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Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Romance
Description: Firestorm on E'Terra --Ella Drake - Intragalactic smokejumper and former refugee Wilson Dex takes the latest in a long line of risks, a mission to quell the firestorm on planet E'terra. Equipment from his transport ship malfunctions, forcing by-the-book Commander Samantha Varde dirtside to help Dex though she suffers from landsickness. While fighting the ill-timed and against-code heat between them, they have hours to reprogram a torpedo, fly into a tornado, and chute into a firestorm, all to save the colony before the storm flames out of control. This Fire --Elise Logan & Emily Ryan-Davis Keeping secrets? Trauma surgeon Eden Thomas leads a full, happy life. Playing socially-acceptable girlfriend to her best friend Ryan and his lover Michael keeps her social calendar full of firehouse gatherings and politicians' garden parties. She had never given much thought to romantic relationships of her own--until Seth. ?or telling lies? Newly transferred first responder Seth Ripley is trying to escape a woman, not find a new one. Especially not a flirtatious blonde hanging off the arm of his coworker. Every instinct tells him to stay away from the sexy surgeon, but in spite of his misgivings, he surrenders to the hot attraction. Just one night should work her out of his system. But one night fails to satisfy either of them. Flashpoint? Soon, Seth's demands for the truth about her relationship with Ryan and Michael push Eden into a corner she can't escape--betray her best friend in order to give the man she loves the confidence to believe in her or preserve her loyalty to Ryan by letting Seth walk away
eBook Publisher: Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books, 2009
eBookwise Release Date: March 2010

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [230 KB]
Words: 51006
Reading time: 145-204 min.
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Firestorm on E'Terra

Chapter One

Master Sergeant Wilson Dex checked the buckle on his chute, adjusted the fit of his pack strap, and twisted his hips to ensure the equipment on his back didn't jangle. With a slight tap, he verified that his rebreather sat on his chest, ready to fit over his face. All set. In the vast, multi-craft launch bay, he sat next to the hotshot team lining the benches and waited for the go.

"Hey smokejumper, ever taken a helo down from a slapshot on the stratosphere? It's a wild ride." The punch on Dex's shoulder would have told him if the laughter following the challenge had not.

"Chief," Dex rolled his shoulder to ease out the sting. "I've logged enough jump hours to make your entire team look like the babies they are."

Another punch, in the exact same spot, and a knot started to throb in Dex's upper arm. Without a flinch, he resisted the urge to cup the forming bruise and didn't move a muscle.

"Hell, I know, son. Otherwise I wouldn't have brought a wild card to work with my team."

Assigned to the mission as a subject matter expert (SME), Dex didn't point out Chief hadn't brought him on board. Before the banter could descend into the usual barbs between the loner smokejumper and the cohesive hotshot team of twenty men, the crackle of the speaker reverberated through the open space of the dock bay. "Jump is on hold until turbulent electrical storm passes the landing site."

The Chief clicked on the comm attached on his shoulder chute strap. "Chief Klein to Captain Varde."

Dex stilled and tried not to eavesdrop on the civilian fire chief who'd muscled his way onto the bench next to Dex, shifting the team, grunting and grumbling, further down. When Dex noticed he held his breath, waiting on the response over the comm, he pushed the air from his lungs with a long sigh.

While Chief's hail went unanswered, the burly man raised his brows and grinned at Dex. "Eager for the jump, eh? Can't control the weather. Well, not on this new terraform, anyway. When the startup colony makes the money, I'm sure they'll bring in a weather control expert to get them going."

The leader of this band of firefighters was winding up for another long-winded lecture when his comm clicked.

"Chief," came the precise, even tone of Captain Varde. Though the voice was nearly asexual, and the woman herself controlled and put-together, Dex's groin tightened, and to his chagrin, his cock hardened. He shifted on the bench and brought his helmet from hanging on a knee to his lap.

"Ma'am, do we have an estimate on how long we're delayed?"

Despite trying not to do so, Dex leaned toward the comm on Chief's shoulder. The Chief raised his brows again, and Dex sat back.

