Page 42 of Hope Forged
She did, activating the spray. A squeal followed, and she leaped out. Water pooled beneath her boots.
“Afteryou have removed your garments,” he said, keeping the laughter off his face by sheer willpower.
“You could’ve started with that,” she harrumphed, glaring at him through her drenched hair.
“I will order you fresh garments…” He waved a hand at her body. “If you want to finish.”
“But the water’s hot,” she snapped.
“It is supposed to be.” He met her gaze, keeping his focus there and not on her wet tunic clinging to her breasts. “You do not like this temperature? Is the chill of your lake more to your liking?”
She hesitated. “The heat’s pleasant. I’ll…cleanse. Could I have a pizza?” she asked. “Please.”
Given the chance, he left, not wanting to be tempted more than he could bear. Since the replicator had her measurements, ordering garments went swiftly. He chose loose pants and a tunic along with sandals—what he wore when he was at rest.
He’d placed the pizza on the common’s table when the cleansing room’s door opened.
“Without a breeze, drying will take forever,” she said, high-stepping toward him as she placed each foot with care. On the metal floor, slipping was a possibility.
He blinked at her, naked and dripping. Despite his best efforts, his gaze lingered on the sweet curve of her neck into her shoulder, down along a muscled arm to the bounce of a perfect breast. Her nipples were taut, dark blue peaks he struggled to drag his gaze from. Her waist dipped into wide hips and thighshe’d had the sheer joy of touching. And her sex was thankfully hidden by a white dusting of hair.
Coll hadn’t lied. Not a scar disfigured her skin.
He blinked, slow, tortured, wishing he could take her into his arms.
With an excruciating exhale, he forced himself to glance away. “Gray button for a toweling wrap; blue button to dry,” he managed to rasp.
“Oh.” She beamed. “Convenient.” And back she crept, giving him a glorious view of her backside. The dryer switched on amid squeals and giggles.
He hadn’t realized he’d followed her until he stepped into a puddle of water. Swiveling, with his fingers curled into fists, he pressed his temple to the cool bulkhead and wrestled with his desires. She was going to be the death of him, a Durn. Statistically, that wasn’t possible, but the constant throbbing in his groin, accompanied by visions of her beneath him, rattled his hard-fought control.
The swish of the door had him leaping back, his anxiety due to his guilt.
“This…is amazing,” she crooned, rubbing her face along the wrap’s collar. It gaped, flashing parts of her body.
“Kuck,” he muttered, nudged her hands aside, and snapped the wrap closed. He released a sigh even though the torment didn’t miraculously ease with her covered. “Pizza’s on the table.”
He disappeared into the cleansing room and stripped, tossing his garments aside. The water blasted him at three degrees warmer than his core, but he tapped the hidden panel embedded in the wall, lowering the temperature. Humans believed a blast of frigid water cooled one’s ardor.
He gritted his teeth, enduring the cold drenching. Where he and Ziamee were heading, he couldn’t say, because if he had asay, she’d discover all manner of human lovemaking with him, along with the Durn way.
But he wasn’t the type of male to use a female—the one thing keeping him from knowing every intimate inch of her.
Nor would he ever abandon her on Vora. Somehow, in the short time he’d known her, their fates had intertwined. Anger merged with frustration and thickened into longing. No matter how much he wanted to return to his former life, she’d changed that.
His mission to discover the lost Durn archives was still his focus; he just had a Durn female along for the journey. Would it matter where he worked?
His thoughts quieted. Could he move to Vora? Build a home here?
If she insisted on staying, he would have to.
As a Durn, he worked with statistics. What were the odds that she felt the same stirring in her soul? With so many things, she had no clue about her heritage, this attraction, how what was normal for her fired his blood.
Like now.
When he entered the quarters’ common, she hummed around a bite of pizza, her focus distant, her legs bare and tucked under her chin as she balanced on the comfy. The wrap was supposed to cover her, and it did, for the most part. Except where it gaped, revealing the enticing curves of her cleavage, or where it split, exposing her newly healed thighs.
He gestured to the devices embedded in a counter at the rear of the living space. His lips twitched when he remembered Macy calling that section a ‘kitchen.’
