Chapter 2
Carmen’s back arched off the thin mattress, her fingers tangled in the long braids of Letitia’s hair, guiding her head down.
Sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat, traced the curve of her spine where it pressed against rumpled sheets.
Her dark, kinky hair spilled loose across the pillow, curling against her soft-brown skin.
Letitia’s mouth was hot against her, tongue working with focused intensity, and Carmen’s grip tightened, holding her exactly where she needed her.
“Lower,” Carmen gasped, the word sharp, a command not a plea.
Sweat slicked her skin where their bodies pressed together, her thighs resting on Letitia’s dark shoulders. Her braids fell forward, the intricate strands brushing against Carmen’s belly, her hips.
“Use your tongue.”
“Yes, Captain,” Letitia replied, a wicked glint in her brown eyes, as she deliberately used Carmen’s title to imply control.
Carmen sighed as Letitia moved her mouth with warm, wet precision over her folds.
Carmen’s grip tightened, holding her exactly where she needed her, controlling the angle, the pressure.
This was the only place she didn’t have to think ten moves ahead – here, in the narrow burn of pleasure building in her core, with the thrum of Antilles’s aging engines rumbling through the bulkhead, and her weapons officer’s eager mouth between her thighs.
Here, she could surrender to nothing but flesh and friction and the exquisite relief of her own body obeying her will.
“Faster,” Carmen breathed, her hips lifting, meeting the rhythm she demanded.
The coil of tension deep in her belly tightened, a delicious counterpoint to the chaos outside this room, the memory of Maltese’s greasy smile, the humiliating low-end job, the confrontation with Corso.
Here, she wasn’t the captain failing her crew; she was the center of gravity, demanding exactly what she needed and getting it.
Letitia moaned against her, the vibration sending shivers up Carmen’s spine.
Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of Letitia’s shoulder, marking her, claiming this moment, this release.
The heat built, a focused, white point of intensity like the glow of a solar flare.
She was close, fire licking across every nerve-ending.
She could feel Letitia’s smile against her, sense the pride in the way she doubled down.
Then Letitia shifted. Her hand slid up Carmen’s inner thigh, fingers trailing higher with clear intent, moving toward penetration without being told to.
“No!”
Carmen’s voice cracked like a whip. Her hand shot down, catching Letitia’s wrist, stopping her.
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
Letitia pulled back just enough to look up, her dark-brown eyes liquid in the dim light, her lips glistening against her deep-umber skin.
“I know what you like,” she said softly, her voice carrying that particular note of devotion that made Carmen’s chest tighten uncomfortably. “Let me—”
“Did I ask?” she snapped, cutting her off.
Carmen flexed her fingers in Letitia’s hair, pulling her back down with controlled force.
“Use your mouth. Just your mouth.”
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Letitia’s face – hurt, maybe, or frustration. But she obeyed. She always obeyed.
Her tongue returned to its work with renewed intensity, and Carmen forced herself to focus on the sensation, on the building pressure, on anything except the knowledge that Letitia wanted to give her more than Carmen would allow herself to take.
The moment had fractured, though. Carmen gritted her teeth, bearing down on the pleasure, chasing it with grim determination.
She adjusted Letitia’s angle with her hand, ground her hips up in a deliberate rhythm, rebuilt the fire that had stuttered.
She knew her own body. She knew exactly what she needed.
She didn’t need anyone else making decisions about her pleasure.
“There,” she gasped. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
Letitia kept the pace Carmen demanded, the pressure, the angle, her hands gripping Carmen’s hips now to hold her steady.
Even kneeling between Carmen’s thighs, Letitia’s lean, muscled frame seemed to fill the narrow space, all controlled power and focused attention.
The devotion in the act was palpable: not submission, but service, the kind that came from someone who’d studied every response, learned every tell, who wanted nothing more than to be useful.
Carmen could feel it in the way Letitia anticipated her next movement, supported her rhythm without being asked.
She hated that she could feel it.
The tension coiled tighter. Carmen’s breath hitched, a sharp intake, then fractured into a low, guttural cry as the release finally washed over her in waves. She held Letitia’s head in place, riding out every last pulse of sensation until her thighs trembled and her grip loosened.