"At least a day, Chief. Disperse your team to regroup again in twenty-four."

"Aye, aye, skipper."

The off-click took away her voice, as warm and inviting as the synthesized AI unit that ran this ship's enviro and cafe systems. Yet, he'd hardened even more, picturing her still face, neat blonde hair with every strand in place, and perfect lipstick he wanted to muss and smear all along his cock.

Dex shifted on the seat again, bumping the hotshot jumper next to him and elbowing Chief. His temporary superior stood and addressed the group of men.

"Well, you heard the boss. Same drill, same time tomorrow. Get your gear stowed and put in a regular day. Blow off the steam you all built up waiting for word. Dismissed."

The heat-resistant chromoter strapped to Dex's wrist showed ten minutes before his reserved zap-ball workout slot. When he'd boarded, he'd received an assigned daily exercise, based on preferences, which he'd not missed, not once, in the two-month intragalactic voyage to E'terra.

With the usual routine disrupted when the StratGlider had achieved orbit and the pending mission aborted, Dex hustled out the door. He hoped his partner wouldn't miss today's match.

Captain Samantha Varde flipped off the intercom and refused to look at the news feed that had gripped her attention for the past three hours. Still, no matter if the images flashed on the jumbo screen on the bridge of her ship, or played in the privacy of her captain's quarters, they seemed burned to Samy's corneas.

The vid played in her mind from memory. Three firefighters, part of a hotshot team specifically trained to put out wildfires, stood around a virtual storylogger to update the public back home on United One. A funnel cloud from the raging firestorm dropped from the sky and vaporized them in a bloody geyser of steam in front of billions of live viewers. The team on board her ship, sent to relieve those three men and the rest of their crew, still hadn't been informed of those deaths.

They were aware of the dozen deaths over the past six months since the violent beginning of the firestorm, continually fueled by a natural reservoir of flammable gas. More than half the fatalities had occurred in the past two months while they'd been on route aboard the StratGlider.

The United One Protectorate was considering implementing concern level tango. This esoteric term meant they had a crisis on their hands, and if the spin couldn't get them out of the mess, then the entire project would be pulled. The Protectorate had lost enough troopers. One more blip of concern would cause the colonists to be evac'd to the nearest refugee station, already overcrowded, and planet E'Terra would be deemed a lost cause. The firestorm would progress undeterred until the planet was one massive ash-swept desert.

Samy hesitated in ordering the hotshot team to slapshot down to the surface during an electro storm. She'd even convinced herself she'd delayed the mission because one more accident would mean her ship would go from troop transport to refugee hauler before she could blink. It didn't have a thing to do with concern for a certain smokejumper along for the ride. Nor for one more zap-ball game since she'd failed to voice her goodbye yesterday when her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth.

No, she'd postponed the mission for entirely platonic reasons tied with adding a humanitarian mission to her record and one more shot at the Admiral's stripe. This had everything to do with her professional career and not her policy-regimented exercise routine. Nothing to do with her AI-assigned workout partner. Nothing to do with the tiny zap-ball outfit that exposed so much of a certain well-cut Master Sergeant's creamy caramel skin.

"Lieutenant Commander Shields, you have the bridge." Samy gave an abbreviated salute to the older man, straight-backed and silver-haired, who didn't hold it against his much younger CO that he flew second in command.

"Aye, Captain." Shields returned a snappy salute and moved to the central bank to oversee the weather watch. At Samy's back as the lift door closed behind her, she heard his call, "Captain off the bridge."

The efficient sounds of her crew gave her confidence as the door slid shut. If she hurried, she'd have time to whip up her latest changes to the health shake she'd been satisfied with only two months ago. She shook her head.

For years, after every workout, she'd gulped back the nasty tasting concoction and appreciated the energy it gave her. Now, she toyed with it every day before heading to work out.

Samy glanced at the time display in the lift's console. No time. She had to go straight to the locker room.

"Locker Room Delta, please."

"Yes, Captain," the ship AI responded.

