Kris DeLake - Spy to Die For

She tasted like lemon, and he realized she had taken a sip of her fizzy drink. Then he stopped analyzing and just kissed her back. Somehow his hand left the table and cupped that wedge of soft black hair, somehow his other hand caught her shoulder and pulled her just a bit forward, somehow he leaned in so hard the table slid aside.

Her hands cupped his cheeks, holding him in place. The kiss took forever—a good forever—the kind of forever in which time slowed down and each second felt like an hour. He savored the feel of her, the taste of her, the way she threw herself into the kiss, just like she had thrown herself into that burger.

He had never been kissed like that, not once in all of his thirty-two years, and then, suddenly, it was over.

“Wow,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “Screw the drink. You want to see if you fit in my room?”

At first, he wasn’t sure if he heard her right. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who propositioned a man after an hour’s conversation. Then he realized he didn’t know what kind of woman did that. He had assumptions, and apparently she didn’t fit into them.

He swallowed, still tasting her, not sure how to respond. Her room? Here?

She sighed and shook her head slightly. “I surprised you.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“And you’re probably involved with someone.”

“No.” He sounded stunned. He probably looked stunned too. No woman had ever done this to him before, not so fast, not—at least—without one of his friends behind it all or as part of a job (her job). Hookers weren’t uncommon on space stations like this, but then, hookers almost never looked like Skye. At least, not on space stations like this.

“And you’ve got scruples or something,” she said, the light going out of her eyes.

“Um, yeah, I mean, no, I mean—ah hell.” He didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t know what she meant.

“Look,” she said, leaning toward him, her elbow on the table, her hand dropping down dangerously close to his thigh. “I travel a lot. I spend a ton of time alone. I’ve learned to take things when they present themselves. You presented yourself, and I thought—well, you know what I thought. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You didn’t,” he managed. “Insult me, that is.”

She raised her head, looking surprised.

“You startled me.” He didn’t want to admit that no woman had ever come onto him like this before—at least, not since his early years, after he left Tranquility House, the horribly misnamed government home for orphaned and abandoned children that he had gotten stuck in. During those post-Tranquility years, there had been a lot of drinking and a lot of posturing and a lot of morning-after regrets.

He couldn’t drink now, not with his job, not the way things were—not that he’d ever enjoyed it—and he hadn’t put himself in a position to be around interesting women in a long, long time, and even then—

“Ah, hell. I just…” There it was, the near-admission. He didn’t want her to know that other women never found him this attractive. “I just wasn’t thinking…”

“I hope you weren’t,” she said with a tentative smile.

He smiled back. “I mean, I—we—were flirting, and I thought it wouldn’t go beyond that.”

“Because you have someone back home, wherever home is. Because you don’t travel much. Because you’re worried that this’ll get back to her, and you’ll get in trouble, and—”

“No,” he said. “I travel a lot.”

Why he responded to that, he’d never know. He could have objected to anything that she said. It was all wrong.

“Then you understand that sometimes you just have to take the leap because you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,” she said.

“I’m a leap?” His brain was still working sluggishly from that kiss.

She grinned. “Yeah. You’re a leap. One I’d love to try.”

His cheeks warmed.

“The universe is a big place, and we probably will never get this chance again. I’m not asking to go to your place. Hell, I’m not even asking what you do. If you don’t want to go to my room, we can get one for both of us. I’ll even pay…”

Her voice trailed off. Then she sighed.

“I’m embarrassing myself, aren’t I?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “No, you’re not. I just—um—you know, normally, I’m a really articulate guy.”

She smiled.

“But I don’t have words.” He took her hand. “So screw words. Let’s go to your room and see if I fit.”

Jack had never seen a room like this before, not on Krell. The first time he’d come here, nearly a decade ago, he’d rented a room and it had been as filthy as the Starcatcher. The bed smelled like the previous occupant (maybe the dozen previous occupants) and he had slept in a chair that night.

From that moment on, he slept in his ship.

This room, though, this room… wasn’t a room. It was a suite. Two rooms and a bathroom. Two clean rooms and a bathroom. So clean the place actually glistened. The air still smelled of lemon—not because of Skye’s drink, but because of some kind of mix in the room’s environmental controls (a mix she had probably chosen)—and there wasn’t grime or dust or dirt anywhere to be seen.

She walked in ahead of him, and her presence made the room seem big. She stood like a princess among the matching couch and chairs, her back silhouetted against a wall screen that she had shut off.

The room had no windows, which was not a surprise, since there weren’t many windows anywhere on Krell. No one wanted to see out, and no one wanted any incoming ship to see in. Most people came to Krell on business they didn’t want anyone else to know about, so seeing and being seen were not high on Krell’s priority list.

Still, he had no idea that a rented suite like this existed here. Although he should have known it. A lot of rich criminals spent a lot of time here, and those people liked being comfortable.

Jack hovered at the door. Skye smiled at him. The smile lit up her black eyes. It made him want to smile back.

He didn’t. His heart pounded.

He knew nothing about her. And she was in one of the expensive suites. She said she traveled a lot. What if she did so for her work—her illegal work?

She tilted her head slightly. “Are you changing your mind? Because I think you will fit.”

Her hand brushed her thigh ever so slightly. She wasn’t talking about the room; they had both known that from the beginning.

He could back out now and fantasize about this forever. Or regret it forever. She had promised him no strings, promised just a moment in time, and he hadn’t had a moment—a good moment—in more than a year.

He smiled, hoping it didn’t look too hesitant, then ducked under the door frame and stepped into the living room part of the suite. He could stand upright, but the top of his head brushed against the ceiling.

“Wow,” she said. “I would have thought you’d have to bend just a bit.”

He was bending. He was bending all of his personal rules. His heart pounded—not just from nerves, but from her nearness. He wanted to touch her, but for the first time since he met her, he felt shy.

“Are you changing your mind?” This time, her tone was different. The teasing quality had left. She looked serious for the first time since he met her. That seriousness aged her just enough to make him realize she was closer to his age than he thought. She had a lot of experience, just like he did.

“I… um… don’t do this usually,” he said.

Her eyes sparkled. “Most women would think that a good thing.”

“You don’t?” he asked.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward her. “I think we’re stepping out of our lives here, so what we usually do and don’t do doesn’t matter.”