He walked through the usual mix of humanoids, aliens, IAs and service-bots, casting not one of them an interested gaze as he headed home. With the exception of the odd drunken new arrival at the spaceport, and the dubious merchants and smugglers who hawked their wares and services, no one caused him any hassle. Ripping the tongue from the mouth of a Mentuan slave merchant—the one who’d offered him ten thousand credits for Emylie mere minutes after they’d first set foot on Mercy—had quickly cemented his reputation as someone not to mess with. It was also the only information Rejelle had required before offering him the job as The Steam’s head bouncer.
His mind wandered back to that first hour on Port Mercy, Emylie’s fingers threaded through his, her soft, warm body trembling slightly, dark-brown eyes wide, pale-blonde hair a shining halo in the spaceport’s low light.
She’d said nothing as they’d made their way to their new home. She rarely did. Her eyes told him everything—she was scared, but she trusted him. She still looked at him that way after all this time. It made him feel meek and invincible at once. It made him want to stop time and do everything in his power to make her smile; that gentle, small stretching of her lips rarely seen. It made him feel like he had a soul.
If she only knew.
A lump formed in Corvan’s throat and he clenched his jaw, quickening his pace. He despised these moments of emotional vulnerability. They were completely out of character. They reminded him of another life, another time, another female—
He shoved that unwanted and entirely unexpected thought away.
Fri’ac, he needed to focus. Losing control tonight in The Steam, and now dwelling on a life long in his past?
Think about Emylie. Get your head where it needs to be and keep it there.
Rounding a corner, he paused at a food dispatch station. Waving his Port ID card at the scanner, he waited for the station to register his credit balance before extracting a New Earth apple. It was expensive, and his credit balance was about to be hit with the doctor’s bill for healing the inebriated Mendovian smuggler, but worth it all the same. The exotic fruit from the dilapidated planet was Emylie’s favorite. If she was still awake, he’d present it to her. A surprise luxury to make her smile.
He tucked the small piece of red fruit firmly beside his favorite de-atomizer inside his jacket, continuing toward Level 9 and the small unit he called home. Most of his neighbors were day workers; legitimate merchants, medical staff, educators for the Port’s two schools. By the time he normally finished at The Steam, the silence of the still corridors would always roll over him like a calming meditation, easing the knots in his muscles and subduing the epinephrine in his system.
Partially. He never fully relaxed. He was incapable of doing so.
Fifteen minutes later he stood at his door, eyes closed, limbs loose. Taking a steady, deep breath, he let the last of the night’s adrenaline seep away. He’d deal with Kassandra Scott and Itia Va later. The rest of the night was his…and Emylie’s, if she was awake.
He stepped into his apartment, reaching down and withdrawing his strafer from its holster as he did so.
“You’re home early.”
The soft female voice shifted his focus from the weapon, and he studied the gynoid standing by the room’s lone porthole. Not for the first time, Corvan found himself impressed with Mare’ree’s perfect humanoid façade. Her honey-brown hair thick and glossy, her blue eyes caring and friendly, her soft, cuddly frame—complete with ample bosom—made deliberately with hugs and comfort in mind.
Yet beneath it all, beneath the warm, maternal exterior, the female ’droid ran a protection program that made her a killing machine. If the need arose, she could tear an attacker apart in six point two seconds. And as far as Corvan was concerned, that made Mare’ree the perfect companion for Emylie while he was at work.
“I gave myself an early mark,” he answered, tossing the strafer onto the closest sofa before withdrawing his de-atomizer from his jacket and placing it on the bench behind him. “Is Emylie awake?”
The gynoid shook her head, soft curls bouncing around ears so carefully created he could almost believe he saw wax in their cavity. “She tried to stay awake for you, but sleep finally took her. I saw her to bed sixty-seven point five nine minutes ago.”
Corvan’s lips curled into a small smile. He withdrew the apple from his pocket and sat it beside the de-atomizer, giving the ’droid a slight nod. “Thank you, Mare’ree. You may retire now.”
