As it wouldn’t be the first between them (nor the last, for sure), his subtle movement gave it away too easily.  Chryseum instantly picked up on his brief shift toward the table.  The phrase<i>dead in the water</i>reverberated in his head.  Again.  Her left hand now resting, then squeezing his thigh, he recalled her goosebumps from a moment ago, and how he seemed to now sport a set of those all his own.  Just not down his arm.  Anticipating her next move, Nebula relaxed, allowing her to achieve her desired destination.  He knew what was coming, and he was already savoring her taste and her. . . .<br/><br/>Until Assholes #s 1, 2, and 3 decided to crash their not-so-private party.<br/><br/>Predictably, and ever the Molotov Cocktail, his sunshine rose defiantly to confront the uninvited.  She loathed his clear insult, and for good reason.  Chryseum was keen to do something about it, as Nebula sat idly by.  Since three pairs of eyes were on her, he stole one last forkful of white rice and pork adobo.  More fuel now added to the fire, he figured now was a most opportune time to join the dance.<br/><br/>The intruder’s ruckus having earlier broken the developing mood (whether good or bad was debatable), Nebula suddenly stood behind his shining light with menace in his eyes and heart.  Their antagonists noticeably stiffened, but only the two flanking the obvious, head-clearly-up-his ass, leader.  He stood his ground, devoid of any flinching or otherwise.  Nebula wished to instantly rid him of his snarky expression.  A look that more than hinted that he could do or say whatever the fuck he wanted.  And never answer for it.  He recalled a similar look from Dr. Draper.  The trio evidently expected a confrontation, if a pair of drawn titanium batons was any indication.  Asshole #1 remained standing there, weaponless, the same look on his face.  Time for a proverbial roll in the hay? Nebula pondered.<br/><br/>Instead, he bent his knees slightly, as if to imply,<i>I’m right behind her, fuck-faces.  You, uh, might wanna go get more men.  </i>His chosen stance, in all actuality, was done for a reason.  It allowed him to close the gap to her.  He then made a mental note to gently (and with kisses) chastise her later about this incident.  She had to have known (of course she did!), that her pheromones of ferocity was such a turn-on!<br/><br/>Bracing for battle, Asshole #s 2 and 3 raised their weapons.  Nebula started from left to right, meeting each man’s eyes, even Asshole #1, as his head glided from one side of them to the other and back.  In the process, he imperceptibly exhaled a light stream of his breath through his nostrils onto the skin of his reason-for-living’s exposed neck.  The more he repeated this stealth act (though really, they were still right there in front of them!), the more he felt and sensed her tension decrease.  Pulse rate not as high, already on clear descent.  Heart rate dropping like the temperature in the Arctic during the dead of winter.  At night.<br/><br/>Right then, Nebula so longed to nibble on her right ear lobe, but wisely declined.  Seeing for himself his female nemesis casually pass on a chance of possible bloodshed, Asshole #1 snorted, then spat, “Yeah, I fucking thought so!”  Pilfering a fried chicken drumstick from Chryseum’s tray, he further criticized, “Stupid-ass mutts!”  Asshole #s 2 and 3 chose to stay silent in his revelry, as they were just happy to survive the ordeal.  Chryseum surged an incensed step forward.  And that was as far as she got.  Nebula’s light grasp on her left wrist saw to that.  “Don’t think so, baby,” he murmured.  “You ain’t going anywhere.”