Demon Branded (Demons of Florida) (13 page)

“Destination, Captain.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Samy stepped into the locker room, like every locker room on every planet under every governmental system. Metal lockers lined the walls, seats in front of them for changing. A stack of clean towels sat next to the shower stalls, while the barrels for soiled linen overflowed. At least on her ship, she made sure the room smelled of cleaners instead of mildew, or worse, body odor.

Only minutes before her scheduled game, she pulled open her locker, keyed to her biometrics, and quickly exchanged her uniform for one of the seven neatly folded outfits she replaced once a week. Last, she slipped on ankle socks and specially designed sneakers for the zap-ball courts.

As usual, she kept her heart rate normal, her anticipation subdued, and her smile buried beneath her rank—until she reached the hallway door. When her fingers touched the cool metal to open court six, her flesh heated, her mouth watered, and her heart pounded in her ears.

It was like a sickness.

Never in her life had she been so utterly out of control of her body. To her mortification, she couldn’t stop herself from the daily torture. Nor could she make herself act upon it. Had they been dirtside—and who was she kidding? She hadn’t been dirtside since she’d left home at eighteen, twenty years ago—or perhaps on a multi-use station, she might have had a fling with him as a civilian. But he wasn’t a civvie. Wilson Dex was an enlisted man. Under her command. Couldn’t be more off limits than that. Not to mention, he was too good-looking, too young, and too risky.

Master Sergeant Dex stood with his back to her on the court. She let out the breath and threw back her shoulders to thrust out her breasts. She caught herself and relaxed the rigid pose.

Deep down, she’d worried he wouldn’t come today, but even further down, deep enough she barely recognized it, she knew he felt the attraction as much as she did. With his back to her, she allowed herself to drink her fill of the dusky planes of his muscles, the skimpy, skin-tight shorts that cupped his ass like a glove, and the tight T-shirt that occasionally rode up to show peeks of his flat stomach. The sleeveless zap-ball shirt exposed his tattoos, a rarity in the military since most troopers kept a regimental mentality and look. Smokejumpers weren’t regimental. They were enlisted, not the aristocratic inherited positions of the officers.

On one shoulder, a cross encircled in a wheel, filled with Celtic knots like the ones she’d seen on the other firefighter’s uniforms. The other tattoo, a dragon circling his bicep, hugged his cut, wiry arm, and exuded pure strength.

With an abrupt turn, he faced her, the lines of his stomach flexing with the movement. The grin on his full but sharply defined lips brought her nipples to attention.

Thankfully, from long, torturous experience, she knew her sports bra kept most of her excitement contained, at least from visual proof.

“Captain.” The rich, chocolate-smooth voice sent shivers down her spine.

Breathless, as usual, she nodded and replied—way too huskily. “Master Sergeant.”

The clock started. They had thirty minutes of play, and Samy didn’t want to skimp on a single minute. She reached inside a sliding compartment near the door and pulled out the racquets. Once the storage compartment slid shut, the AI echoed through the chamber barely wider than her bed, probably the length of her bed twice over, and really, she should stop thinking of beds. The game voice intoned, “Zap-ball ready.”

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Author Bio

As a child, Ella read books under the covers with a flashlight. There she found a special love of elves, dragons, and knights. Now that she’s found her own knight in shining armor and happily ever after, she loves to write tales of fantasy hot enough to scorch the sheets. No flashlight needed.

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