The AI tilted her head to the side. “Sleep well, sir.” With fluid grace, Mare’ree crossed the living area of Corvan’s apartment and disappeared into a recessed booth in the far wall. A low hum followed by a lower click told Corvan she’d connected with her core unit and put herself into rejuv mode. He chuckled softly. Obviously Emylie had given her a hard time tonight.
Unbuckling the strafer’s holster on his right thigh, he dropped it onto the sofa beside the highly illegal gun, removed the synaptic neutralizer from his waistband at the small of his back, slid the neo-energy gutting blade from its sheath on his left biceps and disengaged the small neural disruptor from its hidden compartment in his right boot.
He shucked off his jacket, withdrew the baridium dagger from its harness on his left wrist and crossed the room. Emylie was asleep. It was time he slept too.
The small bedroom was shrouded in shadows. He moved through them, the soft, even sounds of her breathing a beacon in the darkness. Stopping at the bed, he silently lowered himself to the mattress, perching on the edge as he passed his hand over a nearby sensor.
A low, muted glow illuminated the bed, casting the sleeping child stretched under the soft blankets in gentle, warm light.
Fair eyelashes lay against round, flawless cheeks, and pearlescent eyelids closed over eyes the color of the richest chocolate, eyes of solemn contemplation, eyes that had seen more terror and horror than any six-year-old should. Long, pale-blonde hair fanned the pillow, a few tousled strands resting against a rounded jawline that hinted at an inner strength and the woman the young girl would become. Coral-pink, bee-stung lips were parted slightly, soft and relaxed in repose, and Corvan couldn’t help but smile at the location of Emylie’s left hand. Fingers curled into a loose fist, her thumb propped perilously close to her mouth.
She’d been awfully embarrassed when he’d first found her sucking her thumb years ago and nothing he could say would ease her shame. It mattered little when he’d told her all three-year-olds were allowed to do it, most especially ones without mommies.
She’d stared at him with her large, wide brown eyes and shook her head. “The man with the needle hits me if I suck my thumb. Are you going to hit me?”
Three years had passed since that night and he’d never found Emylie sleeping with her thumb in her mouth again. He’d spent every night since picturing what he would do to the “man with the needle” if they were ever to come face-to-face. He’d spent every night since wishing to Fri’ac they would.
Gently, silently, knowing she slept lighter than an Erturian she-fox, he brushed the errant strands of hair from Emylie’s face.
His fingertips made no contact with her skin, his hand barely disturbed the air, but her eyelids fluttered open all the same and she gazed up at him. “Are we safe?”
It was the same question she asked him every night. And, as always, he gave her the same answer. “We are safe.” For the most part, it was the truth.
Her small mouth curled into a tiny, sleepy smile and she closed her eyes again, reaching for his hand with her own. She sighed, the delicate sound peaceful and heartbreaking all at once, and was asleep once more.
Corvan studied her for a long, long moment before slowly disengaging his fingers from hers. She was special. Unique. In a world full of corruption, perversion and sickness, she was the cure.
He stood, chest tight, throat tighter, and left the room, crossing to his own sleeping quarters on the other side of the apartment. He couldn’t describe the emotion making breath difficult to draw, but he
knew he couldn’t live without it now. Three years ago he’d been someone else entirely. Someone brutal. Heartless. Someone hollow.
And then he’d been sent to kill Emylie. The only one of her kind.
Every night he thanked Fri’ac he hadn’t.
Every night he wondered whom Unit Zero would send to finish the job.
And when.
Chapter Two
Sector Seven A, Fourth Quadrant, Secular System
His tongue stabbed into her pussy, its slightly rough surface playing over the throbbing knot of her clit. There was nothing gentle about the wickedly sharp strokes and she didn’t want it any other way. Strong, hard fingers gripped her hips, held her both to the firm sleeping pallet and a mouth in the process of launching her to sexual rapture.
Falynn Mavek, premier Unit Zero Agent, gazed blindly at the ceiling of her quarters, the bone-stroking vibrations of her ship’s hyper-drive engines magnifying the waves of exquisite pleasure rolling through her body. Every nerve ending thrummed with the building energy of her rapidly approaching orgasm. An orgasm promising to be the first of many. When it came to climaxes, Forty-Two always delivered.
