Hours later, Lyon all but stumbled from the master cabin with just that question rolling through his mind. Sex shouldn’t be like this. It was an itch to be scratched. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Sorted. End of. It shouldn’t be this endless torment of not being able to get enough. Of finishing and within seconds being hard and aching for her all over again. He leaned against the wall of the short corridor, his head back against the cool metal, and tried to wrap his mind around everything that had happened. He could have had any number of supplies from the Valkyrie, the captain there really hadn’t had a leg to stand on, he’d have had to comply with Lyon’s request or lose his ship. He should have picked the supplies. They were low on just about everything back at base. A cause was all well and good, but it didn’t put food into the many mouths he had to feed. Although they were part machine, cyborgs were also bio-organic. And they ate a lot. Mealtime in the communal mess hall was like watching a plague of locusts descend and pick everything clean.
