Bedlam: Part 7

By Kaynara

***

Mal woke in Inara’s bed just before five. He groaned, realizing his side hurt more ‘n a little where the knife had sliced sensitive flesh. Inara stirred when he slid out from under her.

“Mal?”

Her hair was sleep-tousled, the strap of her nightgown slipping down to bare a single smooth shoulder.

“Best I be gettin’ back to my bunk, ‘fore the others wake. Don't wanna be causin’ any rumblings amongst the crew.”

“Of course.” Inara lay back, her hair strewn over the pillows. “Wouldn’t want to arouse...suspicion.”

“They all know, huh.”

“Simon, Kaylee and River at least. Zoe, I’m certain. Possibly Jayne. Probably.”

The air felt frigid, the floor icy beneath his socks-clad feet. Mal rubbed his hands together. He watched Inara, snuggled under the covers, her body warm from sleep and achingly inviting.

“Couple more hours won’t kill nobody.”

Mal climbed back into bed, tugged Inara into his arms. He pulled her under him and

rested his head on her silk-covered stomach. He fell asleep that way, her hand playing in his hair.

***

He didn’t look like Wash, not really. The coloring maybe, the pale, cornstalk hair, skin the color of a peach, eyes that recalled the sky, and not the black one she saw every day. But he was pounds lighter, years younger. So really, the vague resemblance didn’t explain her taking him into her bed. If anyone asked--not that she planned on advertising, not that she wanted to admit it--she would have said she was lonely, both in body and mind. That was true enough, though still not the real reason she invited him down to her bunk, undressed them both in the dark, let him climb on top of her.

Then they made love except it wasn’t that at all. Wash had called it that, a term she’d never before tied to the act, so coarse and gritty and primal. Somewhere along the line it must have stuck in her head, become a part of her vocabulary. But Wash was dead. No one would ever make love to her again.

Still, rutting was better dreamin