”

He caught the foil-wrapped mattress, his expression of disappointment disappearing almost as soon as it appeared. “This’ll work. The conditions are better than camping in the marshes of Jenufa Ten.”

“You’ve done that?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t Jenufa Ten have blood-drinker moths the size of cats?”

“The size of dogs, actually. Big dogs.”

Mara shuddered. “I run a cleansing protocol every half a quarter, so there shouldn’t be any blood-drinker moths. Maybe a dirtroach or two.” She grinned.

He smiled back. “I’ll keep my plasma pistol handy.”

Well, hell, if he was going to be charming, he wasn’t going to make this mission any easier. She hit the light controls, engaging the sleep protocol. The lights dimmed. She started to edge toward her quarters, feeling strangely awkward. “Not used to guests. Is there, uh, anything else you need? Some sleep clothes?”

“When I’m on duty, I sleep with my pants and boots on. Off duty, I usually sleep naked.”

Images filled her mind. His bare flesh, the clean, solid form of his body. The tight sleeveless shirt he wore proved how fit he was, and without the shirt, she would see the planes of his chest and ridges of his abdomen, the muscles trailing lower. She wondered if his chest was smooth or haired, and what both textures would feel like against her skin.

“I sleep naked too,” she whispered.

His breath came in a sharp rasp, his eyes blazed with dark fire. In his tight grip, the packaging around the mattress tore. The noise was the sound of control being slowly torn apart.

“If you want to sleep alone, go now.”

A hot thrill shot through her, centering at the tips of her breasts and between her legs. What would it be like to have his warrior’s intensity focused on her? She did and didn’t want to know.

Without another word, she turned and bolted to her quarters. There was no door—no reason to have one when the ship was hers alone. She debated for a moment whether or not to take off her clothes. The Arcadia was small enough so that he’d be able to hear her undressing. A little voice taunted her. Get naked, let him listen to you strip. Tease him. Maybe he’ll join you.

Shut up, she snarled to her inner voice.

She took off her jacket, removed her boots, had another moment’s debate, and then shucked her pants. That was as far as she could take it. Her tank top and panties stayed on. Anything else would be too much of a temptation. Already she found herself straining to listen to him, hearing him move through the galley and unfold the hovermattress.

She waited, holding her breath, for the tell-tale sounds of clothes being stripped off. His shirt, at least, since he was on duty. Curiosity gripped her.

As silently as possible, she crept from her quarters and padded down the short passageway that lead to the galley. She peered around the corner.

He sat on the edge of the hovermattress, his knuckles braced against his knees. He stared straight ahead at the bulkhead. He’d removed his shirt, but, true to his word, kept his pants and boots. Oh, that was a torso to be inscribed in the stars. Hard and carved and meant for both combat and pleasure, dusted with dark hair. A few scars crisscrossed his bronzed skin. She stared at the gorgeous contours of his arms, the muscles tight with strain as if he barely held himself in check. She wanted those arms around her, holding her down as he took what she wanted to offer.

He didn’t turn his head. “Unless you want me to bed you, I suggest you go back to your quarters immediately.” His voice was more growl than words, and she felt herself grow damp.

Even so, she ran back to her quarters, bare feet slapping against the metal floor, then threw herself into her bed. Her heart pounded in time to the needy pulse between her legs as she lay back.

She wanted a simple life, free of entanglements, free of complications. Commander Frayne was very, very complicated—and that made her want him all the more.

Kell swore under his breath, trying without much success to find a comfortable position on the hovermattress. The mattress itself wasn’t the problem. Neither was the unfamiliar environment. He usually could sleep anywhere, at any time. A soldier grabbed rest whenever it became available. He could fall into a deep sleep in minutes and come to full wakefulness in a second.

But that ability had deserted him. More specifically, his cock refused to let him sleep. It was hard and aching, demanding that he get up, stride the few short paces to Mara’s quarters, and lay his weight atop her. Sink into her heat.

