Ours to Share: ES Siren 8
The music was loud. Ear-ringingly, head-splittingly loud. And it was exactly what Jasmine Hewitt needed. She glanced toward her lover, Cloey Pederson. It was exactly what they both needed—along with half the people aboard the ES Siren, going by the crowd in the bar.
Tensions had escalated after the Sprite, one of the three earth ships heading to Solitaire, had been severely crippled by a micrometeoroid shower, and at least half of its surviving passengers had boarded the Siren.
Overcrowding and dwindling food rations didn’t just affect the prisoners. The civilians onboard suffered too, though compared to the inmates on the lower zone, Jasmine suspected she and the other civvies had nothing to complain about.
At least the bar made a tidy profit. People were more than willing to exchange their precious credits for the mind-numbing piss that passed for beer. Add a band whose talent was undeniable, and whose music helped people forget their problems, and the bar was doing a roaring trade.
Jasmine gave in to the press of the crowd and aligned herself behind Cloey, wrapping her arms around her lover’s waist. But for once, her attention wasn’t on the pixie-slender woman whose short brown hair feathered her nape, and whose cherry blossom shampoo filled Jasmine’s nose, washing away the scent of stale sweat and booze.
She stared at the guitarist on the makeshift stage, his fingers flying over the strings with skilled precision, bringing the music to life. She ignored the singer, bass player and drummer. She only wanted the guitarist, the con whose past she couldn’t care less about.
She wanted—needed—one night of carnal abandon to relieve the ache within. An ache that could no longer be fully quenched by her lover’s feminine hands and tongue.
The guitarist’s biceps bulged in the sleeves of his prison “yellows”, his height less apparent as he bent low into a solo riff, the chords fast and furious. Her pussy clenched. He played his guitar the way she wanted to be taken: hard and aggressive. She imaged every part of him dripping sweat, his hot body sliding over hers as he played her, got lost in her.
His riff over, he straightened, looming again, his dark brown hair falling away from his even darker, glittering eyes. His was a stare that could wound in one glance. Jasmine shivered, despite the hot, perspiring bodies in the room; despite the heat gathering between her thighs.
His fierceness called to something within her. A need to tame and restrain, maybe even a need to break.
I’m my father’s daughter, after all.
Cloey turned her head a little, her ice-blue eyes round and her lips brushing Jasmine’s skin between ear and jaw. “He’s beautiful.”
Jasmine nodded. If a man who was all hard edges and hostility could be labeled such a thing, she guessed the guitarist was it. His magnificence was almost intimidating, his air of barely restrained violence doing things to her body she’d never felt before.
The tribal ink kissing his neck and disappearing under his unkempt hair made her want to lick the swirling design, taste his sweat and inhale his scent. She wanted to grip his rough, disarrayed hair and push his head down to her pussy, until the stubble on his face prickled her inner thighs while he suckled and licked.
Then, her body still shuddering with pleasure, she’d have him take her, fill her with his pulsating length until another orgasm took away her breath … her sanity.
She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d give Cloey that same satisfaction.
She swallowed and took in a steadying breath. Bloody hell, she really did have it bad. Sex made her feel alive, and right then only the cock-filling-pussy variety would do. It was a shame the talk about Jasmine and Cloey being lesbians had turned so many men away—though it had suited them both for a while. It kept away the undesirables, and there were plenty of those onboard the Siren.
The guitarist had barely looked their way, but Jasmine knew he was aware of them, more than aware. Her nerve endings smoldered, on the verge of combusting. Even the reluctant Cloey was aroused. And she’d bet the guitarist would welcome sexual release after the adrenalin of playing for the rowdy crowd.
Cloey lifted her arms and linked her hands behind Jasmine’s neck, her crop top pulling even higher, baring her taut stomach and the wink of her navel jewelry. Her head tilted back, her eyes glowing. “He’s the one, isn’t he?” she shouted above the music.
Jasmine swayed along with Cloey’s rhythmic dance. She couldn’t deny it, not even to spare her gorgeous lover possible angst. Her stare had already been drawn back to the man on stage when she answered, “Yes.”
Cloey’s grip tightened a little, bringing Jasmine’s attention back to her. “You’re sure?”
Cloey bit her bottom lip, and Jasmine knew she was torn between excitement and uncertainty. Cloey accepted that Jasmine wasn’t fulfilled by the touch of a woman alone. But it didn’t mean she was happy about it.
Her eyes turned serious, somber. “Just the one night, right?”
Jasmine nodded. “Right.”
There was no reason to prolong the interlude with the guitarist. Just one night of hardcore fucking to get her need for man-sex right out of her system, at least for a few months. Then she and Cloey could resume their otherwise marvelous relationship.
When the man in question turned and looked directly at them, finally acknowledging their presence, Jasmine leaned closer to Cloey and murmured, “Let’s give him something to think about.”
Cloey’s eyes narrowed, though she was used to Jasmine’s sometimes perverse ways. Her voice sounded breathless. “What do you have in mind?”
