Chapter 3 #3
Stan’s head lifts. “You’re not gonna stay and watch us change into these awful uniforms?”
I turn away.
“Wait,” Stan calls. “Question.”
I turn back a bit. “Yes?”
He gestures at the assigned uniforms through the opened storage. “Why do these uniforms feel like they’re designed to kill my sex life?”
Nil makes a noise that sounds like another laugh but is too subtle to classify with certainty.
“The material is antibacterial and optimized for monitoring accuracy,” I explain. “Sexual appeal wasn’t a priority in designing them.”
“A true tragedy.” Stan sighs. “For all of us.”
Nil reclines on the bunk. “They look comfortable enough.”
“Oh, sure.” Stan huffs out a loud breath. “Says the guy who looked good in a hospital gown.”
Nil’s lips lift upward. Then his eyes move to meet mine. The warmth inside me returns tenfold. I have to file the feeling away.
My presence here is no longer needed, so I remind myself to leave. “Rest while you can,” I tell them before turning away for good.
Behind me, I hear Stan say, “Stick around, and I can tire us out for some great rest, Em!”
“Good night, Stan.”
His voice follows me through the door. “You’ll miss me!”
The door hisses shut behind me. I can slightly detect the difference in my heartbeat. It feels as if it’s fluttering wildly. But that doesn’t matter. There’s more work to be done before the day ends. I plan to spend the rest of the day preparing the MedBay for tomorrow.
***
Before midnight, I finally return to my room. Quarters Three. Across the hall from Stan and Nil.
I don’t need to press my palm on the reader. The door’s being propped open with a red rose, nearly crushed by the metal frame.
Taking a deep breath, I make certain predictions. Idris rarely leaves doors closed in rooms he intends to occupy. It’s a habit from years of shared labs and late nights. He inserts himself into my space with the ease of someone who has long considered it partly his.
In all honesty, I don’t mind. If I had a heart, Idris would occupy that too. But I operate from my brain. It’s safer this way.
The last time I had a heart, there was too much to suffer through. Closing my eyes, I file away the feeling, and push away the horrid memories that threaten to take over—my mother in my arms, cold tiles, hot flames—and remind myself I’m safe.
I haven’t lived that life in a long time. I’ve since met Idris, who’s been helping me recreate Kys.
Staring at the crimson petals at my feet, I wonder when Idris found time to buy flowers before we boarded the ship.
I crouch, gathering the rose with care. Somehow this flower survived the pressure of an automated door.
A resilient little thing.
I bring the bloom to my nose. The petals carry a lovely freshness, as well as a bit of Idris’ scent.
He clears his throat behind the door, and I realize I’ve drifted due to distraction again.
With a push from my foot, the door slides fully open. And I see that he’s on my bed, barenaked, and lying on his side, with one knee bent to draw the eye to the thick line of his rather impressive shaft.
He looks freshly washed, which was unnecessary, since we showered together this morning.
There’s also a rose between his teeth. And beside my bed is a vase of roses on my nightstand.
My lips tug upwards, while he stays posed and waiting, smiling warmly around the stem.
I place the slightly withered rose in the vase, studying him as I step closer and admire the man in my bed.
Idris has the type of symmetry found in ancient statuary. Strong jaw, straight nose, defined lines. Skin tone similar to polished bronze under the dim lighting of my room. His proportions are lean and balanced, resembling the preserved portraits of Egyptian royalty.
“Em,” he says around the stem. “I took the liberty of warming your bed.”
“You assumed it needed warming,” I say as I set my tablet down.
He pulls the rose from his mouth, still smiling. “You’re right. Let’s fix that. Em, may I please warm your bed tonight?”
“You may attempt.”
His smile stretches. I feel myself relax at the mixed scents of him and roses.
I predict his next breath before it comes. We’ve grown attuned to each other since New Year’s Eve, the night we added benefits to the clause of our friendship.
“You’re beautiful, Em,” he says, drawing me into his arms. “You take my breath away.”
“You don’t have to be romantic,” I say evenly. “It’s not required for physical release.”
His gaze searches my face. I’m too tired to interpret the layers. But this is Idris. I don’t mind his searching. I trust him.
My lashes flutter as his lips skim across my skin. He laughs under his breath. “For fuck’s sake, Em. One day, I’ll make you admit I mean more to you than serotonin.”
“Mm,” I murmur, “Don’t forget dopamine, oxytocin—”
“—endorphins and prolactin,” he finishes for me. “I know, Em. I was just making a joke.”
“I might be too tired to recognize humor,” I whisper, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Let me get straight to the point, Idris. Undress me.”
His smile deepens. Clothes fall away swiftly. He lowers me onto the bed. His body hovers over mine, and his thigh slides between my legs at a familiar angle.
When I kiss him, he hastily returns it with the certainty of a man who has been waiting all day.
He props himself on an elbow, his hand moving down my thigh.
With a groan, he slides between my legs, gentle at first, then firmer when he feels how wet and ready I am for him.
He doesn’t rush once he’s inside me. He studies my face, lingering on my hooded eyes, and reads my breath. He matches the roll of my hips, and eases at the feel of my tightening thighs.
Pressure adjusts when needed. My body opens for him, taking him in as deep as I can. And even after months of doing this, he still gasps whenever I move my hips faster.
His lips follow the curve of my cheek. “This feels so right,” he whispers.
My nails drag lightly down his back. My hips rise to meet his. A familiar pattern. An established sequence. His thrusts are deep and purposeful. His breath stutters every time I clench around him. My own release builds and crests, my core squeezing him.
Idris whimpers my name when he follows, voice low and rough against my ear.
He stays inside me for a while. When he withdraws, he lies down beside me, catching his breath in uneven pulls. I feel one of his hands slide along my hip, as he checks on me, asking questions to see if I’m sore, if I need a massage, or a snack, maybe water.
I hum to show I’m listening. Speech takes too much effort at the moment.
His thumb traces a slow line over my ribs. The soothing motion makes my heavy eyelids close.
He’s silent for a while until he whispers something about being excited over the experiment, but how he’s concerned over his brother. “He’s been tinkering a lot lately,” Idris says. “I think he’s anxious, being so far from his son. Too young to be away from him…”
Sleep is starting to pull me under. So my voice is thin when I murmur, “We’ll evaluate the matter tomorrow.”
“We will,” he says, smiling against my temple. “But saying it out loud helps. You make things make sense, Em.”
He presses a tender kiss next to my eye.
“Em, why do you always fall asleep right when I start pillow talk? I should be offended.”
I manage a faint sound of acknowledgment.
He laughs, nearly silent. Then I feel a sequence of kisses across my cheek, while he takes my glasses off of my face. I hear him place it on the nightstand.
Another kiss is pressed on my forehead. A silent sigh follows it. Along with yet another quiet laugh, barely audible this time.
That’s the last thing I hear before sleep takes me.