like you is letting something like this get to you?” he said, gently mocking.
“You’re damn right,” she muttered into his shoulder as she felt a tentative hand begin to explore below her waistline.
“Sorry. Just—six months alone in this dump, having to act the part? I’d have gone nuts,” he said thoughtfully.
“Been more than six months,” she said, looking past the side of his head.
He has nice earlobes, she noted vaguely as she leaned closer.
“Let’s find that wine bottle,” he suggested gently. “I think you’re going a bit fast.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, automatically. “I’m sorry.” She tensed slightly. “No, you can keep your hands there. Let’s walk.”
They somehow made it into the parlor—overstuffed armchairs and a display cabinet full of crockery—without letting go of each other.
“At first I thought you were some kind of agent provocateur,” he said, “but instead you’re the first real human being I’ve met in this place.” He left the statement hanging.
“If all I needed was flesh, there are plenty of sailor boys in this port,” she said, and leaned against him again. “That’s not where my itch is.”
“Are you sure you should be in this job? If you’re so—”
“You were going to say vulnerable?”
“Maybe. Not exactly.”
She guided him in front of the sofa. “I wanted company. Not just a quick fuck,” she explained, trying to justify it to herself.
“You and me both.” He held her, gently turned her around so that she was looking into his eyes. “So what do you want this to be?”
“Stop talking.” She leaned forward closing her eyes, and found his mouth.
Then events ran out of control.
They’d made love with desperate urgency the first time, Rachel lying on the parlor floor with her skirts hiked up around her waist, and Martin with his trousers tangled around his legs. Then they somehow migrated to the bedroom and struggled out of their clothing before making love again, this time gently and slowly. Martin had a thoughtful, considerate manner: talking afterward, he’d mentioned a divorce a few years ago. They’d talked for hours, almost until the artificial dawn, timed to coincide with sunrise on the planet below. And they’d made love until they were both sore and aching.
Now, lying awake in bed after he’d left, her head was spinning. She tried to rationalize it: isolation and nerves are enough to make anyone do something wild once in a while. Still, she felt nervous: Martin wasn’t a casual pickup, and this wasn’t a quick fuck. Just the thought of seeing him again made her feel an edgy hopeful excitement, tempered by the bitter self-disgust of realizing that mixing business with pleasure this way was a really stupid move.
She rolled over, and blinked: the clock on the inside of her left eyelid said it was just past 0700. In another two hours, it would be time to get confirmation of her diplomatic status, dress, and go kick some New Republican ass. Two hours after that, Martin would be aboard the Lord Vanek; it would all be over by 2200. Rachel sighed and tried to catch another hour’s shut-eye; but sleep was evading her.
She found herself wandering, seeking out pleasant memories. There was not a lot else to be done, in point of fact: there was a high probability that she would die if her guess about the New Republic’s intentions was wrong.
And wouldn’t that be a grand way to end 150 years? Physically as young as a twentysomething, kept that way by the advanced medical treatments of the mother planet, she rarely felt the weight of her decades; the angst only cut in when she thought about how few of the people she had known or loved were still alive. Now she recalled her daughter, as a child, the smell of her—and what brought that back? Not her daughter, the political matriarch and leader of a dynasty. Not the octogenarian’s funeral, either, in the wake of the sky sail accident. And she
“You’re damn right,” she muttered into his shoulder as she felt a tentative hand begin to explore below her waistline.
“Sorry. Just—six months alone in this dump, having to act the part? I’d have gone nuts,” he said thoughtfully.
“Been more than six months,” she said, looking past the side of his head.
He has nice earlobes, she noted vaguely as she leaned closer.
“Let’s find that wine bottle,” he suggested gently. “I think you’re going a bit fast.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, automatically. “I’m sorry.” She tensed slightly. “No, you can keep your hands there. Let’s walk.”
They somehow made it into the parlor—overstuffed armchairs and a display cabinet full of crockery—without letting go of each other.
“At first I thought you were some kind of agent provocateur,” he said, “but instead you’re the first real human being I’ve met in this place.” He left the statement hanging.
“If all I needed was flesh, there are plenty of sailor boys in this port,” she said, and leaned against him again. “That’s not where my itch is.”
“Are you sure you should be in this job? If you’re so—”
“You were going to say vulnerable?”
“Maybe. Not exactly.”
She guided him in front of the sofa. “I wanted company. Not just a quick fuck,” she explained, trying to justify it to herself.
“You and me both.” He held her, gently turned her around so that she was looking into his eyes. “So what do you want this to be?”
“Stop talking.” She leaned forward closing her eyes, and found his mouth.
Then events ran out of control.
They’d made love with desperate urgency the first time, Rachel lying on the parlor floor with her skirts hiked up around her waist, and Martin with his trousers tangled around his legs. Then they somehow migrated to the bedroom and struggled out of their clothing before making love again, this time gently and slowly. Martin had a thoughtful, considerate manner: talking afterward, he’d mentioned a divorce a few years ago. They’d talked for hours, almost until the artificial dawn, timed to coincide with sunrise on the planet below. And they’d made love until they were both sore and aching.
Now, lying awake in bed after he’d left, her head was spinning. She tried to rationalize it: isolation and nerves are enough to make anyone do something wild once in a while. Still, she felt nervous: Martin wasn’t a casual pickup, and this wasn’t a quick fuck. Just the thought of seeing him again made her feel an edgy hopeful excitement, tempered by the bitter self-disgust of realizing that mixing business with pleasure this way was a really stupid move.
She rolled over, and blinked: the clock on the inside of her left eyelid said it was just past 0700. In another two hours, it would be time to get confirmation of her diplomatic status, dress, and go kick some New Republican ass. Two hours after that, Martin would be aboard the Lord Vanek; it would all be over by 2200. Rachel sighed and tried to catch another hour’s shut-eye; but sleep was evading her.
She found herself wandering, seeking out pleasant memories. There was not a lot else to be done, in point of fact: there was a high probability that she would die if her guess about the New Republic’s intentions was wrong.
And wouldn’t that be a grand way to end 150 years? Physically as young as a twentysomething, kept that way by the advanced medical treatments of the mother planet, she rarely felt the weight of her decades; the angst only cut in when she thought about how few of the people she had known or loved were still alive. Now she recalled her daughter, as a child, the smell of her—and what brought that back? Not her daughter, the political matriarch and leader of a dynasty. Not the octogenarian’s funeral, either, in the wake of the sky sail accident. And she
Similar Books
