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But that meant lockdown for anyone on the surface until further notice. Not to mention suspension of all non-essential travel. In fact, Job bet the general had been forced to change course to an interception vector.
And judging by the reports about the Drinkers' latest weaponry, his odds weren't worth a nickel, or any other now-useless currency.
Job clicked off the vidscreen and hurried to the kitchen to check on supplies, confident he'd find a full quota of foodsynth. Enough to last a year, presuming the defenses held. And if not, well, he had certainly done his part for the cause.
He set the controls on the beverage unit to produce a single-malt Scotch, then picked out a drinking straw from the array of glasses and other drinking utensils. He had another theory to test on his new roommate.
Sure enough, blowing a steady stream of air directly against her clitoris produced yet another backbreaking orgasm.
Pants are going to be rather superfluous around here, he decided as he downed the amber liquid in a single gulp.
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Copyright © 2002 by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard. All rights reserved.
