AN: I
wrote Beka's point of view. From my perspective that ends the tale.
Aquila
"Every
great idea starts out as blasphemy"
Fear is Most
Potent – Two
The sheets were dripping from
night sweats, which came free with every nightmare. If I didn’t get a good
night’s sleep I would not be able to stream. If I can’t stream, then there is
no reason for me to be First Office of the Andromeda Ascendant. I need to get
some sleep.
There was one sentient on
board that might understand the terror and feeling of violation that the
invasion causes. Is he sleeping peacefully? Perhaps I could find comfort there?
Would he let me?
To my surprise, his access
door is not locked. Holding my breath I enter. He is face down on his bed, with
his head on his arms. It is odd to see his smooth forearms. I, at least, did
not return from our ordeal physically damaged. I wonder what it must be like
for him to live without the bone blades?
The blankets cover everything
south of his shoulder blades. His hair covers the rest, spread like a peacock’s
tail across his back and the bed.
I chew on my lower lip. Do
I wake him up or turn and leave, now, before he sees my weakness. He is not
fond of weakness, nor is he known for his ability to comfort. Yet I am here.
The decision is made for
me. He raises the sheets, an invitation to join him. No words pass between us.
His gesture is all the invitation I need.
I slide in beside him,
burrowing a cheek into a handful of stray locs. One arm stretches across his
upper back and a leg captures his ass. I attach myself to him like a Genite
seraph. Immediately my eyelids grow heavy and the terror roiling in the pit of
my stomach vanishes. I sleep deeply for the first time in weeks.
Even in sleep his instinct
is to protect and possess. I awake to find that he has drawn me tight to his
body. One hand is buried between my thighs. The other cradles a breast. His
head rests on the nape of my neck. For a brief moment I am tempted to turn an
act of kindness into an act of passion.
He has never alluded to the
interlude. We have worked side by side for more than a week, yet there have
been no hints, no innuendoes - nothing. I am impressed; not many men would
resist pressing the advantage when they found a woman’s vulnerability.
The nightmares have
returned. I am drenched. My chest is constricted. Tears streak my face. I am a
mess. A warm shower takes care of the physical effects, but emotionally I am
still raw. I need the comfort of his arms.
His door is open. He is in
bed, sleeping on his stomach. It must be a habit. I believe that he knows I am
here. He has done nothing to show displeasure at my presence, so I lift the
covers and slide in beside him.
This time I curl up, my back
to him. Suddenly I am tucked up against his side. He has pulled me to him. He
leaves his arm draped across my waist. The heat that radiates from him envelops
me. I stretch like a cat before a fire. As I do so, his hand once again cradles
a breast. I place my hand over his and we fall asleep.
With the coming day,
anxiety arrives of a different sort. I awaken atop him. My head is on his
shoulder. Our bellies are separated by nothing more than the silk nightdress I wear.
My arms have worked their way around his chest, forming a hug of sorts. My legs
are splayed knees on either side of his thighs. Pelvis to pelvis, I feel the
stirrings of desire. I kiss his cheek and leave.
Nightmares no longer keep
me awake. Instead, erotic dreams of unrequited lust cause me to toss and turn.
Desire dampens my sheets not fear. This is the third night of wanting. I ask
Andromeda if he has returned from his mission. Good, he is still away.
His quarters are not
locked. I must ask him about that. There is a motive behind his every action,
even the comfort he has willingly provided. I ask Andromeda to turn on his
table lamp. It casts long shadows across the room. His bed is unmade. With
Andromeda’s help I find clean sheets and change the bedding. I had planned to
wait for his return, but the bed looks so inviting, I undress and slide under
the cool sheets. I leave his side undisturbed.
The whoosh of the door
brings me out of my doze. I watch through my lashes as he enters the room. He looks
used. Dust covers his clothes. There are sweat stains around the armholes of
his vest. If he were to kiss me now, there would be stubble burn. He is
elemental male, returned from his labours.
He shows no surprise at my
presence. He strips, not erotically, practically. I watch as he strides towards
the shower, muscles rippling beneath the dusty skin, magnificent. When I hear
the water running, I begin to breathe again.
His skin glistens, fresh
from the shower. His stubble is gone. He has shaved. He does not hesitate,
moving directly to the bed. This time he lies on his back, with his hands under
this head. His body is open to me. I slide close so that I can press my breasts
against his rib cage and drape a leg across his groin. I push my pelvis against
his hipbone. He does not react to my nakedness. He slips an arm under my neck.
I rest my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head, then sleeps.
He has awakened, although
he has yet to open his eyes. I can tell by the stiffening of his muscles under
my body. And there is something else. His sex is erect, pulsing against my leg
that holds the evidence of his desire in place. His muscles are bunching as if
to move.
I place a finger on his
lips. Sh, I think to myself. Relax. You have earned your reward. I am the
pilot. You are the joystick. I push the sheets from his body, unveiling his
masculine beauty. I revel in the shivers and twitches that my touch elicits
from him. His manhood jumps in anticipation.
I straddle his groin and
capture the stick in my hands. We enter slipstream.