Alien in the Family

in another couple of screaming orgasms before we cleaned up and got out. Royal family be damned—they were not going to prevent me from showering with Martini on an at least once-daily basis, certainly not without a huge fight from me.
    I decided not to put on the Armani fatigues today. I chose a pair of jeans, my Converse, and, in light of the impending state of emergency, the Aerosmith shirt I’d worn during Operation Fugly. I figured a little nostalgia couldn’t hurt.
    Martini was in, of course, the standard Armani issue. In the year we’d been together I’d gotten him into something else only a few times. He’d been willing to be casual during the day when we’d gone to Cabo—of course, most of the days in Cabo we’d been in swimsuits or naked in our private cabana. But at night he’d adapted the suit to wherever we were going.
    Otherwise, I’d gotten him into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt exactly twice since then. I’d almost given up—A-Cs really loved their formality and their Armani. I’d resorted to haunting the Armani website to see if there might be anything in upcoming collections Martini would consent to wear. As of yet, no luck, but I’d certainly learned more about fashion trends and gotten some great ideas for my wedding dress, which was, as my mother had so nicely pointed out, as of yet, neither picked out nor ordered. We were six weeks away from our wedding, but I wasn’t worried. I was panicked. But something, like horrible space visitors, always kept popping up.
    We left the Lair and got into the elevator. The one incident with Christopher in here had pretty much been wiped out of my clear memory by Martini’s ravaging me in it shortly afterward. I normally loved being in an elevator with him—it was always a toss-up as to whether he’d stop it and we’d see how often I could climax, or he’d at least ravage my mouth to the point where a climax was a strong possibility.
    We went with the latter today. I hated having to be someplace on time, it took away so many potential orgasms.
    We reached the launch area, which was the top of the Science Center. There were the usual personnel milling about doing things I still, after a year, didn’t understand or try to learn about. I was dedicated that way.
    All of Airborne was waiting for us. Tim, who was our official driver, my five Top Gun pilots—Jerry, Hughes, Walker, Joe Billings, and Randy Muir—and Claudia and Lorraine, our medical. Randy and Joe were their boyfriends, and the four of them looked particularly worried. I could understand that. Martini and I were pretty much going to be the test case for interspecies marriages. It was how White had gotten around the older A-Cs totally freaking out. If all went well for the two of us, then more couples would be allowed to do their counseling with the Pontifex and, of all people, my mother, then walk on down the aisle to wedded bliss.
    Tim was the only one of our team not dating an A-C. He was dating Alicia, whom we’d met during the fun trip where we’d all almost died about ten times, good old Operation Drug Addict. She worked for the airlines and thought we were all part of the P.T.C.U. She was doing great with keeping that a secret, and we figured one day we might be able to tell her the truth. Jerry, Hughes, and Walker were playing the A-C field—there were so many Dazzlers to choose from, and my flyboys were the ultimate combo—all great looking by human standards and all really, really smart.
    “Everyone ready?” Martini asked. “Wouldn’t want to keep Mister C.I.A. waiting.” The guys all grimaced. Claudia and Lorraine just rolled their eyes.
    Something I hadn’t considered for a while occurred to me, but now wasn’t the time to ask the girls why Chuckie—who was tall, handsome, rich, human, and beyond brilliant—wasn’t right after Hawking on the Dazzler Wish List.
    “We really have to take direction from Reynolds?” Tim asked.
    “Presumably,” Martini growled, and I flipped my mind onto flowers while I tried to determine if he was growling because of the mere mention of Chuckie’s name or if Martini had picked up that I was thinking nice things about Chuckie. Then again, he was an empath, not a mind reader. I relaxed.
    “Chuckie’s not that bad. And we need his help right now. So, yeah.”
    “Kitty won’t,” Jerry said with a grin. “She’ll pretend to, but she’ll do what she wants.”
    The entire team nodded. I felt a little