Finders Keepers by Linnea Sinclair Page B

His left hand rested on her bare skin, his fingers on the swell of her breast. His right hand lay against her neck, his thumb on the line of her jaw.
    He was acutely aware his mouth was only inches from hers. And that if he spoke, if he were to answer her question, his lips might just graze against her own.
    Startled, he realized that was something he desperately wanted to do. He needed to taste her, to feel the heat of her mouth on his. To brand her with his own heat, his own scent.
    “Sure you’re okay?” she repeated.
    “Wonderful.” He whispered his answer against her lips.
    She was all softness. He rubbed his mouth against hers, feeling her lips part, feeling her body press into his—
    She gasped, her hands pushing against his chest. She turned her face abruptly away. His mouth ended up, moist and hot, against her cheek for a moment before he finally understood what her hands were frantically trying to tell him.
    He lifted himself stiffly off her.
    “Just what in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?” She squirmed, shoving her shirt back into the waistband of her pants.
    He knew what he’d been doing, but had no explanation for it. It was a mistake. Another mistake. Like the one he’d made . . . was it only this morning? When he’d assumed she was a mercenary, taking him to Quivera.
    But that mistake had been understandable. This was damnably incomprehensible, to lose control so easily because of a winsome face, a soft mouth, a mesmerizing scent of powder and flowers.
    “The, um, tile came loose.” It was a lame answer, but it was all his mind could come up with. He still tasted their kiss, the sweetness of her skin. And he still felt the warmth of her body where it had touched his, creating an even more intense warmth. Creating—
    “A tile. Came loose.” Trilby repeated his words as if he’d uttered gibberish. She was breathing hard, but some of the glitter of anger was gone from her eyes. “A tile came loose and that gives you the right to stick your hand under my shirt?”
    “I didn’t stick my hand under your shirt. I tried to pull you out of the way. We—”
    An access hatchway slid open overhead. Dezi’s metallic face filled the small square. “Captain! We’re back online. Communications is back online. We can—oh. Pardon. Am I interrupting something?”
    Trilby didn’t seem to hear the question. She glared at Rhis. “Don’t do me any more favors. Okay?” She glanced up at the ’droid. “I’ll meet you on the bridge, Dez. Now.” She shoved herself away and crawled hastily toward the tunnel’s exit.
    Alone in the tunnel, Rhis closed his eyes and lay his head against the flooring. Something had happened . . . something
was
happening to him. He didn’t understand it. He was acting like Rafi, for the Gods’ sakes! He’d been in this female’s company less than one full day and here he was panting after her like some gelzrac in heat.
    “Ridiculous,” he said. But his tone wasn’t overly convincing.
             
    “Insolent, arrogant, insufferable, Imperial bastard!” Trilby’s hushed but angry litany echoed the slap of her boots on the decking. She could have added “brilliant” and “too damned good-looking for his own good,” but she was still working herself into a frenzy over his negatives. She didn’t intend to even touch on Rhis’s positives until they parted company at Port Rumor.
    She stomped onto the bridge, then let herself collapse into her seat.
    Communications were back online. A long list of messages waited for her, not the least of which was the confirmation of the availability of the Bagrond run. That made her feel better. She quickly sent off her acknowledgment. Then, boots resting on the bridge console, she leaned back in her chair and brought up the armrest screen to review just what everyone had to say to her this septi.
    Neadi’s face appeared. Her skin was the color of deep golden coffee; her dark eyes sparkled. “Hey, Tril! Hope you