“Zip, kill the transponder,” I order. “We’re going in quiet.”
“TRANSPONDER OFF. SHIELDS DOWN to 10%. PRAYING TO THE BINARY GODS INITIATED.”
I spin my chair to face Rynn. He’s already reaching for his blaster, checking the charge with efficient, lethal movements. I watch his hands, remembering how they felt on my hips, digging in, holding me still while he ground against me.
My mouth goes dry.
“Okay, listen up, Your Highness,” I say, unbuckling my harness and standing on legs that feel less steady than they should. “Rules of the Rest. Rule one: No names. Rule two: Cashonly. Rule three: If someone offers you ‘blue milk,’ say no, unless you want to hallucinate for three days.”
He stands too, smoothing his jacket. The motion draws my eye to his chest, and I’m suddenly flooded with the memory of how those micro-scales felt under my palm. How they fluttered and warmed when I touched him. How his whole body vibrated with that subsonic purr.
“I am capable of handling a criminal outpost, Polly.”
“Are you?” I step into his personal space—too close, way too close—and the air between us instantly thickens. Hot and heavy and charged with everything we almost did. Everything we’re going to do. Because it’s not a question of if anymore. It’s when.
And I can tell by the way his pupils dilate that he’s thinking the exact same thing.
“Because you look like you just walked out of a diplomatic summit.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “You’re too clean. Too shiny. You scream ‘rich hostage’ or ‘undercover cop.’ Both of which get you stabbed in the neck before we even clear the airlock.”
He frowns, looking down at his expensive, tailored suit. “This is Aethel-weave. It is resistant to—”
“It’s resistant to dirt. That’s the problem.” I reach out, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, and feel the sudden tension in his body. Every muscle locking tight. Just like they did when I ground against him in the bunk.
I wonder if he’s hard right now. I wonder if he’s been hard since we left the Fringe. I wonder what would happen if I just dropped to my knees and—
“What are you doing?” His voice drops an octave, that low rumble vibrating in his chest. The same rumble I felt against my back when he was buried between my thighs, telling me all the filthy things he wanted to do to me.
“Making you blend in.” I yank his collar, popping the top button. My knuckles brush his throat, and I feel his pulse jump. “You need to look less like a diplomat and more like a guy who’s had a rough week.”
I reach up and mess up his hair—his perfect, silky, dark hair that I want wrapped around my fist while he’s buried inside me—shoving my fingers through it until it looks appropriately disheveled.
He stands perfectly still, barely breathing. His eyes are locked on my face, pupils blown wide, and I can see the gold starting to bleed into the black. His throat works as he swallows.
“Better,” I whisper, my voice a little breathless. I grab a rag from the console, smudge a little grease on my thumb. “But you’re still too pretty.”
I reach up to brush the grease along his sharp jawline—that jaw I desperately want to feel between my thighs—and the moment my fingertip makes contact, electricity jumps between us. Literal sparks. The micro-scales beneath his skin flutter, warming, responding to my touch.
He catches my wrist in an iron grip, his thumb pressing into my pulse point. Holding me. Trapping me.
“Is this necessary?” he asks, his voice rough and strained.
“Unless you want to be mugged for your cheekbones?” I try to laugh, but it comes out as a shaky exhale. “Yes.”
He doesn’t let go. He steps closer, so close his thighs brush mine, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. That enhanced Valorian temperature that kept me alive last night. That I want wrapped around me again. In me.
“You enjoy this,” he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Tarnishing me.”
“Maybe I just like seeing the cracks in the armor.” My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. His thumb strokesacross my pulse, and the touch sends heat straight between my legs.
I’m wet. Again. Still. I’ve been wet ever since he kissed me like he was trying to consume my soul.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his control fracture. Just a little. Just enough to see the hunger underneath.
“Polly.” My name sounds like a warning. Or a prayer.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I think he’s going to push me back against the console and finish what we started. My lips part, waiting, wanting—
“DOCKING CLAMPS ENGAGED,” Zip booms, shattering the moment. “WELCOME TO JUNKER’S REST. ATMOSPHERIC QUALITY: QUESTIONABLE. CHANCE OF TETANUS: HIGH. CHANCE OF CAPTAIN AND PASSENGER COMPLETING THEIR UNFINISHED BUSINESS: STATISTICALLY INEVITABLE.”
