God, no. Not that. She'd come in his hand, she'd fuck him, she'd do any perversion in the universe to him... but she couldn't let him... she couldn't let him get that close to her. She couldn't let him do anything so intimate.

He slid down the bed before she could think of a way to stop him. The blanket went down with his body, off the foot of the bed, slithering to the floor and leaving her exposed. He ran his hands up her legs as he rose to his knees.

His gaze was locked on her thighs, and he couldn't seem to stop stroking her legs. "Beautiful."

Then his hands cupped her ass, lifting her, and his hair brushed her thighs. Her legs fell open to the nudge of his face... as if he owned her, as if she had no will of her own. God, she didn't. His hands came around to her thighs again, his thumbs spread her open -- a pause, a heartbeat -- oh God, was he looking at her? Before she could pull away, his mouth settled on her sex, kissing, licking, sucking... and she couldn't stop him, couldn't fight him, couldn't fight herself... couldn't keep herself from whimpering and moaning and clawing at the bed as he drank deep.

"Mmm..." He murmured against her, and the vibrations made her lift her hips, trying to get even closer to that maddening mouth. He settled on her clit, sucking and moaning until she trembled with feverish need.

Then he thrust a scalding hot finger deep inside, and her body jolted with fierce pleasure. She cried out and came, came right against his mouth, with shuddering gasps and endless spasms. She came as though she trusted him with everything she was... with every dream... with every secret. As though she trusted him with all of her heart.

As though he was her lover, not her enemy.

And then she was panting for breath, trembling with aftershocks, staring up at the strange pink ceiling. She felt him smile against her thigh.

Probably an arrogant smile this time.

The smug, conceited smile of a man who'd just made a whore scream his name.

She choked down a sob.

Damn him. God damn him.

* * * * * The flavor of her sex lingered in his mouth; her scent consumed his nostrils. Enticing, musky woman scent. Woman taste. He'd been far, far too long without it. Until this moment, he hadn't even realized how much he missed that taste. Craved that taste. His whole body felt hard, aching, strained. He needed release. Now. Desperately. He rose above her hot, sweat-sheened body, yearning to settle between her wondrous legs. He wanted to ride her. Hard and deep. For hours. She lay passive beneath him, her gorgeous thighs wide. Ready for him. Open. He lowered himself slowly.

She jerked a little, a tiny movement. Had she flinched? Didn't she want... At the last moment he shifted, lying beside her instead of on top of her.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. Those soft brown eyes stayed closed.

"Daria."

No response. No movement.

As if he hadn't just satisfied her. Twice. Now, by the gods, she would grant him the same.

"Woman, I can't wait another moment to be inside you."

Her eyes were huge then, gleaming. With tears? "Then don't wait."

Acquiescing. Not encouraging.

"You will it?" His voice sounded hard, urgent with his need.

"Yes."

Yet she stayed flat on her back, making no move to mount him as a Prendarian woman would have done. But her hands reached out to him, beckoning him down, down on top of her silky length. Welcoming his weight. And oh, he wanted her too much to restrain himself.

He'd rarely been on top of a woman. And never, never one so warm. So very warm and giving. She smiled a little and sighed as he slid over her. Soft arms circled his back when his hips settled between the heat of her thighs. Irresistible heat.

Craving her fire, he pulled back and thrust inside her, deep inside her. Sanwar, she felt hot. He groaned.

He'd never last. Maybe talking would help. But her eyes were closed tight, her head turned to the side.

"Am I too heavy?"

She shook her head, but didn't open her eyes. "No. No, you feel... wonderful."

Her tone seemed strange. A little sad. As if she didn't want to feel good.

He couldn't use her for his own pleasure. Too many men had done so before him.

Far too many men.

When he pulled away, withdrawing, his cock all but howled at the loss of her wet heat. "You don't want this."

Daria clutched him closer, and her eyes opened. "No, please. I do want you."

