“What can I do to help?” he asks immediately, and I find myself looking at his hands again—those elegant, long-fingered hands that have been driving me to distraction for the past three hours.
“The access space is pretty narrow. I might need you to guide me through some of the tighter spots.” The words come out more breathless than I intended as my imagination immediatelyconjures images of his hands on mine, directing my movements with that same quiet authority he’s shown with everything else.
“Of course.”
For the next hour, we work our way through the ship’s various systems, and it’s simultaneously the most productive and most torturous experience of my professional life.
The coolant manifold repair requires us to work in impossibly close quarters. Every time I need to reach a difficult connection, he’s there to steady me, his hands firm and sure on my waist or my shoulders. When I can’t see what I’m doing in the tight spaces, he guides my hands with his own, his voice a low murmur in my ear as he describes what I’m feeling for.
“A little to the left,” he says at one point, his breath warm against the side of my neck as he reaches around me to point out a stress fracture I can’t quite see. “There—can you feel the ridge in the metal?”
I can feel a lot of things, and the ridge in the metal is pretty far down the list. What I’m really aware of is the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his scent wraps around me in the confined space, the brush of his arm against mine as he helps me position the molecular patch.
I wonder what it would be like to turn in his arms, to press my mouth to that pulse point at the base of his throat and see if I could make his breathing as unsteady as mine has become. Wonder if he’d let me explore all that gorgeous marked skin with my hands and mouth, if he’d make those low sounds I’ve been imagining while I worked my way down his body—
“Perfect,” he murmurs, and the approval in his voice sends heat spiraling through me. “That should hold.”
I have to clear my throat before I can respond. “Good. Just a few more stress points to reinforce.”
But as we continue working, I become increasingly aware of every point of contact between us. The way his hand splaysacross my lower back to keep me steady when I have to reach into an awkward space. The brush of his fingers against mine when we’re both working on the same connection. The heat of his skin when he leans closer to get a better view of what I’m doing.
It’s all perfectly innocent, completely professional. But my imagination keeps filling in the gaps, keeps showing me what those touches could mean in a different context. What those strong, careful hands could do if they weren’t focused on ship repairs.
When we move to the life support calibration, things somehow get even worse. The environmental controls are located in a maintenance crawlway that barely has room for one person, let alone two. But we need to work together—I handle the delicate sensor adjustments while he monitors the system responses from the main console.
“Oxygen levels optimal,” he reports as I fine-tune the atmospheric processors. “Temperature regulation stable.”
“Good. How’s humidity control?”
“Rising slightly. You might want to—careful!”
His warning comes just as I shift position and catch my shirt on a protruding conduit. The fabric pulls tight, trapping my arm at an awkward angle, and suddenly I can’t move without risking a tear in both my shirt and the sensitive equipment.
“I’m stuck,” I admit, feeling heat rise in my cheeks at the ridiculous situation.
“Hold still.” His voice is closer than I expected, and suddenly his hands are on me, working to free the caught fabric. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.”
The authoritative tone sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s his hands that really destroy me. He’s being completely professional, but I can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of my shirt as he carefully works to untangle me.When he has to reach around me to access the caught area, his chest presses against my back, and I have to bite back a sound that has nothing to do with discomfort.
“There,” he says softly when he finally frees me. “You’re all right.”
But he doesn’t immediately move away, and neither do I. For a moment that stretches like eternity, we’re pressed together in the narrow space, both breathing a little too fast. I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder blade, can smell that intoxicating scent of spice and heated skin.
I wonder what would happen if I leaned back into him, if I let my head fall back against his shoulder and turned just enough to meet his eyes. Wonder if he’d kiss me, if those elegant hands would finally stop being careful and show me what I’ve been imagining for hours—
“We should...” he starts, but his voice is rougher than usual.
“Right,” I manage, forcing myself to move away from the tempting heat of his body. “Navigation array next.”
The navigation work is thankfully less intimate, but no less torture. Watching him handle the delicate recalibration with steady hands and focused intensity is like watching art in motion. Everything about the way he moves screams competence and control, and it’s doing absolutely nothing for my ability to think about anything other than what those hands would feel like on my bare skin.
“Stellar cartography updated,” he reports after running a full diagnostic. “We should be able to plot an accurate course once the FTL drive is back online.”
“Excellent.” I’m proud that my voice sounds normal, because inside I’m screaming. Hours of close proximity, innocent touches that feel anything but innocent, and the constant awareness that he’s gorgeous and competent and completely oblivious to the effect he’s having on me.
Or maybe not so oblivious. I’ve caught him watching me a few times, his golden eyes dark with something that might be nothing more than professional interest but feels like much more.
“One more system to check,” I say, consulting Zip’s diagnostic report. “Power coupling integrity. It’s a quick job, but the access panel is in another tight space.”
