Starfist: Wings of Hell Read Free Page B

Marine afraid to take a bath?”
    Claypoole looked to where Jente Konegard stood a few meters away, next to a huge washtub. She’d already removed her blouse, pants, and boots, and stood, cock-hipped, in very utilitarian underwear. He blushed.
    “N-no,” he stammered.
    “Then why don’t you get undressed and join me?” She shucked off her undergarments and stepped into the tub. Submerged almost to her shoulders, she tipped her head. “Or don’t you like girls anymore?”
    “Oh, I do, I do!” Claypoole gave one last, searching look around, then stripped and darted to join Jente, facing her, in the tub. It may have been winter, but the tub and its immediate surroundings sat in a pool of warm air. They’d have to run to get from the tub to the house, though, because the generated warmth didn’t extend very far.
    Jente sat with her legs crossed and her arms folded across her breasts. She stretched forward and lightly kissed Claypoole’s forehead, then leaned back against the end of the tub and unfolded her arms to lay them along the tub’s rim. “Don’t you feel better now that you’re in the water? With me?”
    Claypoole scooted forward, sending waves sloshing up her chest and splashing against the tub’s sides. “Much better,” he croaked, and reached for her.
    She fended him off with a laugh. “Not until you’re clean, mister!”
    “I’m clean!” he protested. “I showered this morning.”
    “Uh-huh. And just where did you shower?”
    “On the Lance Corporal Keith Lopez, just an hour or—”
    “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought,” she cut him off. “On board ship, washing in recycled bath and toilet water.” She leaned forward and made a face at him, shaking her head. “You aren’t touching me until you’ve been bathed in water I know is fit for human use.”
    “B-but navy ships do a good job of recycling—”
    “That might be good enough for you, but it’s not good enough for me. Now turn around.”
    Reluctantly, looking as pained as he felt, Claypoole shuffled himself around to show Jente his back. She bathed his back, shoulders, and arms and felt all around them with her bare hands. “Turn around,” she ordered. When he was facing her again she bathed his face, neck, chest, and belly—again carefully feeling where she washed. “Turn around and kneel,” she commanded when she was through. He did, and she bathed his hips, front, sides, and back, and his legs to his knees. Then, “Stand up,” and she washed his lower legs and feet. Finally she finished and took a deep breath.
    “You didn’t get wounded,” she whispered, and hugged him.
    “I told you I didn’t get hurt,” he said. He turned in response to the pressure of her hands on his hips. And had the expected physiological reaction.
    “Down,” she said softly.
    “I can’t help—”
    “That’s not what I meant. I meant sit down.”
    “Sit. Right.” He bent over to kiss the top of her head and saw the water she sat in was as clear and clean as when he first got in the tub. “The water’s still clean,” he said as he sat.
    She cocked her head. “What, do you think that just because I live on a farm I don’t have any of the modern conveniences?”
    “Well—ah, no, I—”
    “But of course, I have a self-cleaning tub. I wouldn’t take a bath with you if it meant I had to sit in water that was used to clean the recycled bath and toilet water off of my big, strong Marine.” She grasped his hands where they were at his ankles and leaned close to kiss him on the lips.
    “Does this mean I’m clean enough to touch you now?”
    She lifted his hands to her breasts.

CHAPTER TWO

    No combat arms officer worth his pay wants a desk job, not even in peacetime. But competition for combat commands is always fierce, even though an officer’s career can be ruined if he gets a troop command but makes mistakes, even unavoidable ones. Many an up-and-coming young officer with stars or novas written clearly in his future has