His peripheral vision was excellent. He’d seen the blatant interest in her eyes. The way she looked at him as if he was the last drop of water in the Gephel Sand Wastes. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

It didn’t make any damn sense—he was 8th Wing, she was a scavenger—and it also made perfect sense. Whatever either of them thought about the other’s ethics, or lack thereof, their bodies hungered for each other.

She would be a wild thing beneath him, writhing and fierce. The kind of woman who wanted it hard and hot. He already knew she would leave scratches down his back. Just as he already knew he would leave marks where he gripped her thighs. Those thoughts alone made his cock swell even further.

If he was alone, he’d take care of things. Finish himself off with a few quick, brutal strokes of his hand, and then finally get some sleep. But he wasn’t alone. The scavenger slept only steps away, no door on her quarters. He knew he wouldn’t be quiet. His need was too fierce. He’d come with a groan.

She’d hear him.

The thought aroused him even more. He’d never been an exhibitionist. But things changed.

People changed.

Was she lying in her bed now, thinking about him, quietly touching herself?

Focus on the mission. Mara was conscripted, an unwilling collaborator. Having sex with her was a complication he, and the mission, did not need. No matter how much he and Mara wanted each other.

Gods, this was torture. He needed to rest, an impossible feat if he kept tormenting himself. He drew upon every ounce of his training, all of his self-control and discipline. Slowly, in painful increments, he willed himself to relax, loosening the tension that ran like plasma fire through his body. His breathing slowed as sleep finally took him.

His dreams were ripe with images of her. Tawny skin. Almond-shaped eyes closed in pleasure.

Reckless, eager mouth.

When the sleep protocol ended and the lights came on, he woke just as aroused and frustrated as he’d been hours earlier. Mara rustled around in her quarters.

He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, feeling like ten kinds of hell. He dressed quickly, put away the hovermattress, then ducked into the narrow hygiene bay to splash water on his face and relieve himself. It took a few minutes before his throbbing cock subsided enough so he could piss.

Reviewing evasive maneuvers and combat patterns helped distract him. After, he washed, and looked at himself in the mirror. A hard-faced man stared back, his mouth a tight line, tension vibrating through his shoulders.

When he emerged, a mug of steaming kahve was pressed into his hand. A fully-dressed Mara slipped past him into the hygiene bay, avoiding his gaze, but he saw enough to note she looked a little drawn, as if she’d spent an equally unsettled night. That didn’t make him feel any better.

He settled into the cockpit with his mug. A sip proved the kahve was dark and bitter, without sweetness. Exactly the way he liked it. Something he and the scavenger had in common. Including their shared preference for spicy food. He didn’t want to like her. That would be far more labyrinthine than simple lust.

Kell drank his kahve and stared at the nearing Ilden’s Lash. The alarm blared, indicating they were less than a solar hour away from reaching it. Red light filled the cockpit as the ship flew closer.

He studied the phenomenon. Few 8th Wing pilots ever got this near. He could examine it in greater depth, report back to command. The information could be useful for future operations.

“Forget it.” Mara slipped into the cockpit, also cradling a mug. She turned off the alarm. “If Ilden’s Lash doesn’t kill 8th Wing pilots, the thieving scum that live in the Smoke will finish the job.”

“You count yourself one of those scum?”

She grinned over the rim of her cup. “Absolutely.”

Kell couldn’t stop his own smile, especially when he saw how her grin made her appear playful,

mischievous as a girl.

“I didn’t think the Smoke Quadrant was that well patrolled.” He forced his gaze back to the display showing Ilden’s Lash. “Given that it’s full of thieving scum.”

“No one is more protective of their possessions than a thief. They know how easily things can be stolen.”

“Spoken from experience.”

“Lifetimes of it.” She spoke with the kind of worldliness Kell only heard from retired combat pilots but looked like she had not yet reached thirty solar years. Her eyes held knowledge, hard-won.

Her years had been full and difficult.

Not unlike his own.

He didn’t want to think about parallels between them, or anything else that might draw them toward one another. He was an 8th Wing officer, and duty meant everything. He held honor tightly, having had so little of it early in his life. To keep his mind on track now, he continued to stare at the display.

