Zoë Archer: Collision Course

She spent most of her time silent, going about her business without speaking to another person for hours, if not days. Yet the silence between her and Frayne grated, reminding her how those silent days were often more lonely than peaceful.

“Food’s not too spicy, is it? I developed a liking for Tulian peppers and put them in everything.”

Gods, could she be more banal?

“Not too spicy. I like it hot.”

Of course he did. More than the Tulian peppers made her face heat. She took a long pull from her bottled water and vowed to keep quiet.

As soon as they finished eating, they returned to the cockpit. He filled the small space, not just with his size, but his presence. A radiance of energy around him, male and potent.

She needed to get away from him.

With almost eighteen solar hours to kill before reaching the outer perimeter of the Smoke, the best use of time would be to get some rest. She had navigated Ilden’s Lash dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But it was still dangerous, no matter how familiar, and she needed to rest before threading her ship through the belt of neoplanets and magma. A tired pilot was a dead pilot.

“I’ll take the controls while you sleep,” Frayne said when she told him her plans.

“Nobody touches the Arcadia ’s controls but me.” She punched in the directional coordinates and set the ship to autopilot. All sensors were engaged, so if anything or anyone came within a solar hour of the ship an alert would sound, waking even the deepest sleeper. Just one of the many modifications she’d made to her baby. “Can’t be a solo flyer without a little technical assistance.”

The commander didn’t look pleased to be superseded by the autopilot, but she didn’t care. This was her ship, her rules.

“If you don’t like it,” she suggested, “you can get out and walk.”

He did not bother to respond to this. Instead, he stared out the front display, eyes intent on the red miasma of Ilden’s Lash in the distance.

From the corner of her eye, she followed the hard, clean lines of his profile, the strong nose, full bottom lip. A few creases in the corners of his eyes from years of squinting in the unfiltered starlight.

That tiny scar at the very edge of one eyebrow—it looked like it came from a knife, not a plasma weapon. He was rugged. A fighter.

She had to wonder—what truly made him want to protect her from the PRAXIS captain? Had Frayne been a fellow scavenger or smuggler, she would immediately know the answer to that. Self interest. Had the commander been anyone else in the 8th Wing, she would make the same guess.

But he wasn’t a scavenger, smuggler, pirate or some lackey trying to protect the 8th Wing’s agenda. She was beginning to learn that Commander Kell Frayne was his own man, with his own drive, his own strength. Both of which he had been ready to use to protect her.

No one had done that in…ever.

She slid out of her seat and ducked into the galley. She didn’t want to think about Frayne defending her, or his reasons for doing so.

“Heading back,” she said. “You may as well get some rest too.”

He turned and stared at her. “This ship has only one sleeping quarters.”

She felt a thick pulse of heat through her body at the unspoken words. One sleeping quarters. One bed. A bed they both knew could accommodate two, even if one of its occupants was Frayne’s size.

And wouldn’t she love climbing over that big, hard body of his, exploring and learning its potential and promise. She’d seen his reaction to her back at the 8th Wing base. They could do some wicked things to each other.

The cosmos knew she’d taken men to bed on shorter acquaintance. But the circumstances had been very different. She’d been able to say goodbye, or, in some situations, kick them out in the morning. Not an option with the commander. Their mission together had barely begun. Sure, she could enjoy his body for the next few hours, but what about afterward? She didn’t know what would be worse: if he dismissed her, or if he wanted something more. She had no desire for anything lasting, anyone that wanted true intimacy.

And he was 8th Wing. The other side of the law.

Complicated. Too complicated. She wanted simplicity. That’s what her life had been about, ever since leaving Argenti.

She broke away from his gaze. “I keep a hovermattress, in case of emergencies.” From one of the bulkheads, she pulled out the compacted mattress, then tossed it toward him. “It should fit in the galley.”

He caught the foil-wrapped mattress, his expression of disappointment disappearing almost as soon as it appeared. “This’ll work. The conditions are better than camping in the marshes of Jenufa Ten.”

“You’ve done that?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t Jenufa Ten have blood-drinker moths the size of cats?”

“The size of dogs, actually. Big dogs.”

Mara shuddered. “I run a cleansing protocol every half a quarter, so there shouldn’t be any blood-drinker moths. Maybe a dirtroach or two.” She grinned.

He smiled back. “I’ll keep my plasma pistol handy.”

Well, hell, if he was going to be charming , he wasn’t going to make this mission any easier. She hit the light controls, engaging the sleep protocol. The lights dimmed. She started to edge toward her quarters, feeling strangely awkward. “Not used to guests. Is there, uh, anything else you need? Some sleep clothes?”

“When I’m on duty, I sleep with my pants and boots on. Off duty, I usually sleep naked.”

Images filled her mind. His bare flesh, the clean, solid form of his body. The tight sleeveless shirt he wore proved how fit he was, and without the shirt, she would see the planes of his chest and ridges of his abdomen, the muscles trailing lower. She wondered if his chest was smooth or haired, and what both textures would feel like against her skin.

“I sleep naked too,” she whispered.

His breath came in a sharp rasp, his eyes blazed with dark fire. In his tight grip, the packaging around the mattress tore. The noise was the sound of control being slowly torn apart.

“If you want to sleep alone, go now .”

A hot thrill shot through her, centering at the tips of her breasts and between her legs. What would it be like to have his warrior’s intensity focused on her? She did and didn’t want to know.

Without another word, she turned and bolted to her quarters. There was no door—no reason to have one when the ship was hers alone. She debated for a moment whether or not to take off her clothes. The Arcadia was small enough so that he’d be able to hear her undressing. A little voice taunted her. Get naked, let him listen to you strip. Tease him. Maybe he’ll join you.

Shut up , she snarled to her inner voice.

She took off her jacket, removed her boots, had another moment’s debate, and then shucked her pants. That was as far as she could take it. Her tank top and panties stayed on. Anything else would be too much of a temptation. Already she found herself straining to listen to him, hearing him move through the galley and unfold the hovermattress.

She waited, holding her breath, for the tell-tale sounds of clothes being stripped off. His shirt, at least, since he was on duty. Curiosity gripped her.

As silently as possible, she crept from her quarters and padded down the short passageway that lead to the galley. She peered around the corner.

He sat on the edge of the hovermattress, his knuckles braced against his knees. He stared straight ahead at the bulkhead. He’d removed his shirt, but, true to his word, kept his pants and boots. Oh, that was a torso to be inscribed in the stars. Hard and carved and meant for both combat and pleasure, dusted with dark hair. A few scars crisscrossed his bronzed skin. She stared at the gorgeous contours of his arms, the muscles tight with strain as if he barely held himself in check. She wanted those arms around her, holding her down as he took what she wanted to offer.