A lie. Perhaps she was sated; she'd climaxed twice. But by the gods, he wanted her to climax again. Again, with his cock buried in her flesh as she quaked around him. He wanted her to feel the same fire, the same passion, that he felt for her. That she'd felt just moments ago.

He thrust back into her, urgent and deep. She gasped and closed her eyes.

He kept the rhythm slow, slow enough that he didn't climax, gnashing his teeth to hold his need in check. Gods, what a challenge to his control. With her breath tantalizing his ear, her hands pressing him down, her body yielding to his... her knees lifting... her legs enfolding him...

Her legs. Her long, warm, bare legs. Sliding over his.

Ah, damn the gods.

No control now, none. Greedy fingers grabbed his ass, urging him, encouraging him, and his straining body couldn't wait another moment. He slammed into her fast and hard, shaking, swearing. "Ab'tah... ish ab'tah... Sanwar."

Passion burst in a wrenching climax, tearing a cry from his throat. Gods, yes. He thrust one last time and pulsed deep against her womb, groaning, losing his seed deep inside her heat. Such welcoming heat.

He collapsed on top of her, trembling and suddenly cold. Her arms had left him.

And he'd left her unfulfilled. How could he face her? Yet he must.

But first he'd enjoy this moment. Breathing in the scent here, where her neck joined her shoulder. Relishing her warmth. Feeling her wonderful silky legs wrapped around his own.

His body, tired and sated, relaxed onto the soft cushion of hers. He'd face her soon enough.

At least he'd proven one thing: he wasn't bored with sex.

He smiled, then yawned.

He'd speak in a moment. Apologize, then give her that third climax. But first... first he'd rest.

Just for a moment.

She'd still be here in a moment.

Chapter Three.

Every deep breath expanded his chest, pressing her down into the bed. Squished between his solid chest and the mattress, she couldn't breathe until he exhaled. And every exhalation ruffled her hair, tickling her ear.

Had she ever been this close to a sleeping man? No, never.

Daria lay underneath him, trembling, biting her lip.

He'd fallen asleep. On top of her. Still inside her.

God.

If she pushed him off, he'd wake up. And she couldn't talk to him. Not yet. She'd burst into humiliating tears if he even looked at her.

She took a shuddering breath.

He shifted, nuzzling against her neck, and she froze. What if he woke up? She wasn't ready to face him, not by a long shot. But his breathing evened out again. Thank God.

She'd wait a little longer, until he was deeply asleep. Then she'd get out from under him.

By then she might have herself under control.

Control? Hah. Who was she trying to kid? The word didn't exist anymore.

Screwing him had been... unbelievable. She'd almost had that third orgasm. With him on top of her, thrusting so steady and deep, moaning and groaning with desire... making her feel like he truly needed her. And she'd been right there with him, climbing, reaching for that elusive brass ring... until he'd spoken in that damned alien language.

Reminding her of who he was. A collaborator. The target. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

Until that moment, he'd been someone else. Not a lover, not exactly. No, he'd been worse than a lover -- he'd been a person. Gray. The man who'd rescued her. The man who'd taken a whore into his bed and shown her pleasure. Given her two shattering orgasms.

Given her the illusion of tenderness.

But other than that, there was nothing special about him. She'd just overreacted. After the night she'd had, it was no wonder. She'd earned the right to be so emotional. So vulnerable. Her friends were gone. Her possessions were gone. She couldn't risk going back to the warehouse they'd called home. Odds were the Enforcers had the place staked out. They'd ID her if she showed up.

Homeless. Friendless and homeless.

Well, it wasn't the first time.

Besides, the plan was to get Gray to keep her, and things were off to a good start. He certainly seemed to like fucking her. At the end, he'd been out of control himself, shouting those harsh, needy alien words. The alien words that had hit her like a cold shower.

Until that moment, she'd almost forgotten she was only here to destroy him.