She let go, her hand falling away, and stared up at the stained acoustic tiles of her cabin ceiling, the familiar cracks and brown water stains spelling out constellations of failure.
The ever-present hum of the ship settled back into her awareness like a tide, leaving behind the familiar, jagged shoreline of her worries.
Maltese. Corso. That smuggling deal burning a hole in their future.
Letitia shifted, resting her cheek against Carmen’s thigh, her dark eyes watching Carmen’s face. Her thumb traced idle circles on Carmen’s hipbone.
“Better?” she asked, her voice husky.
Better? No, nothing was better. They were still en route to Babcinq with contraband that couldn’t buy them out of trouble. She’d still had to prostrate herself before a pig like Maltese just to get this humiliating gig. They were still horrifically screwed.
But the mind-numbing release of an orgasm had cleared the blockage on their approach to Babcinq. If they could get a friendly traffic controller, they should be able to dock and unload without the COPS knowing they were there. So, there was that, at least.
“Yeah,” she said, trying with all her might to sound sincere.
“You were wound tighter than the main drive coil,” Letitia said, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from Carmen’s forehead.
Her touch lingered, a softness Carmen instinctively shied away from. She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bunk, putting space between them. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps on her sweat-dampened skin.
Carmen grabbed the worn tank top discarded on the floor. She pulled it on, the familiar scent of engine grease and her own sweat a small comfort.
“Maltese was his usual charming self. And Corso decided to make an appearance.”
The names tasted like bile. She didn’t elaborate. Letitia knew the history. They all did.
“That asshole?” Letitia’s voice hardened. “What did he want?”
She scooted closer, her hand resting on Carmen’s back, between her shoulder blades. The touch was meant to be comforting, but it felt like a weight.
“To gloat.”
Carmen shrugged off the hand, standing up. She needed movement, distance. The pleasant lethargy of sex was gone, replaced by the familiar buzz of restless energy. She paced the short length of her cabin, three steps to the dented locker, three steps back.
“I ran into him coming out of Maltese’s den of iniquity. Literally. Couldn’t resist rubbing our noses in it.” She stopped, facing the small, grimy viewport. Outside, the swirling, pink blur of hyperspace pulsed, indifferent. “Called the Antilles a cur with fleas.”
Letitia flinched. The insult to their ship was personal.
“He’s just trying to get under your skin, Captain.”
“He succeeded.”
The admission was bitter. Carmen leaned her forehead against the cool plexisteel. She could still see Corso’s smug face, hear his oily voice. Garbage haul. The humiliation twisted in her gut, sharp and fresh. She’d taken his bait. Again. Let him see how far she’d fallen. Coffee. Freaking coffee.
“Are we at least getting decent cash for this suicide run?” Letitia asked.
Carmen turned, leaning back against the viewport frame. She crossed her arms, a defensive barrier.
“No.”
“Then why the hell are we doing it?”
“It’s all I could get,” Carmen admitted.
She fought the urge to vomit. They all deserved much better than this. She hated herself for failing them, for having to take a job this bad. For Corso getting to witness it.
“At least Sark wasn’t there,” she muttered more to herself than to Letitia.
“Oh, yeah, he’d have shit his pants if he’d seen Corso,” Letita replied. “He’s terrified of that asshole.”
“He’s got good reason,” Carmen replied.
For a moment, her mind flew back to The Buccaneer. She could still see him trembling in front of the airlock. Could still hear the warning he gave her – the one she hadn’t heeded.
Carmen pushed off the viewport, resuming her pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. The confines of the cabin felt like a cell.
“But it was that or nothing,” she said switching back to talking about the job. “We take it, or we starve. Or get spaced by debt collectors. Or worse.”
The silence stretched. Letitia watched her, her expression unreadable. Carmen hated the pity she imagined simmering beneath the surface. She didn’t need pity. She needed solutions. She needed control.
“We’ll make it work, Captain,” Letitia said finally, her voice firm. “We always do. Sark’s already running diagnostics on the thrusters. Zed’s holding the stabilizers together. We’ll slip through Babcinq like ghosts.”
Carmen stopped pacing. She looked at Letitia, really looked at her. The fierce loyalty in her eyes, the unwavering belief. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like another burden. Another life depending on her not to screw this up. The weight pressed down, heavier than before.