“Tell me more about Ilden’s Lash.”

“So you can make a report for the 8th Wing, like a good little soldier?”

“Because I want to know, damn it. I’m always hungry for more knowledge.” He remembered being a kid, finding discarded digitablets in the waste heaps and reading whatever had been downloaded onto them. Didn’t matter if they held instructions for repairing hydro-regulator systems or the best lunar low grav spas. Every bit of information was devoured.

Mara looked at him, contemplative. He held still under her perceptive scrutiny.

“Didn’t expect that,” she murmured, more to herself than him.

“Why would you? You’ve got the 8th Wing all figured out. We’re all the same.”

“Just like all scavengers are the same?”

He gave a rueful snort. “I call a draw.”

“Agreed.” This time, when they shared a smile, it was from a mutual, wry understanding. Neither of them was quite what the other had expected. She broke the connection first, turning back to the display. “Ilden’s Lash is what makes the Smoke so secure and how the Smoke came to be. It’s a band of protoplanets, some of them more solid than others. Even the more developed planets are still mostly magma.”

“So they’re constantly shifting and re-forming. Like one of those old-fashioned magma lanterns.”

Her laugh was low, husky—unexpectedly arousing. He suddenly imagined her sultry laugh as she tumbled across her bed, with him tumbling atop her.

“Think I remember my older brother having one of those,” she said, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “He used to smoke bindleweed and stare at it for hours.”

He tucked away the knowledge that she had an older brother as one might pocket a glimmering flake of zelenium. Each piece of information about her felt strangely precious.

“But that’s an apt analogy,” she continued. “Ilden’s Lash looks almost exactly like that, except you’d be incinerated if you just stood and stared at it. A passage through might look clear one moment, and in the next, it’s a wall of molten rock.”

“Unpredictable. That’s what keeps everyone out.”

“Except the scum.”

“Except the scum,” he echoed.

They both took sips of their kahve. Sitting with her in the small confines of the cockpit, both nursing their mugs—it felt intimate. He had sat in the base’s mess more times than he could remember, sharing the day’s first cup with other members of the squad. Even when it had been just him and one other person, male or female, discussing the latest briefing or plans for R & R, he hadn’t sensed the same kind of intimacy as he did now.

She must have sensed it, too, because she cleared her throat and shifted awkwardly in her seat.

“Just because there are some who know the Smoke and know Ilden’s Lash doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Pilots die trying to make their way through, even ones who’ve taken the Lash a hundred times before.”

“Doesn’t sound like an even trade,” Kell mused. “Risking your life again and again just for a bit of privacy.”

“Two things, Commander. First, never underestimate a scavenger’s need for privacy. We spend our lives running from the law, constantly looking over our shoulders. Having a place that’s all our own is a gift.”

He mulled this, considering how it reflected on her needs. “And the second?”

She gave him another blood-heating smile. “Risk turns us scavengers on.”

“Us scavengers? Or you?”

“Yes to both.” She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “But especially me.”

He fought a shudder of need. When he spoke, he was surprised how level his voice sounded,

instead of the growl he thought it would be. “You should consider becoming a fighter pilot.”

“A bunch of thrill seekers?”

“Worse than kids darting between laser trams.”

She shook her head. “And here I thought you 8th Wing types were all rule and regulation.”

“A lot are,” he admitted. “Couldn’t fight PRAXIS if there wasn’t discipline and order. But Black Wraith Squad—we’re the wild ones.”

Her gaze turned contemplative as she stared at him. “I like the sound of that.”

Kell seriously wondered if she was trying to kill him. Every word out of her mouth seemed laden with erotic promise. Deliberate or not, it played havoc with his willpower. He felt tightly wound, as if it had been two months and not two weeks since he’d last taken a woman to bed. It took him a moment to remember who that woman had been—a lieutenant from the Engineering Corps who’d been looking for a night’s release—but everything about that night vanished in the heat of Mara’s presence.

