Her tongue returned to its work with renewed intensity, and Carmen forced herself to focus on the sensation, on the building pressure, on anything except the knowledge that Letitia wanted to give her more than Carmen would allow herself to take.
The moment had fractured, though. Carmen gritted her teeth, bearing down on the pleasure, chasing it with grim determination. She adjusted Letitia’s angle with her hand, ground her hips up in a deliberate rhythm, rebuilt the fire that had stuttered. She knew her own body. She knew exactly what she needed. She didn’t need anyone else making decisions about her pleasure.
“There,” she gasped. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
Letitia kept the pace Carmen demanded, the pressure, the angle, her hands gripping Carmen’s hips now to hold her steady.
Even kneeling between Carmen’s thighs, Letitia’s lean, muscled frame seemed to fill the narrow space, all controlled power and focused attention. The devotion in the act was palpable: not submission, but service, the kind that came from someone who’d studied every response, learned every tell, who wanted nothing more than to be useful. Carmen could feel it in the way Letitia anticipated her next movement, supported her rhythm without being asked.
She hated that she could feel it.
The tension coiled tighter. Carmen’s breath hitched, a sharp intake, then fractured into a low, guttural cry as the release finally washed over her in waves. She held Letitia’s head in place, riding out every last pulse of sensation until her thighs trembled and her grip loosened.
She let go, her hand falling away, and stared up at the stained acoustic tiles of her cabin ceiling, the familiar cracks and brown water stains spelling out constellations of failure. The ever-present hum of the ship settled back into her awareness like a tide, leaving behind the familiar, jagged shoreline of her worries. Maltese. Corso. That smuggling deal burning a hole in their future.
Letitia shifted, resting her cheek against Carmen’s thigh, her dark eyes watching Carmen’s face. Her thumb traced idle circles on Carmen’s hipbone.
“Better?” she asked, her voice husky.
Better? No, nothing was better. They were stillen routeto Babcinq with contraband that couldn’t buy them out of trouble. She’d still had to prostrate herself before a pig like Maltese just to get this humiliating gig. They were still horrifically screwed.
But the mind-numbing release of an orgasm had cleared the blockage on their approach to Babcinq. If they could get a friendly traffic controller, they should be able to dock and unload without the COPS knowing they were there. So, there was that, at least.
“Yeah,” she said, trying with all her might to sound sincere.
“You were wound tighter than the main drive coil,” Letitia said, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from Carmen’s forehead.
Her touch lingered, a softness Carmen instinctively shied away from. She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bunk, putting space between them. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps on her sweat-dampened skin.
Carmen grabbed the worn tank top discarded on the floor. She pulled it on, the familiar scent of engine grease and her own sweat a small comfort.
“Maltese was his usual charming self. And Corso decided to make an appearance.”
The names tasted like bile. She didn’t elaborate. Letitia knew the history. They all did.
“That asshole?” Letitia’s voice hardened. “What did he want?”
She scooted closer, her hand resting on Carmen’s back, between her shoulder blades. The touch was meant to be comforting, but it felt like a weight.
“To gloat.”
Carmen shrugged off the hand, standing up. She needed movement, distance. The pleasant lethargy of sex was gone, replaced by the familiar buzz of restless energy. She paced the short length of her cabin, three steps to the dented locker, three steps back.
“I ran into him coming out of Maltese’s den of iniquity. Literally. Couldn’t resist rubbing our noses in it.” She stopped, facing the small, grimy viewport. Outside, the swirling, pink blur of hyperspace pulsed, indifferent. “Called theAntillesa cur with fleas.”
Letitia flinched. The insult to their ship was personal.
“He’s just trying to get under your skin, Captain.”
“He succeeded.”
The admission was bitter. Carmen leaned her forehead against the cool plexisteel. She could still see Corso’s smug face, hear his oily voice.Garbage haul.The humiliation twisted in her gut, sharp and fresh. She’d taken his bait. Again. Let him see how far she’d fallen. Coffee. Freaking coffee.
“Are we at least getting decent cash for this suicide run?” Letitia asked.
Carmen turned, leaning back against the viewport frame. She crossed her arms, a defensive barrier.
“No.”
