Moonstruck (9 page)

When at last they separated, it was only to draw in air. For another kiss like that, he’d happily asphyxiate, he thought.

Her hands had made their way to his shoulders during the kiss. They stayed that way, with his arms still looped around her waist. Her eyes were closed. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d have thought she of all people would be an eyes-wide-open kisser—no fantasies, no bashfulness, nothing but clear reality. Brit Bandar never ceased to surprise him.

“I knew you felt the attraction, too,” he murmured in her hair.

Blinking, she jolted away from him. Her expression matched the look in her eyes that fleeting moment in Zaafran’s office. Her vulnerability, he thought. The hurt. It got to him every time. It was the kind of look that would send a man to the ends of the universe to make it better, if he could.

She seemed almost startled as she disentangled herself from him, and conflicted, as if waging an inner war.
A war against
you. Aye. He wanted to slap himself upside the head.
Damn you, Rorkken. Talking about it brought her back to her senses.
That was the last thing he wanted—for either of them. There were too few surprises of the pleasurable kind in life—his life, anyway. He didn’t want to lose this one he’d found. Not yet.

She turned away to retrieve a towel, pressing it to her face and neck. When she glanced at him again, it was with an air of quiet determination. “I have to shower. Perhaps, afterward, you can come to my quarters to finish what we started.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated. “That’s not an order.”

“It should be obvious that this is private and outside protocol. If that makes you uncomfortable, then…”

He almost laughed. “I’m many things right now. Uncomfortable isn’t one of them.”

“Good.” She ran the towel over her graceful neck.

She’d invited him to her quarters, after all, and, he assumed, into her bed. “Would you like to share dinner?” he offered lamely. He’d never have thought it possible, but Finnar Rorkken, Scourge of the Borderlands, was actually nervous. A meal would break the ice.

“If you’re hungry, I will order dinner. It’s not necessary, though.” She walked away, hips undulating. “You, however, are.”

Dropping her towel down a nanocleaner tube with an elegant flick of her wrist, she disappeared into the changing room.

Gods be.
He was famished—and not, for once, for food.

F
INN WALKED
across his room, dressed in nothing but his tattoos. He turned on the shower and stepped under the drenching stream, savoring the blessed downpour and the blessed cleanser before finally drying off using the blessedly soft towel—all done in the privacy of his own quarters. He’d lost count of how many showers he’d taken since coming on board the
Unity,
but having started out as a street urchin, he doubted he’d ever take such luxury for granted. The Drakken ship had been a step up from his pirate vessel, but this was light-years beyond even that. Since coming aboard, he’d been taking far longer showers than was necessary. Not tonight. Aye, tonight he had reason to be elsewhere.

He threw open the door to his wardrobe. He didn’t plan to be in his clothes for long, but he wanted to look his best. He’d forgotten how little he now owned. There was his old Imperial Navy uniform, if one could call it that, a threadbare, mended collection of little more than rags and leather. Another pair of old leather pants hung next to a pair of cloth trousers, a vest and several faded shirts, none of which would impress a woman like Brit Bandar. She was a class above him—several classes.
You own nothing but rags, Rorkken!
Except, maybe, the Cloudan tunic.

He grasped a luxurious sleeve, examining the condition of the garment. It was silver and light blue, shot through with threads of pure karnelian. It was a fitted piece, allowing for the breadth of his shoulders. It was entirely handmade and hand-tailored, no advanced tech inside or outside. As a pirate, he’d had no need for a uniform, but for the times he had to make an appearance, or an impression, he’d wear this, his finest article of clothing. With the Cloudan belted over his leathers, a sword hanging from his belt and polished boots, he’d been able to maintain the image of prosperity even during the lean times between raids when the coffers ran low. It was during one of those lean times that he saved the life of the leader of a rogue encampment in the Cloudlands. In thanks, the man had gifted Finn and the crew with treasures, including this tunic, tailored specifically for him. Nothing lasted long in pirates’ hands—valuable goods were sold and bartered—but Finn had never let go of the Cloudan. He was too freepin’ sentimental. The day he’d received it, he was called a hero, selfless and honorable. That didn’t happen often—not at all, in fact. The tunic was a way of hanging on to the memory. Aye, and he looked good in it, too.

The clothes of a pirate king.

Bandar will laugh her ass off if you show up at her door dressed in that.

Finn frowned as he shoved the tunic back in the wardrobe and slammed the door. He stalked naked across the room to where he’d left his Triad uniform hanging in the nanocleaner. He’d reached for it and a fresh, sleeveless undershirt when his PCD beeped. So, she was growing impatient for him, was she? He smiled wickedly as he answered, “Don’t despair, I’m on my way.”

“To the bar, sir?”

“Zurykk?” Finn swore. Damn tech. You couldn’t see who was talking to you. He was glad he hadn’t said anything more revealing. “No, I’m not coming to the bar.”

