Page 16 of Naughty List Delivery
I lean closer to check the sensors, close enough that his alien heat washes over me like a memory of every cold hyperspace night we spent pressed together for warmth. Close enough that I catch his scent—wild spice and engine oil and something fundamentally male that makes my body remember exactly how he used to taste.
“Nova.” My name rumbles out as a warning, and when I glance up, his pupils are dilated despite the bridge’s bright lighting. “You’re distracting me.”
“It’s Noomi,” I snap, pulling back from the proximity that’s making my pulse race. “How many times do I have to tell you? Nova died in that transport explosion.”
“Did she?” His voice drops to that dangerous register that used to make me forget my own name. “Because the woman breathing on my neck and making my claws ache to extend feels very much alive.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. You don’t get to act like nothing’s changed when everything has.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, then what might be regret. His tail goes still, and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He pauses, like he’s testing the shape of the word. “Noomi.”
The way he says it—careful, respectful, like he’s handling something precious—hits me unexpectedly hard. It’s such a small thing, but hearing him use my chosen name with that deliberate care makes something tight in my chest loosen.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You earned the right to choose who you want to be.” His voice is rough with something that might be understanding. “I should have respected that from the beginning.”
A massive electromagnetic pulse rocks the ship before I can respond, throwing me against his shoulder as artificial gravity wavers. His arm comes around me automatically, steadying me against the turbulence, and for three heartbeats we’re pressed together the way we used to be. His warmth seeping through my clothes, his strength surrounding me, his enhanced heartbeat thundering against my palm.
“Sorry,” I breathe, but I don’t pull away. Can’t pull away when his scent is flooding my senses and his body feels like the home I’ve been running from for two years.
“Don’t be.” His voice has gone rough with want and something that might be hope. “I’ve missed... this. Working with you. The way we used to move together like we shared the same thoughts.”
The way we used to move together in so many ways, my traitorous brain supplies, flooding my nervous system with memories of how perfectly we’d fit together both in and out of hyperspace.
“There,” Ober says suddenly, his enhanced vision catching movement I can’t see. “Kepler-7b, bearing two-seven mark four. And... Noomi?”
The careful way he uses my name makes my pulse skip. “Yeah?”
“Your piloting improvements weren’t just to the engines.” His smile could melt hull plating. “You’ve been practicing evasive maneuvers. My evasive maneuvers.”
Heat floods my cheeks because he’s right—I have been practicing. Drilling the same flight patterns he taught me, over and over, until I could execute them in my sleep. “Maybe I just wanted to be better than you at something.”
“Sweetheart, you were always better than me at the things that mattered.” The honesty in his voice steals my breath. “I was just too proud to admit it.”
“Incoming transmission,” PIP announces cheerfully, shattering the moment. “It’s from the terraforming station. Audio only, but the caller identifies himself as Cetus Storm. He sounds... precisely organized.”
I key the comm, grateful for the distraction from Ober’s knowing smirk. “This is courier vessel Wandering Star. We have a priority Christmas delivery for the Storm family.”
The voice that responds is carefully controlled, professional to the point of formality. “Confirmed, Wandering Star. I am Cetus Storm, terraforming specialist assigned to Kepler-7b atmospheric conversion. However, I must inform you that current electromagnetic activity presents significant navigational hazards. Our landing pad may not be safely accessible.”
“We’ll manage,” I assure him, trying not to notice the way Ober’s eyebrows raise at my confidence. “My pilot could thread a needle in a solar storm.”
“Your pilot, is it?” Ober’s grin goes positively predatory. “Just your pilot?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Too late.” His tail does that little pleased flick. “ETA fifteen minutes, Storm family. Try to keep your daughter away from the windows—this is going to get bumpy.”
The transmission cuts, and I study the storm patterns with growing concern. “You sure about this approach vector? Because if you’re wrong—”
“Then I guess you’ll get to say ‘I told you so’ while we’re both getting fried by electromagnetic radiation.” He shifts the controls with casual confidence that’s both infuriating and arousing. “But I’m not wrong. Trust me.”
“That’s a dangerous word between us.”
“Most of the best things are dangerous.” His dark eyes find mine. “That’s what used to make us so good together.”
Heat pools low in my stomach at the double meaning, but before I can respond, we’re diving into the storm. Lightning crackles around the ship in brilliant silver and blue, and I have to grip the console to keep from being thrown around as Ober pilots through gaps that shouldn’t exist.
