Chapter 7: Whispered Desires and First Touch
His hands were still on her, the memory of her skin against his palms like a brand. Her question hung between them, simple and terrifying in its directness. Here or not here.
Tom’s thumbs were still tracing the indentations at the base of her spine. He could feel the fine tremble in his own fingers, a current of want that threatened to short-circuit every cautious instinct he had left. The ghosts were quiet. For the first time in years, there was just this: the hushed rasp of recycled air, the warmth of her through the fabric, the dizzying scent of her skin.
“Yes,” he said, the word a release of breath more than a sound.
A slow, triumphant smile touched Kes’s lips. She leaned close to him, her body aligning with his until only the whisper of fabric separated them. There were just a few centimeters between their faces. Her gaze was unblinking, grey-blue eyes holding his, reading the surrender in them. She waited, letting the silence thicken, letting him feel the hammer of his own heart.
Then she slowly, very slowly, moved her head even closer. Her lips brushed the rough stubble of his jaw, a feather-light pass that sent a jolt straight through him. She shifted, her mouth finding the corded line of his neck. The kiss was soft, an experimental press of warmth. Then another, just below his ear, firmer. He felt the tip of her tongue, a hot, shocking point of contact against his pulse.
A groan vibrated in his chest. His hands, which had been resting on the small of her back, slid down, fingers splaying, gripping the firm curves of her backside through the burgundy fabric. He squeezed her tight, pulling her flush against him.
A low, breathy moan escaped her, vibrating against his neck. The sound was pure fuel. Her hands came up, threading into his sandy hair, not gentle, but possessive. She held him as she began to lick a slow, deliberate path along the side of his throat, each stroke a silent claim. As she did, she lifted her leg, bending her knee and draping it over his thigh, opening herself to him even as she pinned him in place.
He used the shift in balance. One hand kept its possessive kneading of her backside, a rhythm matching the lazy circles of her tongue. His other hand slid from her hip, down the outside of the leg she had hooked over him. He traveled the length of her thigh, over the sleek material of the boot, then back up, underneath the hem of the tunic. His fingers found bare, silken skin. He traced the sensitive hollow behind her knee, then slid higher, along the taut muscle of her inner thigh.
She gasped into his neck, her hips pressing forward involuntarily.
Then, with a control that left him dizzy, she slowly broke the contact. Her hands slid from his hair, down his chest, pushing back with gentle pressure. She stepped away, putting a foot of cool, empty space between them. Her breathing was shallow, her lips parted and glistening.
Tom stood rooted, his own breath ragged, the heat of her still imprinted on his skin.
She turned and leaned back against another table, several paces away. One hand braced behind her on the metal edge, supporting her weight. The other rested lightly against her own thigh, fingers trembling just slightly. Her head tilted to one side, studying him. The playful, knowing smile was gone, replaced by something softer, more intimate, and infinitely more vulnerable. She looked directly at him without any attempt to hide the effect he’d just had on her.
The asymmetrical slit of the tunic became more noticeable as she extended one leg forward, crossing it lightly in front of the other. The posture lengthened her silhouette, emphasizing balance and elegance rather than overt display. Tom found himself paying attention to details that would normally escape him—the smooth movement of her legs as she shifted her weight, the way her shoulders remained relaxed even now, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she studied his reaction. He saw the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
“You’re quiet,” she said, her voice a little husky.
“You’re… a lot to process.” He ran a hand through his hair, disheveled from her fingers.
“Good.” A single word, loaded.
Then came another change. She pushed off from the table and moved closer again, but differently. The ambient lighting in this corner of the mess hall seemed to dim, or perhaps his world had simply narrowed to her. Loose strands of auburn hair, freed from their clips, framed her face. One hand planted itself on the table next to him, corralling him. The other drifted down, her fingers brushing the hem of her own tunic, tracing the line where it ended high on her thigh. The gesture itself was small, almost absent-minded, but Tom immediately noticed it because it felt utterly intentional.
Her expression changed again. The soft intimacy melted into a crooked, playful smile, almost conspiratorial. She looked as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and found it profoundly amusing.
“So,” she said, her tone shifting from vulnerable to curious, “tell me, Tom Paris. What do you like?”
The question, out of nowhere, disarmed him. “What?”
“You’re a man of experience.” She leaned her hip against the table, her body angled toward his. “A connoisseur of lost causes and narrow escapes. What do you like when there’s no cause to fight and no need to run?” Her finger continued its idle path along the hem of her uniform. “Is it this?” A slight lift of the fabric. “The anticipation? The game?”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “It’s not a game.”
“Isn’t it?” She chuckled. “Everything’s a game. The trick is knowing you’re playing.” Her gaze traveled over his face. “What attracts you? Right now. Not in some fuzzy memory. Right here.”
The conversation had become openly personal. Less discussion about work. Less discussion about shipboard life. More questions directed specifically at him. The kind of questions that seemed harmless until he realized she never asked them by accident. Each one was a probe, a gentle intrusion.
“Honesty,” he found himself saying. “Even when it’s… terrifying.”
Her playful smile softened into something genuine. “Good answer.”
The next shift in her posture was subtle but profound. She moved closer still, erasing the last safe distance. Her shoulders angled slightly forward. Her head lowered a fraction while her eyes remained lifted toward him, looking up through her lashes. The result was startlingly direct. She didn’t look shy. She looked curious. Interested. Testing boundaries. Tom noticed that every time she changed position she somehow created a new silhouette, a new line, a new angle for him to look at. Nothing felt crude or aggressive. It felt deliberate. It felt like a conversation in a language made of light and shadow and the space between breaths.
Her hand left the hem of her tunic and came to rest on his chest, over his heart. She could feel its frantic rhythm. “And what do you notice?” she whispered.
“Everything.” The word was torn from him. “The way the light catches that one strand of hair right there. The tiny freckle just below your collarbone you probably don’t even know you have. The way you bite the very center of your lower lip when you’re thinking. The scent of your skin—like ozone after a rain, and something else… something sweet, like a flower that only blooms at night.” He lifted a hand, not to pull her to him, but to gently tuck that one loose strand behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the delicate curve. “I notice that you’re the most real thing I’ve felt in seven years of drifting.”
Her eyes glistened in the low light. The playful conspirator was gone again, washed away by his words. What remained was raw, unguarded. Her breath hitched.
She closed the final distance herself. This time, her kiss was not a tease, not a question. It was an answer. It was deep and searching and tasted of shared secrets. His arms came around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed against the curve of her spine, holding her as if she were the only solid point in a spinning universe.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, foreheads resting together.