Though not necessary, Samy replied with her usual politeness to the intelligence that had no emotional feelings programmed into it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

To Samy's knowledge, she was the only crewman to ever get that particular response from the ship's sterile personality. Perhaps she felt a certain kinship with the monotonous voice.

Her feet spread wide, Samy rode the lift as it zipped down then sideways, before a swift backward push. Without a stagger or a hand on the rail, she didn't flinch with the fast, succinct maneuvers.

"Destination, Captain."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Samy stepped into the locker room, like every locker room on every planet under every governmental system. Metal lockers lined the walls, seats in front of them for changing. A stack of clean towels sat next to the shower stalls, while the barrels for soiled linen overflowed. At least on her ship, she made sure the room smelled of cleaners instead of mildew, or worse, body odor.

Only minutes before her scheduled game, she pulled open her locker, keyed to her biometrics, and quickly exchanged her uniform for one of the seven neatly folded outfits she replaced once a week. Last, she slipped on ankle socks and specially designed sneakers for the zap-ball courts.

As usual, she kept her heart rate normal, her anticipation subdued, and her smile buried beneath her rank--until she reached the hallway door. When her fingers touched the cool metal to open court six, her flesh heated, her mouth watered, and her heart pounded in her ears.

It was like a sickness.

Never in her life had she been so utterly out of control of her body. To her mortification, she couldn't stop herself from the daily torture. Nor could she make herself act upon it. Had they been dirtside--and who was she kidding? She hadn't been dirtside since she'd left home at eighteen, twenty years ago--or perhaps on a multi-use station, she might have had a fling with him as a civilian. But he wasn't a civvie. Wilson Dex was an enlisted man. Under her command. Couldn't be more off limits than that. Not to mention, he was too good looking, too young, and too risky.

Master Sergeant Dex stood with his back to her on the court. She let out the breath and threw back her shoulders to thrust out her breasts. She caught herself and relaxed the rigid pose.

Deep down, she'd worried he wouldn't come today, but even further down, deep enough she barely recognized it, she knew he felt the attraction as much as she did. With his back to her, she allowed herself to drink her fill of the dusky planes of his muscles, the skimpy, skin-tight shorts that cupped his ass like a glove, and the tight T-shirt that occasionally rode up to show peeks of his flat stomach. The sleeveless zap-ball shirt showed his tattoos, a rarity in the military since most troopers kept a regimental mentality and look. Smokejumpers weren't regimental. They were enlisted, not the aristocratic inherited positions of the officers.

On one shoulder, a cross encircled in a wheel, filled with Celtic knots like the ones she'd seen on the other firefighter's uniforms. The other tattoo, a dragon circling his bicep, hugged his cut, wiry arm, and exuded pure strength.

With an abrupt turn, he faced her, the lines of his stomach flexing with the movement. The grin on his full but sharply defined lips brought her nipples to attention.

Thankfully, from long, torturous experience, she knew her sports bra kept most of her excitement contained, at least from visual proof.

"Captain." The rich, chocolate-smooth voice sent shivers down her spine.

Breathless, as usual, she nodded and replied--way too huskily. "Master Sergeant."

The clock started. They had thirty minutes of play, and Samy didn't want to skimp on a single minute. She reached inside a sliding compartment near the door and pulled out the racquets. Once the storage compartment slid shut, the AI echoed through the chamber barely wider than her bed, probably the length of her bed twice over, and really, she should stop thinking of beds. The game voice intoned, "Zap-ball ready."

Dex took center court position and bent into a crouch, his mouth-watering ass completely distracting her. Never had she noticed a man to such an extent.

"Set." Dex had such an authoritative way of speaking. Samy wondered if he'd sound sure of himself in bed.

Dammit. No more beds.

The iridescent zap-ball whizzed by her head so fast her hair stirred, a few strands coming loose from the clips she used to keep her short hair from distracting her game.

"Point to Dex," the AI nearly crooned.