She wouldn't forget again. That crazy, mind-altering passion wouldn't happen again. And even if it did, she'd find a way to compartmentalize. What happened between them in bed would be completely separate from everything else she had to do.

Completely separate.

He rolled off of her suddenly, stretching out on his side, facing away from her. She froze. A sigh, a small cough -- then his breathing settled into a regular, even pattern.

The room was cold without him blanketing her. She sat up slowly, keeping her eyes glued to the back of his head. He didn't stir.

Her body felt strange. Achy and languid. He was an excellent lover, no doubt about it. He must have had a lot of practice. Far more than she did. Hell, just about anyone was more experienced than she was.

He must be used to those wild Prendarian women. A woman like her would be a novelty to him.

A woman who admitted she felt accomplished if she came once.

Yeah, he'd liked the shy, nervous act. Though it hadn't been much of an act. Every time she thought of those two druggies groping her... She shuddered.

But she could play up her natural shyness. Play the shy, confused, troubled prostitute. The prostitute who hadn't known much enjoyment when it came to sex.

And why shouldn't she enjoy it now? She'd sacrificed enough for the sake of this mission, and she'd planned on sacrificing her body as well. She'd expected him to be rough and quick; she'd planned on faking every orgasm. She should be happy that he was great in bed. If she liked fucking him, if she showed him that she liked fucking him, he'd trust her that much sooner. He'd think they were lovers in truth. It'd help convince him to keep her around for a while.

Until she found a way to stop him.

Her eyes teared up. What the...

God, she actually wanted to stay with him. And not just for the sake of the mission. Or the hot sex. She wanted to stay with him because he'd been... he'd been kind to her. She pressed a fist to her mouth, choking down a sob.

All this emotion -- it was nothing more than stress. The stress of finding out she was alone. The stress of nearly being raped out on that abandoned dock. The stress of having Gray --the target -- save her.

He'd saved her. No wonder she wanted to stay with him.

No. No, that wasn't what she wanted. Everything was just catching up with her. Learning about Don and Trisha. Talking to Tank for the last -- probably the very last time. Tank, the gruff, burly anarchist who'd taken her in when she'd been fifteen and hungry and he'd caught her trying to steal his wallet.

Enough. She needed to let it all out. Let out all the stress. Start over fresh.

And she needed to incinerate her talkie fast, before Gray found it.

She slid from the bed. Her skirt was buried somewhere under the tangled blanket on the floor. She dug through it until she found the stretchy bit of fabric. Good, the talkie was still tucked in the hidden pocket.

Even in this dim light, she could see goose bumps on Gray's arm. He must be cold. If she covered him, he'd sleep longer. Give her more time to herself.

She desperately needed more time to herself.

That was the only reason she cared about his shivers.

The only reason.

* * * * * Gray woke slowly, blinking even though the lights were dimmed. Had he... had he actually slept? Yes, he had. Oh, no. He'd ridden Daria to his own satisfaction, then fallen asleep right on top of her. Leaving her pleasure incomplete. What a skillful lover. He must have been a great comfort to her, lying on her like a lumbering, sweating rumaarit. He rolled over to apologize, but found an empty bed. Had Daria left him? He frowned. He'd find her somehow. Haunt the docks. Have his personal aide make inquiries. Privately hire an Enforcer. Whatever it took. He got off the bed and stumbled over something hard and spiky. What -Ah, her ridiculous shoes were lying on the floor. She couldn't have gone far barefoot. Although how anyone could walk at all on these narrow, elevated heels was a mystery to him. He prowled his quarters naked, looking for her. There wasn't much to search. He'd insisted on quarters as spartan as most of the crew. Only two rooms, a small waste room, and a tiny cleansing station. He found her sitting on the floor of the small cleansing station, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her bare legs. She wore her torn scrap of a shirt and her tiny, clinging skirt. Wetness glistened on her cheeks. She sniffled.

By the gods, no.