“Captain, you might want to. There was a fight. I broke it up, but tempers are still hot. Security’s here.”

“Keep them there. Tell them I’m on my way, and that I’ll take care of it.”

“Already did.”

Finn was shoving a leg in his uniform pants as he spoke. “Don’t let them tell the admiral. I’ll do that.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

He sent a prayer heavenward just in case. The last thing he needed was Bandar’s mood to sour. He didn’t want her thoughts veering anywhere else but his taking her to bed.

S
TAR
-M
AJOR
Y
AREW WAS
outside the bar when Finn arrived. It was the man’s watch. “You left the bridge for a bar brawl?” Finn asked.

“Quiet night,” the intel officer explained. “Not so in there, though.”

Inside the entrance to the bar, several Drakken stood, favoring limbs or bleeding faces. A Coalition officer was passed out on the floor, peaceful, as if he were sleeping—too much to drink, Finn thought. A few tables were overturned. Shattered glass glittered on the floor along with puddles of spilled liquor. It stank of sweat and alcohol.

It looked like a Drakken haunt. Finn winced. Thank the gods Bandar wasn’t here to see it. “Zurykk,” he bellowed.

His former second was at his side in seconds. Finn draped his arm over the man’s shoulders and steered him away. “Before I start yelling, maybe you can tell me what happened here.”

“We didn’t keep the sweef to ourselves. Some Coalition started drinking it. An Earthling, too, but he left after two glasses. Smart enough to know his limits.”

“His name wasn’t Tango, was it?”

“The pilot giving out the little toys, aye.”

Finn snorted. It wasn’t his limits that stole the man away, it was a woman; he’d probably left with Lieutenant Keyren. “So the Coalition got drunk and picked a fight.”

“Something like that, sir.”

Finn stormed back to the bar. Medical personnel had arrived to attend to the out-cold ensign. “He’ll be all right,” Finn assured them. “Best that he sleep it off.”

“Yes, Warleader.” The medical techs had replied politely—Finn outranked them—but he didn’t miss the glance they exchanged. Hoodlums, barbarians: he knew how they viewed him and the men. They were low-class Drakken, drinking their Horde brew and endangering the good people on the ship.

Finn jerked a finger at the remaining Drakken. “Out here, now.” In answer to his snarled order, four suddenly pale men followed him down the corridor.

Finn said nothing until they’d turned the corner. Then he whirled on them. “What were you freepin’ thinking, giving them sweef?”

No one wanted to answer. “You, Markar, speak.”

“Captain—”

“I’m not this ship’s captain!”

“Warleader.” The newly commissioned space-hand apprentice cleared his throat. He, Finn noted, had taken the beads out of his hair and cut it shorter, Coalition-style. It seemed others in the crew besides Bolivarr sensed the importance of blending in.

And not causing trouble. “Speak, Markar,” Finn demanded.

“They wanted to try some sweef. And we…We—”

“We thought it’d be funny to see them fall on their faces,” Yerkksen volunteered. “Drinking sweef like it was their weak liquor.”

One of the men chuckled; another snickered.

“Funny?” Finn snarled, rendering the men silent. “Just what I like to see, my people acting like fools.” He wrapped his knuckles in the collar of the third man and jerked him off his feet. Nimmson was the least injured of the group but he still winced. In fear or in pain? Finn hoped it was both. He needed a lesson to be learned here. To teach a Hordish space-hand, fear and pain worked best.

“And how did the fight start?” Finn demanded. “Zurykk said it was us.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Help me to understand, then, how this went from sweef tasting to jaw punching.”

The man was turning purple. Finn lowered him to his feet. No use killing anyone. “Tell me!”

“They got drunk and called us killer swine. They said we slaughter defenseless women and babies because we aren’t brave enough to fight real soldiers.”

Finn went still. He knew the humiliation of those words. Unfortunately, sometimes they were true. The Drakken had earned their shameful reputation by playing outside the rules of war. Not all crews or all ships, but enough to paint them all with the same broad brush. Unless a ship was commanded by a captain with a sense of right and wrong, there was no stopping them from killing noncombatants, or worse. On the
Unity,
he and his crew had been given the benefit of the doubt. They’d been treated as fellow human beings rather than as the animals many of their countrymen were. Finn knew how delighted the crew was to receive the promotions, a brilliant PR move on Bandar’s part, and one for which Finn was eternally grateful. Little by little over the course of their first week aboard, they’d been starting to feel part of the team, part of something bigger and better than any of them. Now this.

Most of Finn’s anger drained away in a tired sigh. “It’s not going to be easy for us here—we knew that. But do we let a few cowardly barbs make us show what they think are our true colors?”

They shook their heads. “No, sir.”

“Go to sick bay, all of you, and get some of their nano-ointment for those bruises.” The men’s expressions of distaste told him what they thought of that suggestion. “It’s not showing weakness to use their medicine. Unlike most of ours, their drugs freepin’ work. I want you in ship-shape tomorrow—that’s an order. No limping around and swollen noses, eh? No reminding everyone what happened here tonight. We’re better than this, right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“If they want to act like arrogant assholes, let them. We’ve got better things to do than fall for their games.”

