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Taken Apart

It had worked. His gamble had actually worked.

Admiral Cornwell gave him half a smile as she detached her uniform insignia and laid it on the table before standing up to move over in front of him. She stepped inside his personal space, holding out both hands in a clear invitation.

Surprise flickered across her face when he used them to pull her down into his lap, but perhaps it was just because it'd been a while for them. Releasing her hands, he reached up to cradle her face before guiding her mouth down over his. She responded enthusiastically, mouth soft and hot against his, letting her weight settle onto his knees but keeping her feet on the floor, not quite committing to what they were doing, not quite secure.

That wouldn't do, especially with the way every one of his nerve endings had caught fire. This game had been a dangerous one from the very start, but he'd always managed to stay one step ahead, always remembered to keep his guard up, always stayed focused on the goal and his reasons for pursuing it.

Hands shaking, he tugged her closer, guiding her forward and closer. She resisted at first, but in a mild way that felt nearly automatic, and when he tried again she allowed it, sliding across his thighs until their hips locked in perfect alignment. He could feel her heat through both their uniforms, and it threatened to overwhelm him in a way liquor never could.

This was so much better than drinking with her.

Her hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, clenching and releasing, as she came up for air. She didn't go very far, breathing her statement against his lips. "You're not fooling me."

He had never wanted to tell a truth so badly in his life, but he forced himself to settle for a lesser one. "You want this as much as I do."

Then he claimed her mouth again, and the second kiss was just as deep, just as hot, but now there was an urgency behind it that hadn't been there before. She murmured something indistinct as he reached for her jacket zipper, unfastening the garment and pushing it off her shoulders so that her neck was bare. When she let her head fall back in a move that made the ridges of muscle stand out, it emphasized the tautness of her entire body.

He nipped one of those edges, careful to keep it gentle, and her answering moan told him that his attempt at distraction was, at least, still working. He'd been afraid it would earn him a punch and a sexual harassment charge, but she'd gotten too close to figuring things out, and even if his motive had been strategic, the desire was perfectly real.

God, but he'd wanted to do this for so long. The moment she'd walked into the first strategy briefing for Discovery's mission, he'd wanted to put his hands on her. For all he knew that Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell was fifty-six years old, her body was still supple and strong, without an inch of extra flesh but still soft in all the places that mattered.

Which hadn't, he'd learned quickly, included her attitude. He had almost convinced himself she was nothing more than dyed-in-the-wool Starfleet brass, almost banished the errant thoughts and dreams that threatened to expose him. Then there'd been that last comment after that last briefing: I'm your friend. The desire had crashed back into his awareness then, surprising him with its intensity.

She'd been twenty-four, a graduate student with a sweet, welcoming manner. She hadn't been out of shape, but there had been times she'd had trouble keeping up with his more physically adventurous ideas. Despite that, her cheerful, optimistic outlook had been such a perfect counterbalance that he'd fallen for her almost immediately, body and soul.

A chill across his shoulder blades brought him back to the moment. The admiral was kissing him again, pushing his jacket down and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Any evidence of hesitation had disappeared, and when he slid his hands behind her knees, she obligingly wrapped her legs around his waist.

Despite that, she still looked surprised when he pushed to his feet, lifting her up. "There's no need to show off. Not with me."

"Best way to get it done," he answered, depositing her next to the bunk and running his hands over those bare, toned arms that were just as strong as he'd suspected.

The muscles under the skin, both there and in her back, rippled and flowed as he touched her, flexing in a sensuous rhythm that was equal parts intoxicating and infuriating. Katrina wasn't supposed to be like this, toughened by combat, with an awareness sharp as a razor and an obvious willingness to use any weapon she had in her arsenal to take him apart if she felt it was necessary.

She had wasted no time getting his shirt off and pants most of the way down, and showed no hesitation as she reached forward, touching and cupping him with a boldness he'd never experienced from her before. He couldn't help a surprised gasp of his own, but she answered with another one of those knowing half-smiles. "It can't have been that long."

"Define 'that long,'" he began, but there was no chance to finish as she pushed him down onto the bunk and crawled over them. After that, he lost his ability to hold back as he explored this dynamic, kinetic woman possessed of such sinewy strength. He pushed her over onto her back, determined to regain some semblance of control, hearing a whimper as he found that place on her hip she'd always loved for him to kiss, tracing a finger across an unfamiliar surgical scar near one knee. It was amazing, incredible, and just different enough to drive him mad.

Oddly, that was what brought him back to himself. He didn't dare let himself go, not even at times like these. Especially at times like these, when exposure and failure might only be a word away.

Returning to her mouth, he flipped them again, pulling her legs across his hips. She responded, lowering herself down onto him with a slow, measured pace that left him breathless and aching with need. The muscles inside of her were just as strong and flexible as the ones under his skin, and he nearly lost his newfound resolve. Every part of him wanted to just let go and feel instead of never, ever forgetting to think.