Samy might be polite to the AI, who in turn spoke to her like a friend--well, more an acquaintance--but the AI put on a soft female voice with a massive crush when it refereed these matches. The damn computer played favorites for the hunk who touched the small of Samy's back as he slid past her to switch positions. At advantage, he moved to the back court and smirked at Samy as he passed.

Samy crouched mid-court, ready for the AI serve, too distracted imagining Dex staring at her ass, much the same as she'd been doing to him. Her shorts chafed between her legs, the apex of her thighs growing hot and sensitive to every shift of fabric.

Whoosh.

The ball slammed onto the court.

She slapped at the zap-ball, returning the serve against the wall and into the corner. The ball zipped past her. Dex grunted and the return hit sounded far to the left. Though she couldn't see him, he'd had to stretch his glorious body to reach the ball, and she imagined his fit body stretched, reaching, sweating.

For a while, they exchanged hits, both of them diving and rolling to return the ball before it hit the court floor. Moisture rolled down Samy's face and arms.

"Nice point." Dex panted at the end of the volley.

"Your serve," she said.

When he switched places with her, he slid his hand across the bend of her waist. Her thighs trembled.

The next point went to Dex.

The game progressed without surprises. They were evenly matched. Frequently they called a draw, neither able to pull ahead the required two points. Occasionally one of them was off game enough to allow the other to win. Today was one of those days.

Every time Dex moved past her to a new vantage, he touched her. Her hip. Her back. Her arm, close enough to brush the side of her breast. The lightest, barely-there pat on her ass. That one nearly had her reprimanding him, but she bit her lip to stop herself since she'd sound all breathy anyway.

With her mind in her shorts, the seam rubbing her enticingly and keeping her hot and wet, she couldn't think past her hard nipples as they rubbed against her abbreviated shirt.

What would it be like for those long, strong fingers to reach for her bared stomach and stroke the moisture collecting there? Dex would spread his hand, push beneath her waistband, and dip deep inside her, past his knuckles. The ache pulsed between her legs and the need for release made her clumsy.

After an entire game of sly touches, Samy nearly folded from dizziness when she missed her last shot. For a brief moment, she contemplated tackling him to the floor.

"Thanks for the game, Captain. I didn't know if your duties would keep you away today."

His voice ripped her from her fantasies. Thankfully, the exertion of their match could explain her red face and panting.

"Any time, Master Sergeant."

"What change did you make to the shake today?" His dark brown eyes twinkled, but he didn't let the grin threatening the corners of his mouth slip free.

"Oh. Didn't have time to mix one. With the aborted mission, I only had time to come straight here."

Samy could have sworn his kissable lips sunk down momentarily into a frown. Did he actually look forward to her health shakes?

She made a flash decision--one she'd have to mark down in her personal journal--one so out of character it'd likely need to be evaluated by the military psych unit.

"Would you like to return to my cabin to try my latest recipe?"

Holy stars.

Did she just ask him that?

Like a schoolgirl, she wanted to blush and stare at her feet. The absolute strongest of wills made her stand there, look him in the eye, and wait on her rejection. He ran a towel over his military short, nearly shaved head and scrubbed back and forth before he answered. Waiting on his reply, she stared at his lips and strong chin accentuated by a small soul patch. She'd never liked facial hair before, but she flashed on a recurring fantasy of that patch of hair rubbing the inside of her thighs.

She blinked and crossed her arms over her chest. Her nipples had hardened until they hurt.

"Sounds like a plan, ma'am."

Now what the hell would she do? She hadn't made a new recipe.

Well, she'd wing it. She was an accomplished wingman. She could do it.

Of course, they'd never spoken outside the court and the cool-down room where they normally shared her shakes. For the past several days they'd stretched private time into nearly an hour of banter and the occasional serious discussion. Over the two months they'd known each other, they'd shared much in those short meetings. A deep connection had begun, and she feared today would be the last. Other than those times, the only time she saw him was for a short nod at the mess hall in passing, since he ate on the shift before her.

Samy had never had a man in her cabin.

Her knees shook, and she nearly stumbled through the door.