“And—me?”
“You . . . ” He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “If I measured each of my loves against what I feel for you, it would seem that I had never loved anyone at all.”
A thrill of emotion accompanied that, all edges and pinpricks. Aelliana took a breath.
“Van'chela, this thing that we are—is it—well?”
He smiled, slow and warm. “I think it is very well, indeed,” he murmured, and leaned over to kiss her.
The touch of his lips ignited her; she leaned in hungrily, with one hand pulling him close, and closer still.
Daav made a noise that might have been a purr or a growl, his lips on her throat now. He pressed forward; the chair began to recline, yielding beneath their combined weight.
Open, you stupid, mewling brat! Her husband's voice shouted from memory; accompanied by the sensation of being pinned by a weight greater than hers, her legs thrust wide—
Quick as a breath, the memory was gone, and it was Daav holding her, pressing her down, and she wanted, wanted—
She raised a hand and put it flat against his chest.
“Wait . . . ” she whispered.
He froze where he was; she felt the care he took, and what it cost him to straighten away from her and sit back on his heels.
“Aelliana, forgive me—”
She put her fingers over his mouth.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she told him, “only . . . an accommodation. I—we—can learn this, van'chela.” She came to her feet, reaching down to take his hand. “Come.”
Hand-linked, they left the piloting chamber, and hand-linked they went down the short hall to crew's quarters. She put her free hand against the door on the right side of the corridor, and smiled when it slid soundlessly open.
The room beyond was decadent, reflecting some—though not all—of the former owner's . . . predilections. The ceiling mirrors had been sold, but the rest of the room was absurdly furnished for a working Class A Jump.
The floor was covered in thick, creamy carpet; the bed luxuriously outfitted with silks, furs, and an entire school of brightly colored pillows. It was, she thought, turning to face Daav, perfect. It belonged to no one, save her; and it was her choice that had brought him here. That was important.
Very important.
“Take off your jacket,” she commanded.
One eyebrow rose, but he complied, dropping the garment to the rug.
“Take off your jacket,” he countered, softly.
Ah, this was a game that Daav knew, was it? She smiled again, delight stitching through the bright threads of need, desire, and determination.
Her jacket slid down her arms. She dropped it next to his on the rug.
“Your shirt,” she said. “Remove it.”
He smiled and fingered the lacing loose, taking an inordinately long time about it, his eyes on hers the entire while, at last withdrawing the cord from its guides entirely and dropping it to the floor. His eyes still on hers, he slowly pulled the shirt over his head, and let it fall.
She stepped forward then, unable to stop, and ran her hands over his chest, delighting in the texture of his skin, stretching high to place her hands on his shoulders, her body pressed into his, and her face turned up.
“Kiss me.”
He did that, and willingly. Hunger seared her; she angled her mouth against his hard and demanding, and he responded—but with restraint; his embrace not as fierce as it might have been—she read it in him, that he did not wish to frighten her, and stepped back, shivering with need.
Her shirt had someway joined the muddle of clothes on the rug; she didn't remember how, and it did not concern her.
“Boots,” Daav murmured, before she could draw breath. “Else this will quickly become a comedy.”
She laughed, breathless, and sat on the edge of the bed to attend hers, then looked up at him, feeling suddenly not . . . quite . . . bold.
“Take off the rest,” she said, her voice shaking. “And lie down on the bed.”
He was a paradox—a dozen paradoxes; velvet skin over hard, lean muscle. Her fingers found scars; her lips found places that had him nearly weeping with delight.
This was far superior to their first encounter, when all she had known was what he had desired. This . . . exploration; this teasing out of sensual knowledge—she could do this, she thought, lazily running her fingers down the inside of his thigh, for days. She smiled at the catch in his breath, and moved her fingers again.
“Aelliana . . . ” He reached for her; she caught his hands and kissed his palms, feeling his intent.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It's your turn now.”
Passion, pillows cascading to the floor, laughter, cries, and limbs entangled. She was astride him, aching for union, and there—there he came again, her husband, cursing her as he slammed her against the wall and thrust his member into her—
