The hand on the small of my back slips lower, roaming down into my pants, and I grab a handful of his hair and pull him back to look at him. Fin’s lips and cheeks are flushed just the faintest shade of pink, and he’s breathing heavy, but he’s frozen now, blinking hard.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Keep doing it.”
And we crash back together, and he’s touching me in all the right ways, and yes, part of me realizes how stupid this all is, given the situation we’re in. But most of me is focused on the warmth of his skin and the feel of him pressed against me and what he’s doing with his hands and how I seriously underestimated the level of Finian de Seel’s game.
We have, as we’ve done for the last five loops, distracted the security patrol that would otherwise have interrupted and executed Zila and Lieutenant Kim in Pinkerton’s office. It took a few trial runs, but eventually, we figured out that tripping a proximity alarm on the lower floor of the hab section would drag the goon squad away long enough to divert them from the office completely—a few minutes after we trip the alarm, all sec staff are called to deal with the fire in Stairwell B, which by now is spreading into the duct system.
This means that once we trip the alarm, Fin and I have a lot of spare time on our hands. I mean, we could go up and help Zila gather more information from the computer systems in Pinkerton’s office. But it’s not like I’d be much help in that anyway, and it’s not like we need to. If we’re just dying and looping, dying and looping, we can keep doing this over and over until we do it perfectly. We have all the time in the world.
So, for the last few loops, Fin and I have stolen away inside an empty hab unit and have been … getting to know each other better. Because even though we seem to have an endless supply of time on our hands, I’m realizing I’ve wasted a lot of time I could have spent getting to know this boy already.
I’m flushed with the heat of him, my heart thump-thump-thumping against my ribs, and I hear him groan as my tongue flickers against his and I sigh into his mouth. Even though the air is filled with alert sirens and the creak of stressed metal, my sighs still seem awfully loud.
“How does this thing come off?”
Fin pulls back and blinks. “… What?”
“Your exosuit,” I whisper, tugging up his shirt and running my fingers over his taut belly. “How do I get it off?”
“You wanna …” He swallows. “You wanna take my exo off?”
“No,” I say, cruising toward his neck and nipping at his skin. “I wanna take your shirt off. The exo’s just a means to an end.”
“Scar …”
My teeth brush his throat and now I feel him shivering, my lips curling in a smile as I feel what I’m doing to him. “Kinda wish I’d paid more attention in mechaneering class now… .”
“Scarlett.”
“Yes, Finian?”
“Scarlett.”
I pull back at the note in his voice. I know Betraskan culture inside out, I know there’s no societal preclusion on what we’re doing in here, and I know he really wants to. But looking into those big pretty eyes, even behind the contacts, I can tell.
I can tell …
He’s afraid.
The structure shudders around us. Flaming vapor lights the black outside the porthole as a voice rings over the PA. “WARNING: RADIATION DETECTED ON DECK 13, ALL DECK 13 STAFF PROCEED FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAMINATION PROCEDURES.”
“… Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Fin lies, clearing his throat. “I’m good.”
I look him over again, reading expression, body language, the rate of his breath and the beat of his heart, chest pressed against mine. I’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even before I studied at the academy.
Ever since I was a kid, sometimes it was almost like I knew what people were thinking before they spoke. I’m not sure how I do it—I always figured it was just something I was born with. Some people are good at jetball. Other people can sing.
Me? I read most people like most people read books.
And looking at Fin closer, I know I’m right.
“You’re frightened.”
A flash of defensiveness comes over him. He gives a gruff laugh to cover it up. Bluff. Bravado. He’s such a boy, sometimes.
“No, I’m not,” he scoffs. “Why would I be frightened?”
“Fin …” I touch his cheek. “You don’t have to lie to me.”