Her clit was a swollen button of sensitive flesh, the conduit for every jolt of wet heat the tip of his tongue seared into her core. Falynn bit down on her lip, the sharp self-inflicted pain an automatic ploy to derail the moans clawing at her throat. No matter how good it was—and sex with Forty-Two was always very, very good—she never made a sound during sex.
It wasn’t the years of brutal training under the aegis of the Unit’s most notorious master agent that had her muzzling her pleasure. She simply never relinquished control of her emotions. Not anymore.
Perhaps because the last time she’d expressed her pleasure during sex, her lover had walked away and never came back.
Everyone said Thanatos was dead, but she didn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. How could he be? He was too good. Too fast. Over and over she’d seen him defy the laws of time and physics. He was unbeatable. Untouchable.
Except by her. That once.
Damn him to all the hells, he’d probably gotten the Itillian Slap he’d wanted from some other female. If so, she hoped he really was dead. She hoped he’d died thirsty.
The tongue in her cunt stopped its delicious, orgasm-inducing action and the fingers curled harder into her hips. “Stop thinking.” Forty-Two’s deep voice rumbled with potent power and undeniable command.
“How do you know I’m thinking?” she ground out, pulse quick in her neck.
He chuckled against her pussy, the rumble vibrating into her core and making her breath catch. “You know how.”
He thrust his tongue deeper, past her folds, and she bit her lip again. Each time Forty-Two claimed her body, he did everything in his power to break her silence. It had become a personal challenge. She didn’t mind. It burned away the emptiness of her existence. It torched the ache in her chest where her wounded heart thumped. It made him do things to her she’d never let any living soul do before. Not even—
She cut the painful thought dead, focusing instead on the feel of Forty-Two’s tongue and now—Kiirs, give her strength—his finger in her cunt. No. Make that two fingers. Each long digit squirmed and wriggled inside her, seeking the sweet spot within as his tongue retreated to roll again and again over her throbbing clit. She shoved her hips higher, forcing her sex harder to his mouth, letting the exquisite fire licking through her body consume her. Almost.
She would never relinquish control completely. Not again. Once was enough.
“Stop thinking and let me make you forget.”
Forty-Two’s growl sent a shiver up Falynn’s spine and her nipples pinched tight. She looked down her body into his eyes, unable to miss the furious light burning in their blue depths. His desire blazed like an inferno there, and in those flames she saw a determination and hunger so powerful, her throat squeezed shut. Kiirs. If only…
She balled her fists, killing the futile wish as ruthlessly as she killed her targets. He may be the only one even close to making her scream again, but he could never destroy her pain.
She pumped her hips, needing him to scour away the old hurt building in her heart. She needed to come. She needed to feel something apart from nothing. “Get out of my head and finish the job.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Yes, Proserpina.”
“Don’t call me that either.”
Forty-Two chuckled again, the sound both bitter and warm, before—thank Kiirs—he returned his very talented mouth to her sex. He sucked at her clit, nibbled and nipped with his teeth. She bucked, choking back a gasp. He dug his fingers into her flesh and jerked her butt off the mattress, stabbing her anus with his tongue. Her back arched under the overwhelming sensations, forcing shoulders and feet against the sleeping pallet as her fisted hands scrabbled for a hold in the bunched sheets.
Shit, he really knew what to do to make her hot. He was aggressive, almost brutal. He took from her with a savage greed that made her cunt flood with fresh cream.
Sliding his large hands under her hips, he cupped her butt cheeks, squeezing each curve of muscle as he tortured her anus with his tongue. She drew in a silent breath, feeling her ass grow damp, painted with the slick lubrication secreted by his tongue. Preparing her for entry.
Flaccid, his cock was massive, the phallus more than befitting his seven-foot frame. Erect and stiff with desire, it was the stuff of every sexual being’s fantasy.
