Chapter 12
The kitchen aboard the Allura was a cavern of stainless steel and polished chrome, big enough you could have parked a small transport flier inside with room to spare. More than enough room for four hungry Mercs—and Fairchild was most definitely hungry.
A long day of training had given her an appetite.
She leaned in the doorway, still damp from her shower, and silently took in the scene.
As impressive as the kitchen was, its current occupants were even more so.
Dutton, wearing nothing but a pair of ripped jeans, was standing over the hot stove, turning a wooden spoon through a pot of something that smelled heavenly.
Reece, dressed in a tank top and gray sweats, was examining the extensive wine rack.
As for Nash, the cocky young Merc was sitting at a table at the far end of the room, pretending to sulk.
He was dressed in a loose-fitting hoodie and a pair of shorts that showed off all the sexy muscles of his legs.
The sight of those three strong men quietly going about their business was enough to bring Fairchild’s arousal rushing back all over again. Her nipples hardened beneath the fuzzy bathrobe she was wearing, and a wet heat started pooling between her legs.
God. Still?
She thought she would have gotten all those urges out of her system by now.
After all, they had spent the entire day training.
Following the events in the octagon, Reece had suggested they move to the bedroom for additional practice.
Problem was, it had taken them nearly two hours to actually make it there.
The Mercs hadn’t been able to stop bending Fairchild over every piece of furniture that crossed their path, shoving her up against every wall.
By the time they’d finally tumbled into the oversized bed, she’d been sore and dripping.
That hadn’t stopped her from putting in several more hours.
As a soldier, she understood the importance of training. Practice didn’t make perfect, but it did make things second nature. Based on the way her body was responding to the sight of her new teammates, Fairchild guessed it was already working.
She watched the guys a moment longer, then she stepped into the kitchen. All three men looked up in unison. They must have caught her scent. She hadn’t made a noise.
Apparently the training was having an effect on them too.
Dutton was closest, so Fairchild went to him first, hugging him from behind.
Once they got to Calyxia, they would be expected to behave like a committed polycule, and there was more to that than mere sex.
They would have to feign affection for each other as well.
Fairchild had thought that would be the hard part, but she was discovering it wasn’t half as difficult as she’d expected.
She pressed a kiss into the muscles of Dutton’s back.
“Smells good,” she said. “What is it?”
“Nothing complicated,” Dutton answered in that soft yet deep voice of his. “Just an old Terran recipe: spaghetti with marinara and sausage.”
“Uncomplicated sounds good.” Fairchild shifted her fingers to the top of his jeans and started fiddling with the button. “But, spaghetti? Doesn’t that have a lot of carbs?”
Dutton chuckled softly. It was the first time Fairchild had heard him do that. She liked the way it sounded. She liked it a lot.
“That was Reece’s idea,” he said.
The team leader was scrutinizing a bottle of wine. He spoke without looking up from the label.
“Gotta soften you up a bit before we get to Calyxia. We don’t want you looking like a straight-up killing machine, after all.”
“Fine,” Fairchild said in mock annoyance. “As long as I get plenty of protein too. I think you mentioned something about… sausage?”
She had Dutton’s jeans halfway open, and now she slipped one hand inside. As expected, the soft-spoken Merc was going commando. Fairchild splayed her fingers around the thick base of his shaft. His dick went from a half chub to fully rigid in the space of two heartbeats. He purred mischievously.
“Careful, woman. Distract me too much, and I’m liable to burn our dinner.”
Nearby, Reece grinned and looked up from the bottle he was examining. “And I might screw up the pairing. This is a high-stakes evening all around.”
Fairchild sighed dramatically and carefully withdrew her fingers from the front of Dutton’s pants. She knew if she went deeper, she wouldn’t be able to stop. That was the whole reason she’d gone off to shower by herself. It was the only way for her to actually get clean.
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Guess I’ll play with Nash instead.”
The young Merc glanced up at her from under the shade of his hood, giving her his best hurt puppy dog look.
He had good reason to pout. His punishment hadn’t ended in the octagon.
Once they’d finally made it to the bedroom, Fairchild had discovered an entire closet full of toys.