How the fuck was he supposed to get through this mission with his mind and reflexes intact? He had thought the danger would come from either PRAXIS or negotiating the Smoke Quadrant. Turned out that the biggest threat sat right beside him, in the form of a scavenger with wide-set eyes, silky white hair and a thirst for excitement.

It was a relief when the control panel blared, breaking the moment. Mara straightened and set her mug down at her feet.

“Better drain your cup, Commander,” she said, all business. “It’s about to get rough.”

He did so, and just in time. They had reached the outer perimeter of Ilden’s Lash. Giant, shifting masses of molten rock seethed and moved, and clots of partially-formed asteroids careened between them. A hunk of scrap metal drifted through the Lash. The moment it contacted a swell of magma, it incinerated.

Seeing Ilden’s Lash through the cockpit’s window sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. A normal person would be frightened. Kell grinned.

She caught his grin, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Let me fly us through.” He leaned forward, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Don’t trust my skills?”

“I want to take a shot at it.”

“Decelerate your thrusters, Frayne. This is my ship, and my run through the Lash.”

He growled his displeasure. Whenever he saw a challenge, he ached to conquer it. But unless he wanted to tie Mara down and wrest the controls from her, he was going to have to content himself with letting her do the work.

“I hate being a passenger,” he muttered.

“Me too.” She took the controls.

And then all arguments about who would and wouldn’t be piloting the ship disappeared as they breached the Lash.

Calm but focused, Mara angled the ship to swerve through a narrow opening between two protoplanets. The ship shot forward, then banked hard to port when a cluster of asteroids spun toward them. Three asteroids collided with one another, shattering into clouds of jagged debris. The ship shimmied with the force of the concussion.

“Having fun?” Mara shouted above the rattle of the hull.

“Hell, yes,” he shouted back.

“Good—because it gets better.”

Someone else, someone sane, might have said that the going got worse, but clearly Kell and Mara had different ideas as to what constituted “fun.”

They flew toward massive shapes of nascent planets that spewed arcs of magma, stretching like fiery bridges between the protoplanets. Just beyond lay the relative calm of the Smoke Quadrant.

Mara pushed the ship onward, accelerating. Great technique. A lesser pilot would think to slow down when approaching a dangerous obstacle, but those with more experience knew that greater speed meant greater maneuverability. And Mara guided them with a skilled, fearless hand, swooping and diving between the protoplanets. Several times, it looked as though she steered them directly toward a surge of magma, but just as the ship neared the molten rock, the surge shifted out of their path, leaving them a clear route forward. Meanwhile, the clear routes suddenly were blocked by seething columns of magma.

“That’s how these wily fuckers work.” She laughed like a madwoman. “I love it.”

He grinned. Unpredictable—the Lash and the woman. It surprised him how much she made him smile.

They were almost through. Mara pushed the accelerator.

“Starboard,” Kell murmured.

She banked away just as an asteroid flew at them from the starboard side. Then they were out,

Ilden’s Lash retreating behind them in a fiery red haze. Adrenalin continued to pour through him, even though he hadn’t been the pilot. Another day.

“Appreciate it, Commander.”

“Kell. Seeing as how I just saved your ass, you can call me Kell.”

“You didn’t save my ass,” she argued, but she didn’t sound angry. Far from it. She laughed again, and the sultry sound curled warmly in his groin. “I had everything under control. Kell.”

Hearing her say his name, his pulse spiked—far more than it had when navigating the dangers of Ilden’s Lash. Hunger gripped him, and it was all he could do to keep from dragging her out of the pilot’s seat, having her straddle him. He wanted his mouth on hers, his hands all over her body. His cock felt huge, demanding. It wanted inside her.

Focus, goddamn it.

“We’ll be at Ryge soon,” she said, totally unaware of the fact that he wanted to fuck her up against the control panel.

He barely managed to growl his assent. They couldn’t get to Ryge soon enough. Even a man as tightly controlled as Kell had a breaking point, and he was getting dangerously close to his.