Page 36 of The Lottery

ZAE

“When I first looked back at the Earth, standing on the Moon, I cried.”

—Alan Shepherd, American Astronaut

* * *

He leans in so close I can taste his breath on the air, minty and warm.

My body is frozen in place. My mouth desperate for his.

I can feel the thrum of my pulse racing of the forbidden rushes through me.

The space between us disappears and all the air leaves my lungs, but I don’t dare inhale and ruin this moment.

Finally, his warm lips touch mine and I breathe him in, as if I’m trying to capture his entire essence so I can have him always. So this one moment, if it is all we get, will be enough to last a lifetime.

My skin hums with an electric current that makes my pulse race and my head spin.

The force of physical craving rocks through me, my core heating with need as his tongue parts my lips, splintering me right down the center of my soul. I moan into his mouth and lean closer, eager to taste him, to explore him, to learn whatever I can in the stolen breaths we have.

The kiss lasts for the longest, shortest seconds of my life, then Marek slowly pulls away, his beautiful eyes rife with the same desire he must see reflected in mine.

Suddenly, his expression shifts, his brow creasing as concern overtakes whatever else he’d been feeling.

I’m still trembling. Every inch of my skin vibrating.

Or is it the room vibrating?

“Grab a handle,” Marek says.

Before I can process what’s happening or what he’s asking, a violent shake thrusts me off the couch we’ve been sitting on. I hit the floor hard, my stomach knotting painfully as the wind is knocked out of me.

Marek is at my side in a heartbeat, his strong hands offering gentle support. Meanwhile, the ship is still herky-jerky as shit and I’m starting to freak out a little.

“Are you well?” he asks. “Did you hit your shoulder?”

“I’m okay,” I say, though I haven’t really taken stock of my body and there’s a little fire in my ribs.

“Stay low, don’t try to stand.”

Marek keeps a hand at the small of my back and uses the other to support himself. A low rumble grows beneath us.

“Metis, which level failed?” he calls out over the sound.

“Level one, engine five,” the computer replies, matching Marek’s volume. “The upper bulkhead is out of contact with its primary reactor coil.”

“Pizdets,” Marek says through gritted teeth. My Russian comprehension is sorely lacking but I’m confident that was a curse.

Marek’s gaze locks onto the wall in front of him, his expression focused. I can almost hear the buzz of energy from his mind as he sorts through all the possibilities of how to handle this crisis.

I take a few deep breaths and rub my hands over my body, poking to see which spots are most painful. Nothing feels broken or dislocated, so that’s good. My pulse slows enough for me to gather my panic into a more manageable ball. Sure, being on a rumbling spaceship isn’t the most relaxing way to end a space cocktail party, but I am with Marek. And while I haven’t known him long--only days really--I have no doubt in his ability to handle any situation. Being with him calms me, and I cling to that calm now..

“Level one, level one…” he says under his breath.

The cargo level, with all our provisions for Mars.

Another violent tremor lifts my body off the floor. I’m not sure how far I’d fly if not for Marek pulling me against him as he falls backward. We hit the ground with a good deal of force, but I’m cushioned by Marek’s arms and chest as I slam into his very muscular body.

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