His peripheral vision was excellent. He’d seen the blatant interest in her eyes. The way she looked at him as if he was the last drop of water in the Gephel Sand Wastes. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

It didn’t make any damn sense—he was 8th Wing, she was a scavenger—and it also made perfect sense. Whatever either of them thought about the other’s ethics, or lack thereof, their bodies hungered for each other.

She would be a wild thing beneath him, writhing and fierce. The kind of woman who wanted it hard and hot. He already knew she would leave scratches down his back. Just as he already knew he would leave marks where he gripped her thighs. Those thoughts alone made his cock swell even further.

If he was alone, he’d take care of things. Finish himself off with a few quick, brutal strokes of his hand, and then finally get some sleep. But he wasn’t alone. The scavenger slept only steps away, no door on her quarters. He knew he wouldn’t be quiet. His need was too fierce. He’d come with a groan.

She’d hear him.

The thought aroused him even more. He’d never been an exhibitionist. But things changed.

People changed.

Was she lying in her bed now, thinking about him, quietly touching herself?

Focus on the mission. Mara was conscripted, an unwilling collaborator. Having sex with her was a complication he, and the mission, did not need. No matter how much he and Mara wanted each other.

Gods, this was torture. He needed to rest, an impossible feat if he kept tormenting himself. He drew upon every ounce of his training, all of his self-control and discipline. Slowly, in painful increments, he willed himself to relax, loosening the tension that ran like plasma fire through his body. His breathing slowed as sleep finally took him.

His dreams were ripe with images of her. Tawny skin. Almond-shaped eyes closed in pleasure.

Reckless, eager mouth.

When the sleep protocol ended and the lights came on, he woke just as aroused and frustrated as he’d been hours earlier. Mara rustled around in her quarters.

He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, feeling like ten kinds of hell. He dressed quickly, put away the hovermattress, then ducked into the narrow hygiene bay to splash water on his face and relieve himself. It took a few minutes before his throbbing cock subsided enough so he could piss.

Reviewing evasive maneuvers and combat patterns helped distract him. After, he washed, and looked at himself in the mirror. A hard-faced man stared back, his mouth a tight line, tension vibrating through his shoulders.

When he emerged, a mug of steaming kahve was pressed into his hand. A fully-dressed Mara slipped past him into the hygiene bay, avoiding his gaze, but he saw enough to note she looked a little drawn, as if she’d spent an equally unsettled night. That didn’t make him feel any better.

He settled into the cockpit with his mug. A sip proved the kahve was dark and bitter, without sweetness. Exactly the way he liked it. Something he and the scavenger had in common. Including their shared preference for spicy food. He didn’t want to like her. That would be far more labyrinthine than simple lust.

Kell drank his kahve and stared at the nearing Ilden’s Lash. The alarm blared, indicating they were less than a solar hour away from reaching it. Red light filled the cockpit as the ship flew closer.

He studied the phenomenon. Few 8th Wing pilots ever got this near. He could examine it in greater depth, report back to command. The information could be useful for future operations.

“Forget it.” Mara slipped into the cockpit, also cradling a mug. She turned off the alarm. “If Ilden’s Lash doesn’t kill 8th Wing pilots, the thieving scum that live in the Smoke will finish the job.”

“You count yourself one of those scum?”

She grinned over the rim of her cup. “Absolutely.”

Kell couldn’t stop his own smile, especially when he saw how her grin made her appear playful,

mischievous as a girl.

“I didn’t think the Smoke Quadrant was that well patrolled.” He forced his gaze back to the display showing Ilden’s Lash. “Given that it’s full of thieving scum.”

“No one is more protective of their possessions than a thief. They know how easily things can be stolen.”

“Spoken from experience.”

“Lifetimes of it.” She spoke with the kind of worldliness Kell only heard from retired combat pilots but looked like she had not yet reached thirty solar years. Her eyes held knowledge, hard-won.

Her years had been full and difficult.

Not unlike his own.

He didn’t want to think about parallels between them, or anything else that might draw them toward one another. He was an 8th Wing officer, and duty meant everything. He held honor tightly, having had so little of it early in his life. To keep his mind on track now, he continued to stare at the display.

“Tell me more about Ilden’s Lash.”

“So you can make a report for the 8th Wing, like a good little soldier?”

“Because I want to know, damn it. I’m always hungry for more knowledge.” He remembered being a kid, finding discarded digitablets in the waste heaps and reading whatever had been downloaded onto them. Didn’t matter if they held instructions for repairing hydro-regulator systems or the best lunar low grav spas. Every bit of information was devoured.

Mara looked at him, contemplative. He held still under her perceptive scrutiny.

“Didn’t expect that,” she murmured, more to herself than him.

“Why would you? You’ve got the 8th Wing all figured out. We’re all the same.”

“Just like all scavengers are the same?”

He gave a rueful snort. “I call a draw.”

“Agreed.” This time, when they shared a smile, it was from a mutual, wry understanding. Neither of them was quite what the other had expected. She broke the connection first, turning back to the display. “Ilden’s Lash is what makes the Smoke so secure and how the Smoke came to be. It’s a band of protoplanets, some of them more solid than others. Even the more developed planets are still mostly magma.”

“So they’re constantly shifting and re-forming. Like one of those old-fashioned magma lanterns.”

Her laugh was low, husky—unexpectedly arousing. He suddenly imagined her sultry laugh as she tumbled across her bed, with him tumbling atop her.

“Think I remember my older brother having one of those,” she said, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “He used to smoke bindleweed and stare at it for hours.”

He tucked away the knowledge that she had an older brother as one might pocket a glimmering flake of zelenium. Each piece of information about her felt strangely precious.

“But that’s an apt analogy,” she continued. “Ilden’s Lash looks almost exactly like that, except you’d be incinerated if you just stood and stared at it. A passage through might look clear one moment, and in the next, it’s a wall of molten rock.”

“Unpredictable. That’s what keeps everyone out.”

“Except the scum.”

“Except the scum,” he echoed.

They both took sips of their kahve. Sitting with her in the small confines of the cockpit, both nursing their mugs—it felt intimate. He had sat in the base’s mess more times than he could remember, sharing the day’s first cup with other members of the squad. Even when it had been just him and one other person, male or female, discussing the latest briefing or plans for R & R, he hadn’t sensed the same kind of intimacy as he did now.

She must have sensed it, too, because she cleared her throat and shifted awkwardly in her seat.

“Just because there are some who know the Smoke and know Ilden’s Lash doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Pilots die trying to make their way through, even ones who’ve taken the Lash a hundred times before.”

“Doesn’t sound like an even trade,” Kell mused. “Risking your life again and again just for a bit of privacy.”