But before he could bring either of them to the pinnacle he sought, they both pulled away and he swayed drunkenly on his knees.
“Up onto the bed, Hastion,” Cecine ordered. “On your back.”
Obeying blindly, he rose on unsteady legs and collapsed onto the mattress in the prescribed position.
Cecine spoke again. “Armitran, full neural restraints for Ensign Hastion.”
“Oh Peserin,” Hastion moaned, closing his eyes as his head drifted off to the side, his cock throbbing so fiercely he suspected it must be pulsing visibly.
Joining him on the bed, Cecine and Shelley tormented him with pleasure, kissing and sucking and biting at his skin until he broke into a sweat.
Just when he feared he would orgasm from the thrill of it, Cecine said, “Perhaps that’s enough of that for now. Why don’t you ride him, little dragon?”
“That’s a marvelous idea,” Shelley purred.
Hastion opened his eyes to watch as she swung a leg over his hips and mounted his achingly hard cock. She smiled like a siren as she rode him slowly, her hair in a tumble around her body until Cecine gathered it into his hands and held her still with it.
“And now, my szisdagya, I believe it’s your turn.”
“What are you talking about? My turn for what?”
Shelley’s drugged eyes widened as she went limp over Hastion, and Cecine guided her forward until she lay on his chest.
“Hold her in place, Hastion.”
Grinning when he realized his restraints had been released at the same time Shelley’s were activated, Hastion reached up to stroke her back while Cecine left the bed. When he returned and knelt between their spread thighs, he held a bottle of lubricant, which he promptly put to use. Hastion’s breath left him when he felt a sliding sensation against his still-rigid cock and realized it was the minister’s finger—or fingers—inside Shelley.
She gasped once, and then squealed. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing you,” Cecine informed her evenly.
She sounded almost fearful when she asked, “For what?”
“For my cock.”
“I don’t do anal,” she cried.
“I beg to differ.”
“I don’t! Ow, that hurts!”
“Then relax, my szisdagya. You forget, I had access to your probe, and you were always very relaxed when you took both of us in your erotic adventures with it.”
She moaned again. “That was none of your business!”
He closed the bottle and dropped it on the bed. “All parts of you are my business, Shelley. I observed you quite often, you know,” he added, watching what he was doing to her ass with lust-darkened eyes. “Not just when you used the probe, but when you exercised or meditated or cared for the babies.”
“Dammit, I knew it,” she gasped.
“And you love knowing I watched you, don’t you, my beloved?”
She hesitated for a long moment. “Fine, yes, I love it, you sneaky bastard.”
Hastion’s cock surged within her. “And still you surprise me, my Shelley-Belle.”
“I suspect our little mate has always hungered for adventure,” Cecine said as he withdrew his fingers. “It just took us to draw it out.”
With that, he leaned forward, braced both hands on her shoulders, and took her.
Hastion’s arms tensed around Shelley, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sudden tightness gripping his cock. The mind-bending pleasure of it burst through him in waves, pulsing in shades of scarlet behind his closed eyelids. Cecine’s thrusts grew heavier, deeper, the weight of his spread thighs forcing Hastion’s even wider, and their testicles slapped together with increasing force, punctuating the erotic chorus of cries rising on the air. Under his hot palms, Shelley’s back grew slick with sweat, and Hastion inhaled deeply as he clasped her tighter still, memorizing the moment—her pheromones filling his nostrils, her hard nipples and soft breasts scraping against his ribs, her belly sliding over his abdomen, her tender pussy grinding on his pubic bone…
Hastion’s throat grew tight even as his arousal spiked. Had any male ever been so privileged as he?
His poignant thoughts scattered when his spur suddenly emerged and pushed deep into Shelley’s nook, searing away his awareness of everything but the need to come violently. He released her to clutch at the blanket and ground his head into the mattress, clenching his teeth against the urge to scream, to go wild beneath her. He would not come before his mates did.
His mates had no such concerns—Shelley groaned and yelled and sighed and cursed them both as she came no less than three times, while Cecine drove them both up the bed with the strength of his final, frenzied thrusts. By the time Hastion finally allowed his own orgasm, his need bordered on madness and his vision went black with the force of his release.
It could have been moments or hours later when he roused from a deep sleep to find himself tucked against Cecine’s side, facing Shelley across his broad chest.
“You’re awake,” she observed with a sleepy smile.
He smiled back. “So are you.”
“I’m happy.”
“I’m happier.”
Cecine’s arms tightened around them both. “Neither of you is as happy as I am. I never thought I could be this happy. Hastion…”
His tentative tone made Hastion look up, and the serious look Cecine gave him made him tense a little. “Yes, sir?”
“I want to claim you, if you’ll allow it. Formally, in a public ceremony. Have you any objections?”
Tears burned in Hastion’s eyes, and he turned his face away as his heart began to beat unevenly. He could hardly credit what he was hearing. “I—”
“Look at me, my mate,” Cecine commanded with a hard squeeze.
Hastion obeyed reluctantly, looking up at him as one of the tears got away and streaked down his cheek. And to think he’d once imagined he had no future.
“Have I offended you?”