She knew he was going to penetrate her anally and her pussy grew sodden with anticipation. Anal sex with Forty-Two was like a double dose of concentrated pleasure spiked with pure pain. Incredible, punishing and completely unsentimental. What she needed. What she deserved.
An appreciative rumble sounded in her companion’s chest and he yanked her harder to his mouth, lifting her legs from the bed to wrap them around his head. His hands mauled her ass, her hips. He peppered her tight opening with rapid jabs of his tongue, the thick muscle growing more pointed with each stroke until she felt its slick, rounded tip push into the puckered hole.
She clamped her mouth shut, fists tugging at the sheet. She bucked, her wild rhythm in perfect sync with Forty-Two’s tongue. His fingers stretched her cheeks farther apart, granting his mouth greater access to her hole. He dipped into her, tongue fat and stiff, a smaller replica of the enormous shaft between his solid, steely thighs.
By Kiirs, she was going to come.
Unbidden—and as always—an image of Agent Thanatos filled her mind.
Raw want shot through her. Raw, tortured want. His eyes had promised so much more than that one moment of heaven. And yet he’d never returned. He’d never broken his word to her once throughout her training and yet…he’d never returned.
Loss and pain absolute flooded her soul—at the very second Forty-Two tore his mouth from her ass and sank his cock inside her.
Her orgasm crashed through her body, brutal and sudden and more forceful than ever. Accompanied by the cruel, inescapable memory of another climax from a different time and a different place, the rapturous screams of that release echoing in her head even as the silence of this one flayed her wanting heart.
She came. Without a sound.
He pumped into her, watching her face, listening for a sound he never heard.
A decommissioned GU Type R42 military combat android, Forty-Two had spent his entire existence in battle and now functioned purely for Falynn Mavek, the woman who’d given him life.
The only way he knew Falynn was in the throes of an orgasm was the squeezing contractions of her ass on his shaft, the tortured, haunted expression in her eyes and the violent spike in activity his bio scan detected in her cerebral cortex.
Still, the base response was enough for Forty-Two’s own orgasm—a phenomenal feat of bio-engineering achievement—to surge through his body. The living flesh encompassing his teratanium skeleton flushed, artificial blood pumping through ve
ins engineered to fool even the most astute medico. His balls grew tight, drew higher, closer to his groin, until what felt like an eruption of molten energy burst from their swollen mass, hurtling up his long, thick cock. A roar tore from his throat. It rattled the small room and drowned out the sounds of the ship’s engines.
He pumped into Falynn, wanting her to scream. Wanting her to surrender to the pleasure he knew he gave her. Wanting her to abandon the control she so fiercely held.
She didn’t. As one orgasm after another claimed her, as he drove his cock harder and harder into her tight sphincter, making her grip the sheet of her sleeping pallet with white-knuckled fists, the association neurons of her brain burned white-hot with memories of a man he could never erase. A man who had taken from Falynn the ability to abandon herself to emotion. A man presumed dead.
Forty-Two didn’t worship a deity—really, whom did an obsolete AI pray to anyway? His maker?—but more than once he’d found himself wishing Unit Zero Agent Thanatos alive with a fervency similar to prayer.
He wanted to kill the man himself.
Left wounded and malfunctioning on a bloody, corpse-riddled battlefield by the GU’s military unit after their brutal occupation of Itillian two years ago, Forty-Two had been one failed diode away from complete systems shutdown when Falynn had found him. Her emotionless gaze had flicked over him once, before—with fluid grace and jarring speed—she’d reached into the twisted mess of ribbon cables in his broken neck and deactivated him.
When his systems came back online, he’d discovered he was in a Dragonfly-class deep-space craft with his E.S.O.U.L program activated. For the first time in his short, violent existence, he felt emotions. Shocked surprise quickly gave way to suspicious confusion.
Why? The first word he’d ever spoken. Why had she “saved” him? Why had she activated his emotion sensor operational uplink program?
She’d never given him an answer. Instead, she’d placed a small mirror on his chest and left the cramped quarters.
Deadly Pleasure: 2 (Mercy) Page 2