My Bad Boy Werewolf Quadrillionaire Space Lord

5 - Contrived Convienence

"I'm yours?" Isabella asked. Her lips moved quite a bit too much for the words she needed to say, and her breathing was unusually laboured. It was a strange look; halfway between an oiled bikini model trying to sell you a yacht, and someone who was very, very high.

He had a fair bit of experience with both. It was surprising how many bikini models went into the space yacht business. It was even more surprising how many socialites and trophy wives did hard drugs to escape the horror of idle, comfortable boredom.

But closer at hand, this particular young woman was busy advertising her nubile youth to him. Isabella let out a quiet moan when he rested his hand on her forehead to check her temperature. She was unusually warm, her breathing was theatrically heavy, and she was very busy pulling at the collar of her oddly form-fitting jumpsuit.

Very form-fitting. Vacuum-packaging doesn't cling that closely. Luca wasn't quite able to read the laundry instructions on her underwear, but that was mostly because of the suit's darker colour. 'Made in Vancouver' was easy to see, which didn't surprise Luca in the least. The place that invented yoga pants would always have a special place in his heart.

Luca wasn't sure if the young woman was actually delirious, or just really happy to see him.

Idly, Luca wondered if her heavy breathing wasn't a deliberate ploy. The bosom does this delightful motion like a cresting wave when a woman breathes deeply. It was somewhat less effective in Isabella's case, since she was still dressed in a flight suit.

But there was one niggling issue that needed to be addressed. "Hold up, when did I say you belonged to me?" Luca asked.

"Just now. I'm not okay with it, but I don't think I could stop you if you forced yourself on me..." Isabella said, and her hand went to one of the clips on her flight suit.

And unclipped the top one.

"Really?" Luca asked, arching an eyebrow. He had lost count of the number of women who tried that trick before. It had become about as standard as a handshake over the last few years. "What do you think you have that the most expensive plastic surgeons in the system haven't put on the chest of an actress or model?"

"Real ones," Isabella retorted.

Luca snickered. Then he laughed. Then he laughed harder. He laughed hard enough that he bent over and fell to the ground, unable to help himself. It burst out of him like a breath a YA protagonist hadn't realized she had been holding. He laughed so hard that by the time he stared to catch his breath, the only other person for millions of miles was looking at him as if he were going mad.

"Touché," Luca acknowledged. He rubbed at the tears in his eyes and shook his head. "And just for that, if you tell me why you're here, I'll pay to have your ship repaired. On an earnings per joke basis, this could make you the best paid comedian in history."

"I-" Isabella began to say, but Luca cut her off by holding up his index finger.

"It's a limited time offer, so you should take advantage. And don't tell me I'm what you're after. If you were after me, you'd have recognized me as soon as you saw me," Luca said.

"I can't say I'm here for you and I'd do anything your abs told me to do?" Isabella asked, her gaze dropping to his chest and glazing over again.

"We live in enlightened times when I'm the one who needs to say 'my eyes are up here'," Luca said.

"Maybe put a shirt on if you're self-conscious?" Isabella shot back.

"I'll look to see if you kept an old boyfriend's shirt in your ship. Now, what brings you to Mars?"