fear. If she was as pure as the interrogator had said, it wasn't surprising that she shied away from him.
But, as an agent for these terrorist assholes, she was badly trained. Using "accidental" sexual touch was the easiest way to ensnare a man. She was failing miserably on that count.
Because he hadn't been touched with a gentle hand in weeks, Terror couldn't stop his body's natural response when she climbed on a crate positioned behind him and began to wash his hair. Without his usual monthly visit to the barbershop for the close trim he preferred, he had gotten rather shaggy. Her short nails scratched across his scalp, swirling along his skin as she massaged the woodsy-scented suds into his dirty hair.
Shivering arcs traveled down his neck, along the curve of his back, through his legs and out through the soles of his feet. His cock throbbed to life, the full length of it growing erect and pointing toward his navel. Even before being taken from the crash site, it had been weeks since his last visit to one of the poppies on a nearby pleasure ship. On edge and desperate for stimulation, he clenched his teeth together and tried to think of anything but the way he wanted those warm hands of hers to glide down his chest and into the nest of curls crowning his dick.
She stepped away from him, taking her body heat and the pleasant scent that accompanied her. A few seconds later, ice cold water splashed over him. He sucked in a sharp breath of shock but welcomed the cooling effect it had on his raging libido. The last thing he needed was to let his dick control him.
As his erection faded, he hardened his thoughts toward the tempting siren with her dark hair and big blue eyes. She was trouble—and he needed to view her as merely an obstacle in his path to freedom. He would step on her and over her if it meant getting out of here and finding his way back to the Valiant.
She retrieved a towel from the satchel and wiped down his slick skin. When she produced a small tin from the leather bag, he narrowed his eye. She held it up for him to sniff. He caught the scent of something antiseptic. Certain the scrapes and cuts he had collected over the last few weeks could use some help in healing, he nodded to confirm that it was all right for her to treat them.
Swiping her finger through the ointment, she applied it to the wounds on his body. Like the other times she had touched him, she never lingered. She simply did what was necessary and moved on to the next scrape. When she was finished, she wiped her hand on the damp towel and tucked away the salve.
While she dug around in her bag, the door to the cell opened. A man he recognized as his jailer Bruno appeared in the shadowy entrance. "Hey, Dum Dum, you finished jerking this asshole off or what?"
With her back turned, she didn't hear the ugly remark. Before Terror could make a movement that would garner her attention, the bastard in the door pulled an orange, one of the native fruits these Earth-descendants had brought in their generational ship and cultivated on Calyx, from the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. He threw it at the woman. It bounced off the back of her head and caused her to lurch forward.
Rubbing the back of her head, she spun around and glared at the asshole. She made an outraged gesture and a strange noise that Bruno mocked with jerky movements before shouting, "Hey, retard, hurry it up! Your step-daddy wants you to make a supply run so get moving."
Jaw visibly clenched, she shot the finger at Bruno. The cruel jailer laughed harshly and slammed and locked the cell door. Wincing, she rubbed that spot where the heavy fruit had ricocheted off the back of her head and pivoted toward the corner where it had rolled. Unable to see her when she was behind him, Terror relied on his highly-trained senses to keep track of her.
When she returned to his field of vision, she held the orange in her hand. Bending down, she retrieved a black object from her boot. With the a few graceful flicks of her wrist, she produced the gleaming blade of a knife from the folding handles. He recognized the style of the knife from the Blue Shores community