“Offended me?” Hastion choked out on a laugh. “Hardly.”
Shelley pulled out of Cecine’s embrace and sat up on her knees facing them, her hair rioting around her like a cape. “I think that’s a freaking awesome idea,” she said eagerly.
“Truly, sir? Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I want every male on this planet and every other to know that you’re both irrevocably mine in every way.”
Hastion hesitated before saying, “There may be repercussions…”
“I hope there are repercussions,” Cecine declared. “I hope our males will see that there is no shame in loving—either a female or another male. No shame in finding beauty in whatever form it takes.”
“Amen to that,” Shelley said.
“And I want them to see there is no shame in either submitting to another male or dominating one,” Hastion added.
Pulling him closer, Cecine kissed him reverently. “Thank you, my ensign.”
Shelley sighed. “That is so beautiful.”
Hastion smiled, his heart still pounding with emotion. “And what would you have our males see, Shelley-Belle?”
She searched both their faces for a long moment before saying, “That if they face their fears rather than clinging to what’s safe and familiar, they can live extraordinary lives and be happier than they ever thought they could. Like I am,” she added with a shy smile.
“You are extraordinary, my little dragon,” Cecine murmured, sliding a hand behind her neck and reeling her in until their lips met in a kiss so tender it made Hastion’s throat tighten again. Cecine was right—Shelley was extraordinary, the very embodiment of what courage could achieve.
And he wanted to be such an example.
“Sir,” he said after their kiss ended, “would you consider permanently marking me as yours, with either tattoos or piercings…or both?”
Cecine stared at him. “Are you certain?”
“I can think of no greater honor you could bestow upon me, sir.”
“The honor w
ould be all mine, Hastion. I’m…” he swallowed audibly, “…humbled.”
“Oh my God, tats and piercings?” Shelley lunged across Cecine’s chest and kissed Hastion soundly. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it,” she breathed against his lips.
“I would be happy to mark you mine too, my mate—with nipple or genital piercings, since you already have a tattoo,” Cecine said, his voice still rough but his eyes sparkling with humor.
Shelley reared back. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Only half-serious,” he admitted with a grin, pulling her stiff body back down to his side. “I would like to have you marked mine, but only if you permit it.”
“Thank you.” She snuggled into him once more. “No piercings, but we can talk about more tats after I see Hastion’s.”
“Fair enough.”
Hastion gave her a mischievous smile. “And what about you, sir?”
Shelley’s eyes widened. “Yes, what about you?”
“What about me?” Cecine asked warily.
Looking up at him, Hastion said, “Wouldn’t you like to be marked ours too?”
Cecine stared back for a long moment and then reached up to rub his scarred cheek. “I wouldn’t mind having this tattooed over, if you can think of something appropriate. I’d much rather wear the marks of mates I love and respect.”
“That would be perfect,” Shelley said, blinking back tears as she stretched up to kiss the scar.
“I agree.” Hastion pressed a kiss against Cecine’s chest and then laid his head against it with a sigh, already contemplating possible designs. Perhaps the scar shouldn’t be covered completely but incorporated into the tattoo. It should be emblematic, transforming something once painful and ugly, inflicted in hate, into something beautiful and hopeful—a visible symbol of their love. And perhaps, he hoped, of their culture.
He sat up abruptly, struck by inspiration.
When he climbed off the bed, Cecine seized his wrist and rumbled, “Where are you going, my ensign?”
“To get a tablet and stylus,” he said eagerly.
“But I still have plans for you.”
“So do I,” Shelley purred, reaching over to grab his other wrist.
Hastion’s breath caught at the possessive lust and love in their eyes, and he let them pull him down between them. His drawings could wait.
His future could not.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Emilie Overnight, the next book in Robin L. Rotham’s Overnight series, coming soon from Samhain Publishing!
Emilie Overnight
Sneak Peek!
Tysan woke at 6:00 a.m. US central standard time, in keeping with his patients’ circadian rhythms, and rose from his bunk in one of the med lab quarantine rooms. He could have returned to his assigned quarters once they reached Garathan—now that all the mating recruits had been removed to the surface, along with a good portion of the ship’s crew, overcrowding was no longer an issue. But since he spent every waking moment in the med lab, he didn’t see the point.
After bathing and donning his uniform, he walked into the main chamber, where the lighting level had already brightened from 5 to 20 percent. “Good morning, Empran.”
“Good morning, Dr. Tysan,” the computer replied.
When he looked down the two rows of undulating therapy bunks, a holoscreen appeared over the head of each patient, and Tysan initiated his morning ritual by walking to the first bunk on the left side.
“Good morning, Selah,” he said, taking his patient’s hand and squeezing it. “Did you rest well?”
Selah, of course, did not respond, but he continued to hold her slender hand as he assessed her physio scores. Dr. Ketrok had once asked him why he bothered with such pleasantries, and Tysan had replied, “To keep me mindful of the fact that they are more than experiments—they’re living beings. Besides,” he’d added, “how can we be certain they do not hear us? Just because they’re unresponsive to external stimuli and our scanners detect no significant brain activity doesn’t guarantee there is no speck of awareness or emotion in them.”
