In the months following Wash’s death, she’d tried a couple of times with young men in fancy Rim houses. Mal had turned a blind eye, but he’d known. The men were nothing like her husband - boys, really … tall, willowy, dark … she’d come, all right, but there was no release, and she’d realised it wasn’t sex she needed, but love, and he was gone.

So she’d become almost nun-like, occasionally relieving the tension herself when it became unbearable, always seeing Wash’s face in the dark, always crying silently into her pillow after.

Mostly she tried not to think about it. And it was so hard after being with a man who wanted her, craved her like a drug, an addiction …

Then along came Hank. Who not only liked her, loved her, but was so much like her dead husband in so many ways that she hated him for it. Yet he got under her skin, irritated her. Until …

He thought they looked like a giant ice-cream sundae. She was the dark choc mint, all luscious and rich, while he, swirled about her, was the cool vanilla. The sweat on their skin was probably the hot fudge sauce, or maybe sweet maple syrup. He sighed happily. “Mmn, chocolate.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve just been satisfied and you’re thinking about food?” she asked, turning her head to look into his face.

“I always think about food.”

“Always?”

“Well, quite a lot. I like food.”

“So now you’re thinking about chocolate?”

“Only in the way of dessert.” He grinned and lifted himself up onto his elbow to look down at her, all exotic and mysterious, just waiting to be explored, like a hidden city in the jungle …

“You’re fantasising again,” she said, her lips twitching, just a little. “Who is it this time?”

“No-one,” Hank promised, then looked a little sheepish. “Well, maybe you, actually.”

“Hank, you have me,” she pointed out. “No need to fantasise.”

“Wasn’t that kind of fantasy. Not quite.”

“So what was it?”

He sat up, lifting his arm off her waist. “I was just thinking that I’d like to know the rest of you.”

“We’re lying naked. You’ve just been doing things to me that’re actually illegal on some planets … How much more of me is there to know?”

In a flash he had moved down so his face was on a level with her feet. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said conversationally. “Seems to me I’ve never taken the tour.”

“Tour?”

”Of Zoe. Of my love. The woman I would gladly give thousands of babies to. Or even one, if she ever says yes.”

“Hank -”

“But that’s beside the point,” he added quickly. “Still, I’m sure there’s a lot to see.”

“I’m just me.”

He looked up her body at her. “No. That’s just it. You’re more. Lots more. And I want to play explorer.”

“You’re going to play games now?” She laughed. “You are a strange man.”

“So people keep telling me. Maybe one day I’ll even believe them.” He grinned and turned to her feet. “I mean, take these. Ten perfect little toes. Each with a perfect nail.”

“Now, see, you’re wrong already,” Zoe said, not able to stop her toes curling. “They’re not perfect.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Hank moved closer so he could peer from a distance of only a couple of inches. “They look perfect to me.”

“My nails are … well, living in boots all the time, and during the war …” She tried to move her feet away from him but he grasped her ankles. “I’ve had to … look, I’ve spent a lot of time getting ‘em anywhere near normal.”

“You should go barefoot, like River,” Hank said, his breath tickling her skin. “Anyway, I can’t see anything wrong.”

“Maybe you’d better make an appointment with Simon,” Zoe suggested. “I think you need glasses.”

“I can see fine, thanks.” He let go with one hand and caressed her foot. She squirmed a little. “I think they’re beautiful.”

“They’re just feet.”

He glanced up at her. “No. They’re your feet.” He kissed her toes. “And they are beautiful.” He trailed kisses up her foot to her ankle. “And what’s this?” he asked, pausing in his ministrations. He touched a place just above her heel.

“What?” Zoe raised herself onto her elbows, her breasts moving a little. She looked down. “Oh, that. A scar. One of the many you’ll come across if you keep this up.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged, making her breasts jiggle more. “Got blown off my feet during the war. Broke the bone inside my boot. When they pulled it off it was sticking out of my skin.” She laid back. “Mal got me to the medics, otherwise I mighta lost that foot.”

“Then I’m grateful to him,” Hank said, kissing the scar.

“We took care of each other.”

“You still do.”’

“Jealous?” For a moment Zoe held her breath.

“Nope.” Hank let his fingertips run up her calf. “Why should I be? He’s your captain. I know you got history, ‘n’ he’s got the past. But I’ve got the now.”

She smiled. “Nice to hear.”

Hank paused for a moment and wondered at the relief in her voice, but filed it away for future reference. Instead he moved up towards her knees. “And this?” he asked, fingering a puckered mark on her right knee. “Another scar?”

