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It was love. It was fuzzy and despite the distance, I could still feel its warmth.
Then he took me by the hand.
He had a misty look in his eye as he led me inside the shuttlecraft.
And I knew what was on the cards.
I wanted it to be on the cards.
We had a deal.
We were supposed to be arranging a fake marriage.
Fake love.
But there was nothing fake about the emotions tumbling around in my stomach.
We stood before the shuttlecraft entrance. Water dripped from our clothes and puddled at our feet.
The rain pounded the roof, making a pleasant sound, reminding me of the holidays I used to take with my parents when I was young in a tent or trailer. It was wet and chilly outside, but inside, we were warm and dry.
And now, I was with him.
“There’s a small shower booth through here,” he said. “There’s plenty of hot water.”
He turned to show it to me. I took his hand and stopped him.
Then he returned to me and I looked up at him.
His hair was damp and his clothes clung to his toned physique. He still looked amazing.
Not a mess like me.
I reached up and ran my fingers through his hair.
“You’re drenched,” I said.
“So are you,” he said. “You should get out of your wet clothes. You might catch a cold.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” I said.
Oh my God. Am I actually going to do this?
I pulled my jacket off over my head and let it fall to the ground. It hit the floor with a meaty slap. I kept my eyes on him as I unbuttoned my top. It joined my jacket on the floor. I stood there in just my bra.
No? You need more?
I pushed my pants down and let them fold over my feet. I removed my boots with my big toes levering the heels.
I stood there in my underwear.
His hunger burned bright. It reflected my own.
“What about your second rule?” he said, his voice hoarse. “About keeping this strictly professional?”
I raised my chin.
“It’s my rule,” I said. “It’s mine to break.”
