Page 43 of Lorran
“As you say. My eyes are closed.”
Wyn kicked off the boots and opened the seam on the suit. It peeled away easily, like it hated being on her as much as she hated wearing it.
In nothing but her undies, she shoved the suit at Lorran. “Keep ’em closed. Let me go into a shower.” He grinned but kept his eyes closed.
The sonic shower ran through two cycles before she got rid of the scent of burnt plastic. She lavishly used the bottle of thin liquid soap to chase away the odor. Industrial clean was better than smoke any day. The downside of her long shower was her hair turned into a frizzy mess again. Still better than smelling like a campfire.
Outside the cleansing room, she found a stack of Mahdfel-sized clothes and more silver foil packets of the heat-and-eat meals. Neatly folded at the top rested a dark orange shirt with pale blue trim at the collar and cuffs.
Lorran’s shirt.
She sniffed the fabric strictly to determine its level of cleanliness, not because she was crushing on her gorgeous guy. The fabric smelled like sleet and the bracing air on a wintry day. She shivered, wondering if Lorran emitted some genetically engineered super pheromone because she was inhaling a dirty shirt and practically moaning with want.
Changed into fresh undies, she slipped on the shirt. Hitting her at mid-thigh, the soft fabric looked like a dress. She swam in his shirt and she honestly could not remember the last night she had swum in anything. Certainly not since she was a little kid wearing her father’s old T-shirts as nightgowns.
Always a tall child, Wyn had been bigger than the other kids in her class. Then one day, puberty hit. Seemingly overnight, she got adult-sized with all the adult specifications. She had felt like a giant, standing taller than the kids her own age and wishing she could make herself invisible.
Ugh, all these issues.Wyn rarely beat herself up over her body.
This was stress, an adrenaline crash or her blood sugar dropping. Getting clean helped her to reach a place a lot closer to normal. Food and sleep would do the rest.
Wyn sat on her bunk and tore open the foil packet. The aroma of tomatoes wafted up. She tore off the flimsy spork attached to the packet and dug in. The meal, some sort of rice in watery tomato sauce, tasted of salt and little else. With the carbs hitting her system, tension drained away.
So Lorran’s idea of a date was actually terrifying.
Wyn dug around the bottom of the packet, getting the last spoonful.
How weird was it that she enjoyed the date on the haunted ghost ship?
Lorran
“The shuttle sustained damage. The engine is operating at a diminished capacity,” Mylomon said.
Less than ideal. The shuttle would travel at reduced speeds, extending their time together, but it would continue to function.
“Do you know the nature of Ulrik’s research?” Lorran dropped into the navigator’s chair. Boots clattered to the floor while he pulled a shirt over his head.
“You are undressed,” Mylomon said, the master of observation.
“My mate would not remove her armor until I left. She is shy and demands privacy.” Which made no sense. They were mates. Nothing was hidden or forbidden between them. Thin scraps of fabric might cover her skin, but he had already seen the want and hunger in her eyes and detected the way her scent changed with desire.
He longed to discover her taste, to spread her thighs, revel in her scent and feast…
Lorran discreetly adjusted himself as he bent to pull on his boots.
Perhaps there was wisdom in demanding privacy. The shuttle had no privacy and all that he wanted to do with his mate, to explore her form, to learn how to best bring her pleasure until she trembled and gasped and begged…
He tightened the laces on the boots with vigor.
“Terrans have many taboos with displaying their bodies. It is difficult to know them all.”
“Yes!” Finally, someone understood. How many mornings did he innocently meditate on the back lawn of his parents’ home, enjoying the still of the new day and the sounds of leaves rustling in the breeze, only to hear his brother’s mate, Rosemary, squawk and flap her arms, shouting at him to “put on some dang pants?” Too many to count.
He wore a pair of briefs. He had been covered. Rosemary’s protests made no sense.
“I was not briefed on the nature of Ulrik’s research,” Mylomon said, dragging Lorran back to the mission.
“The warlord called him a friend. Was he also a geneticist?” Before taking control of the clan, Paax had been a scientist. No one believed the mere scientist could best a skilled warrior in combat, but the warlord had threatened Paax’s mate.