“We had an argument with someone, one of the first jobs we did when Mal bought this boat.” Zoe put her hands behind her head. “Kinda set the tone for our subsequent adventures,” she added dryly.

“Someone wanted to separate you from your kneecaps?” Hank asked softly.

“They tried. Didn’t do them much good, what with them ending up on the floor with Mal’s bullets in them, but …”

“And Mal got you patched up. Seems like I got a lot to be grateful for to our captain.” He kissed the scar.

“You making it better?”

“If I could.” He moved up her thighs, studying her skin, delicately running his lips across a knife scar on her lower thigh, and an area of roughened skin at the top. “And this? Another war wound?”

“No,” she said, reaching down to touch it. “That’s old. When I was a kid on the freighter. I fell down the stairs and skinned it all to hell.”

“You fell down the stairs?” He was so surprised that he sat back.

“I was ungainly.”

“That I do not believe.”

“All legs.”

“And such beautiful legs.” He moved down and kissed that scar too, then moved up to the sheet that covered her hips. “And what’s under here?” he asked, taking hold of it and pulling gently at it.

“You know what’s under there. You were just playing with it.”

“Not playing. Very serious.” He pushed the sheet up and gazed at the shadow of dark hair at the top of her thighs. The scent of them both caught at his nostrils and he leaned forward to breathe in deeply. Somehow, seeing the top of his head at her groin, made her tremble.

“Hank …”

He moved his body enough so that he could lay between her legs, opening her thighs. Her skin was wet from her juices and his, and she tried to cover herself with one hand.

“Don’t,” he said. “I want to look.”

She forced herself to relax. “Nothing to see.”

“Yes there is.” He opened her folds, slipping a finger into the warmth, finding her clitoris hidden in the curls. He stroked it gently, hardly touching, just acknowledging its presence. Pulling the sheet away from her he kissed the base of her belly. “You know, if you don’t ever let me get you pregnant, how’ll you know if you like it?”

“Hank, this ain’t exactly the right time to be … oh …” He pressed harder, sending a shock through her body.

“Just think of all the fun we could have getting you there. And it’s not like he’d be the only kid on board.”

She was shivering, but not with cold. He’d pushed into her wetness with one finger, just cupping it to touch the front wall, making her muscles spasm.

“You think doing that’s gonna make me say yes?” she asked, bringing her hands down to tangle her fingers in his hair.

“Figure I might try.” He pushed deeper, and she lifted her hips from the bed. He was rubbing himself on the sheet, he realised, and moved one hand down to stroke himself while keeping the other toying with her.

“It’s not something I’m going to … to decide just because … oh, God … just because you’re doing that to me.”

“What, that?” he asked, kissing the dark skin of her chest. “Or that?” He moved up and put his penis at the entrance to her vagina, just pressing inside a little, keeping his fingertips on her clitoris.

“Oh …” she breathed, catching in her throat. “And you think … you’re sure it’d be a boy?” she asked, her neck arching back as she pressed herself down towards him, wanting him inside her, all of him.

He licked her left nipple, feeling it tighten in his mouth. She didn’t taste of chocolate, he realised. Just exquisite Zoe. He suckled gently. “I love you,” he mumbled. “Of course it’d be a boy.”

“Hank, please,” she begged, pushing her hips towards him. “Please …”

He lifted his lips from her breast and looked into her face. “Whatever you say, my Zoe,” he murmured and slid into her, until he was buried deep. Her lips widened and she began to move beneath him. “My beautiful, wonderful Zoe,” he went on, thrusting slowly, taking his weight on his hands so that he could look down to where they were joined, see the strength of their bodies as he rode into her.

“Hank …” She grasped him, pulling him close so that she felt him along her entire body, wrapping her legs around his back and lifting up so that he slid even deeper.

He was so far inside her she could imagine him under every point of her skin, behind her breasts, up in her shoulders, her scalp, filling her so completely as his tongue thrust into her mouth, imitating the actions of his hips as his need grew and he thrust deeper, their bodies moving as one until he felt her tighten beneath him.

He pulled back enough to watch her orgasm rip through her, crying out as her head pressed back into the pillow, her muscles gripping him, triggering his own release.

“Zoe …” he breathed as he poured himself into her. He collapsed onto her.

She stroked his back, feeling the sweat on his skin as it mingled with her. “I love you,” she said softly, barely vocalising, but he heard. He smiled widely.