Yeah, there was even one on the ceiling.
Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her hand. Watching him was educational. At least, that’s what she told herself. She was just… assessing his capabilities and physical condition before the match.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way his muscles flexed under tanned skin, or how his hair had come loose from its tie to frame his face in dark strands.
New gloves from the market hugged his hands, the reinforced knuckles flexing as he worked through drills. He dropped into a crouch, then exploded upward in a move that would have sent an opponent flying if one had been there.
Sweat glistened on his bare chest, catching the harsh overhead lights. He reset his stance, planted his feet, and within a second was off again as he launched into a series of explosive pivots, lashing out at all the strike zones within reach.
Opponents, she realized suddenly. He was simulating a fight with multiple opponent players.
Dropping back, he reset his stance, then looked directly at the camera… and winked.
Heat flared across her cheeks. He knew she was watching him. Of course, he knew. Grinning, he turned back to his drill.
I believe the phrase is ‘caught red-handed,’ Fred commented.
“Shut up,” she muttered. “Just monitoring crew activity. Standard procedure.”
Standard procedure usually involves less drooling.
She ignored him, watching as Raaze finished another set, chest heaving, and looked directly into the camera again. He just grinned, rolling his shoulders slowly, the heavy muscles shifting under his scarred skin in a way that made her thighs press together without permission.
She forced her attention back to the primary display and tried to focus on their arrival plans.
The Summer League qualifying match was in three days. They needed credentials, cover stories, and a way to access the private boxes where the R'Tev would be watching. Which meant that she had forms to forge, security to research, and contingencies to plan.
But her brain refused to cooperate. Instead, it kept replaying images of Raaze. Of his big, muscled body in motion, the controlled power in each movement, the way his skin had glistened with sweat…
The way those big hands had gripped her hips in the corridor days ago. The other night, he’d lifted her as if she weighed nothing, pinned her to the bulkhead, and driven into her until she’d seen stars.
You appear distracted, Fred said.
“I’m working.”
Are you? Because you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for seven minutes and forty-three seconds.
She groaned and pushed away from the console again. “I need a break.”
Might I suggest a cold shower?
She glared at his cartridge. “I will deactivate you.”
Unlikely. You need me too much.
Cait retreated to her quarters, determined to focus on something, anything, other than the Izaean currently using the shower in the cargo bay.
Iwillnotlook, Iwillnotlook, Iwillnotlook.
She pulled up the security schematics for the arena and forced herself to study the stadium layout.
Private boxes were on the upper level with security checkpoints at each entrance. Staff access was through service corridors, so if she could forge the right credentials, she could?—
Her door chimed.
“Come in,” she called, not looking up from the tablet.
The door slid open. She glanced up and dropped the tablet.
