"Ay, Dios," breathes Beatriz Barillo Ajedrez (it's Ajedrez; always Ajedrez). "Plourr-- Plourr, I don't think this is the best--"
"No," says Plourr, stripped down to tight trousers, boots, and undershirt; all solid muscle and old scars and close-cropped red hair. There is a vibroblade strapped to one bulging bicep; a tiny holdout blaster on the other forearm, and the big pair of blasters slung low on either hip. "No, it's definitely the best." Her hair may be stubble, but there is no mistaking her as anything but a woman.
That's the problem.
"B--" Ajedrez's protest is swallowed in a fiery kiss that tastes like rum and something more exotic, something she couldn't possibly put a finger on and is probably from another galaxy altogether. Instinctively, she returns it; instinctively, she grabs Plourr's arms. Her hand brushes the unfamiliar bladed weapon, and she can feel every muscle, in the tall body pressed against her, tense.
Ajedrez has never kissed anyone with lips fuller than hers; but her mouth curls wickedly under Plourr's, and she traces the vibroblade, slowly, with careful fingers. This, she knows. This, she can do. Gracias, Sheldon 'Hijo de Puta' Sands.
Plourr breaks the kiss, her hands under Ajedrez's uniform jacket. "If you're going to stab me, just do it. Quit kriffing around."
"I'm not going to stab you, amiga," says Ajedrez, her eyes half-lidded. "Probablemente."
"Great," Plourr growls, and she sucks a breath in through her teeth before crushing her lips against Ajedrez's again, shoving her jacket off her shoulders. Ajedrez doesn't fight it and her uniform top follows swiftly, leaving the pair of them standing in the middle of the dim-lit room, in trousers, boots, undershirts, muscle, and a hell of a lot of guns.
"Not bad, Ajedrez," says Plourr, breathless and low, rough fingers skating up Ajedrez's arm. "How d'you say 'not bad' in whatever the hell gibberish you're speaking?"
"Coma mierda, bitch," says Ajedrez pleasantly, and she shoves her backward.
no subject
"No," says Plourr, stripped down to tight trousers, boots, and undershirt; all solid muscle and old scars and close-cropped red hair. There is a vibroblade strapped to one bulging bicep; a tiny holdout blaster on the other forearm, and the big pair of blasters slung low on either hip. "No, it's definitely the best." Her hair may be stubble, but there is no mistaking her as anything but a woman.
That's the problem.
"B--" Ajedrez's protest is swallowed in a fiery kiss that tastes like rum and something more exotic, something she couldn't possibly put a finger on and is probably from another galaxy altogether. Instinctively, she returns it; instinctively, she grabs Plourr's arms. Her hand brushes the unfamiliar bladed weapon, and she can feel every muscle, in the tall body pressed against her, tense.
Ajedrez has never kissed anyone with lips fuller than hers; but her mouth curls wickedly under Plourr's, and she traces the vibroblade, slowly, with careful fingers. This, she knows. This, she can do. Gracias, Sheldon 'Hijo de Puta' Sands.
Plourr breaks the kiss, her hands under Ajedrez's uniform jacket. "If you're going to stab me, just do it. Quit kriffing around."
"I'm not going to stab you, amiga," says Ajedrez, her eyes half-lidded. "Probablemente."
"Great," Plourr growls, and she sucks a breath in through her teeth before crushing her lips against Ajedrez's again, shoving her jacket off her shoulders. Ajedrez doesn't fight it and her uniform top follows swiftly, leaving the pair of them standing in the middle of the dim-lit room, in trousers, boots, undershirts, muscle, and a hell of a lot of guns.
"Not bad, Ajedrez," says Plourr, breathless and low, rough fingers skating up Ajedrez's arm. "How d'you say 'not bad' in whatever the hell gibberish you're speaking?"
"Coma mierda, bitch," says Ajedrez pleasantly, and she shoves her backward.