The Captive

There was an air of tension between them that hadn't been there before.

Something had passed between them at the river, something for which she had no name, but Ashlynne felt it keenly as she sat in the copilots seat staring out into the night.

Falkon sat in the pilot's seat, muttering under his breath as he studied a star chart of the galaxy. She was surprised that he didn't have it memorized by now.

Upon returning from the river, she had gone to her cabin to take a nap.

Sleep, however, had been elusive, and she had lain there, wrapped up in a blanket, trying not to think about Falkon, about the gentleness of his touch as he had wiped the blood from her cheek, the way he had looked emerging from the river, rivulets of water dripping from his bronzed skin, his muscles rippling with every movement. She had been sorely tempted to see all of him but at the last minute, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, she had turned away.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. She had found herself looking at him surreptitiously time and again. His long black hair fell to his shoulders, giving him a roguish look that was accented by the faint white scar on his cheek.

Looking at him now, she wondered what he was thinking as he studied the chart on the screen.

He turned his head then, his gaze meeting hers. She looked into his eyes, blue-gray eyes that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe, that promised answers to every question she'd ever had, if she would only trust him.

Time ceased to exist as he leaned slowly toward her, until they were little more than a breath apart. He didn't speak, only continued to look at her, and now there was a question in his eyes, a question she answered by closing the distance between them.

His lips were warm and firm, his kiss feather-light, barely more than a touch. A shivery feeling slid down her spine. She scooted over, her eyes closing as his lips sought hers again.

There was no hesitation in his kiss. He knew what he wanted, and he took it. His lips played over hers, flooding her with warmth. His hands slid around her waist and then he was lifting her out of her chair, settling her in his lap so her thighs straddled his. Her eyelids flew open in surprise.

"Relax, princess," he murmured.

His voice moved over her like black velvet, warm and soft, making her think of long dark nights, of bodies entwined on silken sheets. She felt his breath on her face. Excitement bubbled up inside her as his hand cupped the back of her head and his mouth slanted over hers once again while his other hand traced ever-widening circles over her back.

She should have pushed him away, but her curiosity was far stronger than her sense of propriety. Growing up in the jinan, surrounded by high

walls and protective parents, she'd had little interaction with men, little chance to experiment, to flirt and be flirted with.

And so she closed her eyes and let Falkon kiss her again. It was, after all, just a kiss, she thought. Surely there could be no harm in it.

But this kiss was different from the last. His lips moved with tantalizing slowness over hers, evoking sweet sensations deep within her. His tongue slid over the seam of her lips. She gasped as his hand slid over her buttocks, drawing her hips closer to his.

She put her hands against his chest, thinking to push him away, then slid her arms around his neck, holding him tighter as he deepened the kiss still more. Her heart was pounding now; her breathing was erratic. A moan rose in her throat. When he slid his tongue across her lips again, she welcomed him inside.

She had never known passion before, never dreamed it had such power.

She was on fire, burning, flaming, and all from a kiss.

She clung to him, wanting to be closer, her hands restless as they moved up and down his back and over his shoulders, sliding down his arms to measure the muscles quivering there. A quick image of Falkon emerging from the river flashed through her mind, his body gleaming wetly in the sunlight.

Falkon drew Ashlynne closer. Just one more kiss, he told himself, and then he would let her go. But one kiss became two, and then three. She was fire and honey in his arms, warm and sweet, so damn sweet. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his hands. She moaned softly as his thumb inadvertently stroked the curve of her breast. It had been months since he had lain with a woman, tasted one, caressed one. Need and desire swelled within him, urging him to take what she was offering. Except she didn't really know what she was offering. She was pure and untouched, a virgin in every sense of the word, and he had no right to defile her, no right to take that which rightfully belonged to her future husband.

He had done a lot of things in his life that he wasn't proud of, but he had never deflowered a virgin, especially one who was betrothed to another man.

Letting her go was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

She blinked at him, her lips slightly swollen, her beautiful green eyes cloudy with passion. Stifling a curse, he placed her on her feet and then stood up.

"You're engaged," he said with a tight smile. "One of us needs to remember that. Your fiance might not be willing to pay for damaged goods."

His words had the desired effect. Anger chased the passion from her eyes. A rush of color flooded her cheeks. With a wordless cry, she slapped him across the face, then ran out of the cockpit. A moment later, he heard the door to her cabin slam shut.

He grinned as he rubbed his cheek. For a little thing, she packed a hell of a wallop.