STARCROSSED

         I almost died fifty-three hours, twenty-two minutes and an odd number of seconds ago.  Died, for real.  Death had run up on me enough times in the field to let me see I'd been lucky, damn lucky.

         Luck---like time---ran out.  Even the worst gambler understood  all hot streaks ended.  As you won, so too must you lose and one day I would.

         One day, but not this day.

         I stared across into the drowsy face of Shysaanah, my Nystari companion.  She blinked, long lashes fluttering as she focused, easing into our here and now.
 
         "Mmmnnh...  How long was I out?"

         "Ten hours," I answered, never consulting the chronometer.  "You slept like a baby."  The corners of her mouth quirked upward, managing a smile.  The Nystari, rightfully celebrated as one of the most beautiful species ever encountered never traveled alone.  Before the accident she'd been in a seven-member group supervised by twelve "chaperones" bound for a core system named Olyn Prime.  I was on that transport, headed to Olyn on...business.  Now we were alone, possibly sole survivors.

         She stood and stretched, the one-piece enviro suit clinging to her like the second skin it was meant to be, her lithe body undulating beneath the black and silver material in ways that made me yearn.  I could've looked away, been discreet but she was Nystari, my interest was a given.
 
         She held her arms above and behind her indigo-tressed head, that dark, straight hair contrasting the light, Honeydew melon-green of her skin.  Left hand tugging her right elbow inward, she spread her booted feet and leaned slowly to the left.  Seemingly oblivious to how this elevated her already buoyant breasts or to how they tumbled and shifted when she moved she took a breath then exhaled, cramped muscles limbering up.

         "Stress," she said, holding her pose.  "Sleeping that hard after what happened, pure stress.  I'd been running on adrenaline for more than a day, guess my body decided enough was enough."

         I nodded.  Now leaning right, her breasts again jostled one another.  My crotch tightened reflexively, inspired by her...exercise.  Snug as hers, my suit wouldn't be keeping any secrets if she looked.  Oh well, what was good for the goose...

         She made the most of our small lifeboat.  Designed for survivability not creature comforts, the Magellan Beta-class escape pod was built to get you home alive.  It could sustain four adults for forty-eight days but even two shy of max occupancy we felt cramped.

         But cramped beat dead.

         Upright again, our eyes met.  Hers were bright, grey-green rimmed in emerald.  Entrancing, unwavering, perceptive.  She knew what I was doing, what she was doing to me.

         "What are you?" she asked, bridging the silence.

         My brows drew together and I scratched my brush-cut scalp.  "What do you mean?"

         "Two days ago you saved my life.  Pulled me clear of that debris, got me into this pod before the Bonaventure exploded.  You saved me and I know nothing about you."

         I folded my arms.  "I'm not what you'd consider talkative."

         "Try, please."

         Her melodic voice was surprisingly insistent.

         "Please," she repeated.

         "Fine," I conceded.  "I've had all sorts of...occupations.  Started as a soldier, Eighty-fifth Ranger Battalion, TranSpace Militia.  Ancient history, I'm a freelancer now."

         "A soldier, that explains it."

         "Explains what?"

         "What you did for me.  Once a protector, always a protector.  And you are hardly ancient."

         "In my line thirty-eight is a senior citizen; plenty of younger jerks flooding the corps.  Besides, protection wasn't--"

         "Shhhh," she said, pressing two slim fingers against my lips.  "When I needed protection you protected me.  The only other thing I should know is your name."

         She slid her fingers from my mouth, idly teasing the two-day stubble along my jaw.
 
         "Solomon," I replied.  "My name is Solomon."

         "Solomon.  I like it, the way it feels on my tongue."  She edged backward, never looking away.  "I like it so much I want to say it again and again."

         "Not the best use of our atmospheric supplies."

         "You misunderstand," she said, hand going to the suit latches at the hollow of her throat.  "I want you to make me say your name."  Deactivating the latches, a polarized seam parted down the center leaving her naked, a butterfly freed from a chrysalis.

         She didn't have to do this.  She didn't--oh, fuck it!  Triggering my own latches I stood, abandoning my suit as I stepped to her.  Her arms snaked around my neck as my hands found the sculpted cheeks of her ass.  She drew her thighs up along my hips and arched her back, my coarse fingers digging in as I assumed her weight.  The feel of those perfectly sloped breasts  and silky skin against my scarred, combat-hardened body was electric.  With impulsive urgency we kissed, sharing our desperate needs.

         "Make me," she panted.  "Make me say it."

         Forceful, ravenous I entered her and with abandon she surrendered, joining her soft to my hard.  We grunted and moaned, sweating through one explosive release after another, my name a song on her plump lips.

         The pod had forty-six more days before power failed and supplies were spent.  Forty-six more days of this, of her.  Suddenly, rescue didn't seem so important...

869 words