There was more than one way to take him apart, he realized.

He'd thought he'd never be capable of being shattered again, not after that day in the plaza outside the university. The weather had been perfect, and the jewelry box had been burning a hole in his pocket during their light, flirtatious banter. But then, without warning, they had been interrupted by screams and weapons fire, and she'd pitched forward, crimson blooming across her chest and the light in her eyes going out in an instant.

"Damn it," hissed the admiral. "Touch me, Gabriel."

He dragged his fingertips up the inside of her thighs until just shy of the place where she wanted him most, instead skimming his hands outward around her hips. In response, she rocked forward, whining under her breath, seeking more. Her hands were on his shoulders and her hair fell around his face, creating a curtain that prevented him from seeing anything except those strong lean muscles, the body he'd occasionally thought she might develop under different circumstances. Never in his wildest dreams had imagined his speculation might actually confirmed.

She rocked forward again, hard, and he responded by sliding his hands back around to that sensitive spot, fluttering the fingers in a way he'd never forgotten she liked. The effect was instantaneous, and she shuddered, gasping, into her climax. It was perhaps the most glorious thing he'd seen since he'd started the mission, and pushed him over a physical edge. He came with pants and gasps of his own, and it was only afterward, when he saw another startled expression on her face, that he realized he'd chanted her name.

In the aftermath, she melted over him, closing her eyes, but he knew he hadn't misinterpreted that look. It wasn't over. She still wasn't convinced everything was normal.

Scissoring his legs under hers, he pulled her over and then into his side. She buried her face in his neck, trembling, the way his Katrina always had after —

No, he decided suddenly. He was done comparing. That was neither fair nor safe, because it kept him outside the role he was playing, the persona he was supposed to have. Maybe it would have been better to go ahead and let himself get lost in this experience.

In an effort to break his train of thought, he pressed a kiss against the top of her head. "Wow. That was —"

"Different," she finished, and he frowned. Was she going to call him out after all?

But then she picked up her head, looked at him for a long moment, and brushed her lips against his. "Not bad different. Just different. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," he answered, acknowledging but being careful not to wander into another verbal trap. He'd never seen the Perseid meteor showers. The leftover debris in the skies where he'd grown up meant that they weren't visible.

The touch of a hand on his forehead, smoothing back sweat-soaked tendrils of hair, reminded him to stay in the moment. The admiral had a mixture of curiosity and concern on her face. "Where'd you go just now?"

"Memories."

It wasn't a lie, not exactly, and more importantly the reply seemed to work. She kissed him again before nestling down into a more comfortable position. They simply lay there for a while, not speaking as their breathing evened out. With a start, he realized he'd dropped into a light doze, and began to push up.

She pushed back, whip-strong. "Don't. I still have some time."

It wouldn't hurt to stay a while longer. This might not have been his Katrina, but he would never know for certain what his Katrina would have been like had that terrorist attack never happened. The woman he held now was intoxicating, humbling, and a thousand other words that were almost too scary to let himself think. They confirmed that, even here, there were still ways to shake him right down to his soul.

Why hadn't the other Lorca done right by her? How had they ended up like this? There hadn't been any time to discuss her when he'd pulled the dying captain out of the engine room wreckage after Buran took its final blow.

Working quickly, he'd finished the final quantum tagging procedure and taken the other man's identification badge. He'd been surprised by the sudden, crushing grip on his wrist.

"What is this?" The question was whispered, but a core of steel lay behind it.

"I'm sorry," he'd answered. "There's no time to explain."

Lorca accepted that with a blink. "Crew," he rasped. "Don't let…taken, tortured." There was visible effort behind the words. "Swear it."

"I'm not sure —"

"Swear it!"

He hadn't been able to ignore the intensity in those eyes that matched his. "I swear it. Your crew won't be taken and tortured."

With another agonized breath, Lorca nodded before slipping back into unconsciousness. He'd stayed with him, holding his hands, for another minute or so until it was over. Then, as per the original plan, he'd set the warp core for a final breach.

The mission profile had called for a ten-minute timer on the sabotage. He'd set it for three and sprinted for a shuttle bay. The ship had broken up as he'd taken off, coming apart in a blazing, white-hot conflagration. Nobody else on Buran had had time to escape. He himself had cut it too close; his vision had vanished in a wash of red before the buffeting had nearly taken him apart. He hadn't woken up for two days.

But when he had, he'd discovered himself in a medical bay, and he'd known the mission still had a chance of succeeding. The promise he'd made to Katrina's memory, the bitter oaths he'd sworn when he'd found out the attack was a false-flag operation, the determination he'd felt when he'd joined the resistance, all were still there. Things could still go the way they were supposed to.

That hadn't changed. The years of planning, the risk of the crossover, the months of careful action were all still intact. He was near the end of the mission now, and it was going to succeed.

If, he mused to himself now in the darkness of Discovery's captain's quarters, he could just avoid letting Katrina herself take him apart.