Thermal Dynamics
Polly
Thegalleyistryingto kill me.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The air is so cold it has edges. It slices under the collar of my flight suit, slips icy fingers along my throat, breastbone, and the soft skin just above the waistband of my pants. Every exhale blooms white and dies in the recycled air. My nipples are so hard they ache, and not in the fun way. Yet.
Across the table, Rynn sits like a fever dream wearing arrogance.
He has put his shirt back on—a criminal offense in my book, considering what I saw in the engine room—but he’s rolled the sleeves to the elbow. His forearms are roped with muscle and marked with faint silver scars that I suddenly, desperately want to trace with my tongue. He’s pretending to read a datapad, but the amber glow of the screen is reflecting in eyes that haven’t left me once.
He isn’t shivering. He isn’t even hunched.
He’s radiating. A steady, infuriating wave of heat that makes the air between us shimmer like asphalt in summer. I can feel it on my face, my lips, the inside of my wrists. My body leans toward it without permission, the same way plants lean toward light.
I hate him for it.
I want to crawl into his lap and bite him for it.
“Zip,” I say, teeth clacking hard enough to chip enamel. “Please tell me the heat is coming back online soon. Or tell me you’ve secretly installed a fireplace.”
“POWER CONSERVATION PROTOCOLS REMAIN ACTIVE, CAPTAIN,” the AI chirps, far too cheerful for a droid witnessing its creator turn into a popsicle. “LIFE SUPPORT PRIORITIZING OXYGEN RECYCLING AND QUANTUM MATRIX REPAIR. HEATING AT 35%. STABILIZATION PHASE BEGINS IN THREE MINUTES. EIGHT-HOUR UNINTERRUPTED WINDOW REQUIRED.”
Eight hours.
Eight hours of this exquisite torture while the most dangerous male I’ve ever met sits three feet away burning hot enough to melt hull plating.
I pull my knees to my chest on the bench seat, wrapping my arms around them to become a smaller, less freeze-able target. The plasma burn is more of a dull ache now. It doesn’t help distracting me. My toes are going numb inside my boots. My thighs are trembling. And every time I glance up, Rynn is watching me like he’s cataloguing every shiver, every goosebump, every involuntary clench of muscle as if he’s memorizing the map of how to take me apart later.
“You’re staring, Courier,” he says without lifting his gaze from the datapad. The words are soft, low, and they stroke down my spine like a heated blade.
“I’m conducting thermal imaging,” I lie, burying my nose in my collar. “You’re hoarding approximately ninety-eight percent of the available heat on this ship. That’s rude. It’s biologically selfish.”
His mouth curves—just barely. A predator’s version of a smile. “My core temperature runs higher. The dermal lattice traps and amplifies it.”
I remember that lattice. In the engine room, I slapped my palm to his chest to steady myself and nearly came on the spot. The plating had been furnace-hot, thrumming like a second heartbeat under my fingers. I’ve been wet ever since, a low, constant throb that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the memory of how solid he felt. How alive.
I shift on the bench, and the seam of my pants drags over my clit. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.
Practical, Polly. Be practical.
Practical currently sounds like: climb the alien aristocrat, wrap your legs around his waist, and ride him until the heat death of the universe.
Instead, I say, “Rynn.”
He looks up fully this time. The weight of those amber eyes hits me like a punch to the sternum. He looks calm, composed, the perfect picture of noble restraint. But I saw him look at me in the engine room. I know there’s a beast under that expensive suit.
“Polly.”
The way he says my name—rolling the ‘L’s, dropping the pitch—should be illegal in at least six sectors.
“I’m going to lose fingers,” I tell him. “Or worse. My bunk is insulated. It’s tiny, barely a coffin with a mattress, but it holds heat. You have heat to spare. Basic thermodynamics says we pool resources.”
He goes very, very still. The datapad lowers an inch.
“You are suggesting we share a bed.”
“I’m suggesting survival. Don’t get a big head about it.”