“They would not be here if their lack of awareness were in doubt,” Ketrok argued. “Their Terran families would not have parted with them if there were any hope of their recovery.”
“I’m certain that’s true. However, I prefer to err on the side of compassion.”
Ketrok shrugged, but, thereafter, he and the other project staff had greeted all the females courteously, if not with the warmth Tysan did.
After he’d performed a physical examination, checking her skin condition, muscle tone, reflexes and joint flexibility, Tysan tucked her thin blanket back into place with a sigh.
“Well, my dear, it looks as though you’re ready to be transferred to the surface facility,” he said. Selah was the first subject to undergo the retroactive neogenesis process, and because her body hadn’t yet begun to atrophy when they received her, she was also the first to successfully transition. It had been the crowning achievement of his med-science career.
Placing his palm against her warm cheek, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her brow. “Thank you, Selah. It has been a joy working with you. May your implantation be as successful as your transition.”
Dismayed by the tightening of his throat, he straightened quickly and moved to the next bunk. It was disturbing how attached he’d let himself become to these Terran females, particularly Selah and Emilie. If any of the project staff had witnessed his maudlin behavior, he’d have been instantly reassigned and sent for a psychological evaluation.
He was engrossed in Brittney’s scores when a high-priority alert sounded. An instant later, the flare lighting dimmed and then went out, plunging the chamber into complete darkness.
“Empran, what happened to the lighting?” he asked, gripping the edge of the bunk to keep himself oriented. When there was no response, he frowned. “Empran! Tysan to Tech Engineering. What’s—”
The lighting resumed normal function and the alert ceased.
“Empran has been deactivated,” a mechanized voice announced. “Backup command module Esitran is now online.”
“Deactivated!” He gaped for a moment. “Esitran, for what reason was Empran deactivated?”
“Commander Kellen called the sapience-threshold event code.”
Tysan rolled his eyes. Of course he did.
Wasn’t it time tech-science learned to control computers that exceeded sapience thresholds rather than execute them? If he dispatched every patient who didn’t do as he wished, he’d have slaughtered half the ship’s crew by now.
He sighed. Damn, but he’d actually come to like Empran after she began interacting with Monica and loosened up a bit. She’d even learned his routines and started intuiting his commands, making herself more useful to him than ever. But of course the instant a computer became that useful, it was punished with deactivation and he had to begin all over again with another. The irony left a bitter taste in Tysan’s mouth.
“That’s unfortunate, Esitran, but I imagine we’ll get along just fine,” he said with more optimism than he felt.
“I am a computer, Dr. Tysan, not a crew member. If we do not ‘get along’ as you wish, the fault will almost certainly lie in your expectations of me.”
“Peserin save me,” he muttered. “Esitran, must I reprogram all my experiment protocols?”
“Negative. All operational protocols were backed up to my module.”
“Thank the Powers for that, at least.”
Resigning himself to the situation, he continued down the first row of bunks and up the second, performing physical examinations of each patient.
Two hours later he stood at Emilie Engel’s bunk, the last stop on his morning rounds. He gnawed on his lower lip for several minutes as he stared at the holochart displayed over her head. Though the slight improvement in her brain function persisted, there had been no repeat of her anomalous behavior two days earlier—no wailing or thrashing, no tears or words of d
enial.
No anguished, terrified looks from her lovely green eyes.
As much as he wouldn’t wish that sort of torment on the young female, he was vastly disappointed. He’d hoped the episode was a sign of an impending spontaneous recovery. They were exceedingly rare in patients who’d been declared brain-dead but they did happen, and if such a recovery were to happen to one of his patients, he would have it be Emilie.
Finally he laid his palm against her warm cheek with a heavy sigh and leaned down to press his lips to her forehead. “All right, Emilie, I’m going to break my fast,” he told her, just in case she was even marginally aware. “I’ll return within a half hour.”
After he walked out of the med lab, the door slid closed behind him. For a moment the only movement in the chamber was the undulation of the bunks, and then Emilie took a deep breath, followed by another, and yet another. In the simulated early morning light, she opened her eyes and reached up to explore her face and neck with her fingertips.
Then she smiled and whispered, “I’ll be here, Dr. Tysan.”
About the Author
When I complained of being bored the summer before 7th grade, my mother (who worked at a bookstore at the time) handed me a stripped copy of Victoria Holt’s The Shivering Sands—and I was hooked. I became a voracious reader and an aspiring author, bringing home stacks of books from the library every single week.
The next year, I did a school report on Ms. Holt and wrote to her asking for information. In reply, she sent me an autographed photo and a lovely two-page handwritten letter in which she encouraged me to follow my writing dreams. Sadly, both the photo and the letter were lost over many moves, but my writing dreams remained.
At 14, I tried to write my first two romances. The first was about a federal agent masquerading as a bank robber, and a smart-mouthed customer who drove a custom baby-blue Trans Am named Shark. The “robber” stole Shark as his getaway vehicle and the heroine, Nicki, dove in beside him. That was as far as I got—I could never see beyond their flying down the highway, bickering as they were chased by bad guys.
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