She’d put the handcuffs to good use. The riding crop too.
“Oh, come on,” Fairchild said, looking down at the seated Merc. “Don’t tell me you’re still sore.”
Behind her, Reece snickered as he uncorked the bottle. “Are you talking about his pride, Fairchild, or his butt?”
Nash blushed under his hood.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” he growled, then he shifted his ire to Fairchild. “I want a fucking rematch,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
Fairchild smirked and shook her head.
“Sorry, hot stuff, but I don’t do rematches. Tell you what, though…”
She leaned in, bracing her hands on the seated Merc’s bare thighs. His muscles felt like steel cables beneath a thin layer of skin. She brought her face right up close to his, until the tips of their noses were almost touching.
“If we all come back from this mission in one piece,” she went on. “I’ll let you have a little revenge of your own.”
“Revenge?” Nash murmured.
“That’s right. Revenge. I’ll let you tie me up and do anything you want. Anything at all. How’s that sound?”
Nash didn’t even have to answer. Fairchild could see from the look in his eyes that his mood was already improving. He was already thinking of all the horrible things he would do to her.
She could feel Reece’s eyes on her too. Her old friend was probably staring at her in amazement, unable to believe that she had just made such an offer.
Or maybe he was just checking out the way her bathrobe was riding up on her.
The damn thing really was awfully short.
* * *
The dining room was a statement. An absurd one, in Fairchild’s opinion.
Hand-painted frescoes of planets and nebulae.
Gilded sconces lit with flickering holo-flames.
And the table. God, the table. The damn thing ran the length of the room like a landing strip of polished mahogany.
Sitting in her high-backed chair near one end, Fairchild couldn’t help but remember a similar piece of furniture in the briefing room back on Bastion-5, and all the shameful things she had done on top of it.
As for the dinner itself, Dutton had outdone himself.
Tendrils of steam rose from the mountain of pasta heaped in a big porcelain serving bowl in the center of the table, filling the air with a mouth-watering aroma.
The scarlet sauce was the color of fresh blood, but it was a million times thicker, and it was packed with chunks of savory sausage that had been cooked to absolute perfection.
Fairchild leaned across the table and scooped a second helping onto her plate. Her first had disappeared in about sixty seconds flat.
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, Dutton,” she said, settling back into her seat. “I never would have pegged you for a cook.”
Across the table, Dutton shrugged humbly.
“I do what I can,” he said.
Nash, who was sitting beside him, was already murdering his third helping. He mumbled some incomprehensible compliment through a mouthful of food. Meanwhile, at the head of the table, Reece swirled his wine glass. “It’s nice having a chef on the team,” he said.
Fairchild quirked an eyebrow at Dutton. “You telling me you always cook for these assholes?”
Dutton shrugged a second time.
“What can I say? Cooking is my favorite thing to do, next to killing.” He quirked a brow of his own. “Though I can think of one other activity that’s gunning for that position.”
The way he looked at Fairchild as he said it sent a tide of heat rushing into her face. She took a sip of wine to cool herself down again.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” she asked.
“When I was a kid,” Dutton answered softly. “I was born and raised on Pelopon. Do you know it?”
Fairchild nodded. The planet was famed for its harsh, militaristic culture. The warrior clans of Pelopon produced some of the fiercest soldiers in the galaxy, trained to fight as soon as they could hold a weapon.
But what did that have to do with cooking?
Dutton went on: “Before I was born, the city-state in which I was raised was attacked by a neighboring clan. I am told the siege went on for many cycles. At last, when the supplies were running low, and defeat seemed imminent, the leaders of my clan sent a message to the Guild and hired a team of Mercs to save the city. The Guild sent a team of three men. Only three. The siege was ended in a day. The Merc team slaughtered half of the attacking army and drove the other half back to their own territory.”
Fairchild nodded thoughtfully. Even the great warriors of Pelopon were still just men. They were no match for the genetically and bionically enhanced killing machines of the Guild.
But she still didn’t see what this had to do with learning to cook.
“There was just one problem,” Dutton explained. “The leaders of the clan did not have enough money to pay the Guild’s high fee, so the Mercs demanded a different form of payment—my mother.”