2. Oil & Sunlight – Provence 1926
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1. Dust & Desire – Outpost 17
Two ex-lovers. One broken air-conditioner. 122 °F and rising. Three days until rescue.
Chapter 1 – The Silence After the Fans Die
The hum stopped at 14:07 station time. Dr. Mara Voss was elbow-deep in a petri dish when every vent, every pump, every whisper of recycled air simply ceased. The silence that followed was heavier than the heat that immediately began to pool inside the habitat. Chief Engineer Rhys Callahan appeared in the lab doorway, shirt already clinging translucent to his chest. “Main grid’s dead. Backup generator seized. We’re on batteries only—and batteries don’t run coolant.” Mara wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and felt the first bead of sweat trace the line of her jaw, slip between her breasts, and disappear into the waistband of her shorts. They had not touched—had barely spoken civilly—in six months since their break-up. Now the temperature display blinked 108 °F and climbing.
By nightfall they were naked. There was no drama to it; clothes simply became instruments of torture. Mara peeled off her sports bra last, breasts heavy and glistening, nipples already peaked from the sudden shock of air against wet skin. Rhys’s gaze lingered one heartbeat too long before he turned away, pretending to check a gauge that had died hours ago.
Chapter 2 – First Drop of Sweat
Hour twelve. They lay on opposite sides of the common room floor, skin shining like oiled bronze under emergency red lighting. The air tasted metallic. Every breath felt like inhaling over a desert kiln. Mara rolled onto her stomach, thighs sticking to the polymer tiles. She watched a single drop of sweat form between Rhys’s shoulder blades, travel the entire ridge of his spine, and vanish into the cleft of his ass. Her mouth went dry for reasons that had nothing to do with dehydration. She crawled the three meters separating them. Rhys didn’t move, only breathed harder when her breasts brushed his back. She pressed her lips to that drop of sweat, tasting salt and sun and six months of rage and longing. His low groan vibrated through both their bodies.
Chapter 3 – Ice on Fevered Skin
They found the last emergency ice pack in the med-bay freezer. Rhys cracked it, the chemical reaction blooming blue-cold. He knelt between Mara’s spread thighs and dragged the pack slowly from her throat to her navel, watching gooseflesh race over her skin. When he circled one nipple she arched so hard her shoulder blades left the floor. He replaced the ice with his mouth, sucking hard, drawing the heat out through that single point of contact until she was writhing. Then lower—ice sliding over the soft swell of her belly, over the trimmed strip of auburn hair, until it rested directly on her clit. The shock made her scream. Rhys held it there, merciless, until the pack began to melt against her folds and her hips were bucking helplessly. Only then did he toss it aside and bury his tongue inside her, drinking the mingled water and her own slick desire.
Chapter 4 – Zero-Gravity Surrender
Batteries finally gave out at hour forty-one. Artificial gravity disengaged with a soft click. They floated in the sudden weightlessness, bodies slick and shining, orbiting each other like twin moons. Rhys caught Mara by the waist, spun her slowly until her back met his, and entered her in one long, gliding thrust. There was no up or down—only the slow, deliberate slide of his cock inside her while the habitat rotated gently around them. Each thrust sent them drifting into a new wall, a new window, leaving wet handprints on every surface. Mara wrapped her legs around his hips, nails scoring his back, and rode him through three floating orgasms that left her sobbing with overstimulation. When he finally came it was with his face buried in her neck, pulsing deep, the warmth of his release the only heat either of them wanted anymore.
Chapter 5 – Footprints in Red Sand
Rescue arrived on the fourth sunrise. The crew found the outpost immaculate, logs perfect, both scientists calm and fully dressed. No one noticed the faint outlines of bodies pressed into condensation on the inside of every window, or the way Rhys’s thumb kept brushing the inside of Mara’s wrist when they thought no one was looking. Years later, satellite photos of the region still show two sets of footprints leading away from Outpost 17 into the dunes—then simply stopping, as if the desert itself swallowed them whole.
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