“Aye, sir!”

With a swell of affection for his crew, he watched the men walk away in the direction of the sick bay. It was not going to be an easy transition for them—or for anyone from the
Pride.
On a smaller scale, it reflected what the rest of the galaxy was going through, and would be for years to come. It was more difficult to get along than it was to fight.

He walked back to the bar where Zurykk waited. The med techs had already taken the fallen Coalition officer away. The bar had emptied with most looking to rest before their next shifts.

Brit.

Worriedly, Finn glanced at the time. If he waited much longer, she’d have to go on duty, and he’d miss the chance to be with her. With something that good within his reach, he damn well wasn’t going to risk losing it.

He turned to Yarew, who waited with the security team. “Seeing that both sides shared the blame, I say we let it go. No one was killed. No need to disturb the admiral.”

“Security was called, Warleader. I’ll have to put this in my end-of-shift report. Ship’s rules.”

“Of course.” Coalition and their blasted rules. “The admiral can then read it at her leisure tomorrow without interrupting her rest.” Or anything else she might have planned, he thought with an inner grin. “Speaking of rest, I’m off to get my own. Good eve, gentlemen.”

With visions of the hours to come in his mind, which resembled anything but rest, Finn left for Admiral Bandar’s quarters.

B
ORED
, B
RIT HAD LONG SINCE
grown impatient for Rorkken’s arrival. Well into her second glass of wine, she fell onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Her silken robe fluttered and went still. Underneath, the barely there negligee would be for no one’s entertainment but her own, and her own wasn’t what she wanted tonight. Or needed.

To get rid of a craving, sometimes you had to have your fill of it.
Hard to do if he was a no-show.

Damn you, Rorkken.
She wouldn’t call him and ask where he was. The last thing she wanted to appear was needy. She wanted him for one purpose, and that was to put out the fire he caused in her. One long night of fornication, and she’d be over it. Over him. Obsession was best ended when faced head-on.

He wasn’t coming.

Quite frankly, it surprised her. She’d felt the hunger in his kiss, and felt that hunger pressed against her belly, too. Had either physical sign left her with any doubt of his desire, the lust in his eyes would have burned it into so much ash.

What could he have found to do that was better than her? She rolled onto her stomach and checked the time. It had been over an hour since they’d parted company. Yet, she ached with such anticipation that her breasts tingled and the wetness between her thighs was hard to ignore. Too bad he’d found something else to do; he would have liked what she intended to offer him.

Or maybe the pirate was a stickler for protocol. Two top officers on a ship bedding each other
was
highly irregular. Maybe he’d had last-minute regrets.

His kiss had said otherwise. She licked her lips. He could kiss, no doubt about that. It was the first thing she usually checked out before purchasing a man for the night. She’d never put up with a lover who didn’t kiss well. They had to be able to kiss so she could close her eyes and remember…

Her entry chimed. “Warleader Rorkken,” the room-bot announced.

Brit jumped upright, swinging her legs off the bed.
Don’t run to him, you foolish girl. You’ll frighten him away.
With a tremble in her belly, she knew the odds of frightening Finnar Rorkken were low.

The door viewer showed the man standing outside in the corridor. He was in his Triad uniform. Smart Drakken indeed. This way they could say they were having a staff meeting and no one would be the wiser.

“Open,” she told the room-bot, loosening the sash holding her robe closed. Crimson silk rustled. She let the sleeves slide off her shoulders and down her scented arms to her elbows. Her hair flowed shiny and clean, also smoothed and scented with the oil. She’d taken extra steps to ensure Finn Rorkken’s seduction. She had to be sure. It was the first time since losing Seff that she hadn’t paid a man for sexual favors. No financial promise would keep him here, only the promise of her. It had to be enough.

The door slid open. “Sorry about the delay. I had to…” Rorkken strode in—and stopped at the sight of her, his legs apart, his expression instantly sharp. The lust in his eyes, the desire, made her blood sing with nerves, with hunger, and her body ache for his touch.
Not much longer now. You’ll have your time with him, and he’ll vanish from your mind.

“A goddess in the flesh,” he murmured hoarsely as his gaze tracked down her body. The silk was so thin that her erect nipples jutted against the fabric. The slightest movement caused a whisper of abrasion that sent shock waves through her body.

She swallowed, nodding. “Warleader.”

The door slid shut. He closed the distance in three strides, stopping close enough to feel his body heat, to smell his unique scent, spice, soap and man. His work-roughened thumb slipped under one strap of her gown, moving it off her shoulder. He brought his lips to the crook of her neck as he slipped off the other strap. She shivered. Only his hand pressed to her upper back kept the gown from sliding to the floor. “Not Warleader,” he corrected. “Finn.”