Fear is Most
Potent Part One
by Aquila
Fear is most potent in the
heart of the night, when all you can hear is the coursing of blood through your
veins. Your imagination turns memories into monsters and confidence into doubt.
Chased from her familiar surroundings
by phantoms of her own making, she slipped into my quarters unannounced.
I never lock my access
door. Who is tempted by an open door? A locked door, on the other hand, is an
invitation to intrude.
Feigning sleep I waited for
a clue as to her motivation. Her arms were crossed, her hands gripping her
upper arms. She was chewing her lower lip. Her hair was disheveled. She wore
sleeping attire. The kind women wear when they have acquired a mate and are no
longer displaying. Comfortable, baggy cotton bottoms tied at the waist and an
oversized flannel T-shirt. She was not here to seduce me. I admit a twinge of
regret when I deduced that.
Action was required. Talk
would only make the situation awkward. So I slowly lifted the blanket in
invitation. Her hesitation was fleeting. She slid under the cover, which I
settled over her. Still no eye contact or conversation.
The fact that I wore no
sleeping attire did not seem to bother her. Nor did the fact that I sleep on my
stomach. She pillowed a cheek on my locs that were spilled across the mattress.
She slipped a leg across my buttocks and an arm across my back. I was enveloped
in a woman’s warmth for the first time in months.
My father always said that
a woman in your bed was the reward of peace. A lonely bed was the price of war.
The aftermath of war had driven her from her bed into mine. Father had never
given much thought to the female perspective.
When I awoke she was gone.
Unlike the romantic entertainments that she is prone to watch - although she
would deny it - she had left no note or flora. Discretion was called for. I
would pretend it never happened.
More than a week passed.
She never alluded to the interlude. We worked side by side every day. We ate
meals together. We trained and sparred. Not once did she mention that night or
what made her seek me out. Not once.
Enough time had passed that
I had convinced myself that it had been a lucid dream. A psychological response
to the near death experience of the tunnel.
I had not dreamed her
presence, for she was standing in my quarters once again. This time she did not
wait for my invitation. She raised the covers and slipped in. She curled into a
fetal position. Her back was to me. I reached out and pulled her closer,
leaving my arm draped across her waist. This time she wore a nightdress of rich
silk that rustled when she relaxed and stretched out beside me. She stayed on
her side. My hand found a breast and cupped it. She placed her hand over mine
and we fell asleep.
She left just before the
ship began its daily routine. I know because she placed a chaste kiss on my
cheek before leaving.
Our conspiracy of silence
continued. Perhaps she believed that if we spoke of it we would complicate
things. Emotional complications do not appeal to Captain Valentine. Why did I
refrain from confronting her? I am a man and there is a fragile peace. War will
break out soon enough.
Three nights later, I had
returned late from a supply run, I found she had arrived before me. She had
left a table lamp on to warn me of her presence. I didn’t need it. I would
recognize the scent that is Beka anywhere. It was her turn to feign sleep, I
supposed.
I stripped as I always do.
I removed my shirt and hung it in the closet. I sat in a chair and removed my
boots. Then I secured my weapons. My trousers came off last. I enjoy the rush
of cool air against my skin when I remove my leathers. Modesty would have been
hypocritical. I padded to the facility to shower.
For a reason that I do not
fully comprehend, I broke the routine that night by settling on my back when I
got in beside her. The sheets were fresh and cool on my side of the bed. (I had
begun to think of the left side as my side.) She had changed the sheets and her
sleeping attire. She wore the skin in which she was born.
Once I was settled, she
slid over to spread body parts across me. An arm and breast rested on my chest.
She tucked her groin against my hip and stretched a leg across my pelvis. I
slipped an arm under her neck, so she placed her head on my shoulder.
Exhausted, I kissed the top of her head and closed my eyes.
An hour later I awoke
refreshed and rigid. My body had responded to the friction of her leg as she
moved in her sleep. Our previous interludes had not been complicated by desire.
I was fearful that my natural reaction to the beautiful woman in my arms would
scare her more than whatever had driven her to my bed in the first place.
My discomfort must have
awakened her. She placed a finger on my lips as if she wanted me to remain
silent. I nodded just enough so that she could see that I understood. Then she
grasped the covers in her hand and drew them down my body. More friction. More
tension. Raised heart rate and a continued tightening in my groin.
When she had exposed as
much as she felt was necessary she straddled my pelvis. With her hands she
positioned my pulsing manhood at the warm, wet entrance to her canal. I stopped
breathing as I waited for her decision.
Aquila
"Every
great idea starts out as blasphemy"