Jasmine leaned forward and kissed the side of Cloey’s neck, her eyes not once straying from the glittering stare of the guitarist. Moving a hand to the front of Cloey’s jeans, she slipped inside the low-slung waistband and under the lacy panties, finding the wet heat between her folds.
Cloey gasped, and then writhed a little against her touch. “What if someone else sees?”
Jasmine smiled. “Everyone is watching the band.”
Besides, they weren’t the only couple making out. Seemed like half the crowd was dirty dancing, rubbing asses against crotches and breasts against chests.
The guitarist turned away, but not before Jasmine noted a distinct and impressive bulge in his prison-issue pants. She withdrew her hand from between Cloey’s thighs with a smile.
They’d baited the hook, now it was just a matter of reeling their prey in. Shouldn’t be too hard—unlike certain parts of the guitarist’s anatomy.
The singer announced the last song and anticipation surged through Jasmine. She had to have the guitarist. No other man would do … at least, none who were still available. And she had a feeling this man was available—he didn’t seem the type to tie himself down.
He was perfect.
Even before the song had finished, Jasmine spotted the guard assigned to watch the guitarist and one of the other “yellow” band members. She wondered idly how the two prisoners on stage had met the three civvies and formed a band. Perhaps they’d performed together on Earth?
But she didn’t speculate too long. She pointed out the guard to Cloey and they made their way toward him. The guard didn’t pretend any interest in his duties, and his eyes lit up at the two women approaching him.
Behind the speakers, the music was muted, so they could easily hear the guard’s drawl. “What can I do for you lovely ladies?”
Jasmine frowned as his appreciative stare took in their skimpy attire. She hadn’t worn her emerald-green halter-neck dress, with its short and ragged hem, for this man’s titillation. She held back a cutting reply and smiled instead. “We’d like to offer you a tab at the bar in exchange for the guitarist’s release for the night.”
The guard’s interest turned into a sneer. “You want a criminal to fuck you both?” At their silence he gave his groin a suggestive rub and added, “I’d be happy to show you girls a good time.”
Cloey’s spine stiffened even as Jasmine took a step closer, leaned forward and said slowly, “My father, Kennedy Hewitt, might object to me being spoken to in such a way.” At the guard’s whitening face, she pressed on. “You might have heard of him? He’s one of the elite helping to sponsor this trip to Solitaire.”
The guard gave a resigned nod. “If that’s the way you want it, fine.” He glanced at the stage. “But just so you know, prisoner 322 mightn’t be one of those dangerous ‘whites’, but that doesn’t mean I can guarantee your safety.”
Jasmine nodded. “We’ll take our chances.”
Lord only knew, traveling through the galaxy inside the metal beast that was the ES Siren was far more dangerous. There’d been plenty of skeptics who’d remained on the dying Earth, announcing to all and sundry that if anyone made it to Solitaire in one piece it would be nothing short of a miracle.
But it was a risk she and Cloey had been willing to take. Better to roll the dice and risk dying in space than slowly suffocate on a polluted world without hope.
The guard stroked his throat. “I can only give you one night with 322. That way there’s no paperwork, and no one needs to be any the wiser.”
Jasmine nodded. “That’s plenty of time for what we have in mind.”
The guard licked his lips, and said weakly, “A bar tab, you say?”
Cloey trailed behind Jasmine, admiring her lover’s long, inky-black hair, caught up in its usual high ponytail, its glossy ends swinging to her narrow waist. Little wonder both men and women wanted her. With her hourglass figure and luscious hair, Jasmine was a Lara Croft lookalike from the vintage movie Tomb Raider.
She swallowed, for once just as aware of the man next to her as she was of her lover, who tangled her up inside.
The con was a sweaty hulk of a man, at least six foot five. His lips were possibly the one softness on an otherwise hard face, and they were presently drawn tight. His eyes sparkled with bold intelligence, though he deliberately kept his stare averted, looking straight ahead. She could imagine him as a gladiator about to enter the arena, weaponless and without armor but still prepared to fight to the death.
With a shiver, she wondered if he’d participated in the rounds. More than likely. If she was a betting woman she’d guess he’d won most, if not all, of his fights.
Did it rub him the wrong way that two women were now in charge of him for the night? While most men would undoubtedly be ecstatic, he looked seriously … pissed.
Cloey’s shiver turned into one of anticipation. This man wouldn’t be a straightforward lover. He was tough and complicated, and emotionally closed off, to them and probably everyone around him.
But that didn’t mean she’d tiptoe softly. Not a chance. When she and Jasmine had agreed to travel to Solitaire, they’d vowed the new world would be their oyster. They intended to live their lives fully and not waste one precious moment on regrets.
She stopped at the cabin they shared, catching a whiff of her lover’s musky arousal. She glanced up at the con. Going by his flared nostrils and set jaw, it seemed he’d scented Jasmine’s excitement too.
She released a taut breath. She could barely conceive this man would be the one who’d break her and Jasmine’s fast of men. Her stare dropped almost of its own accord to his arousal. Her mouth dried. Damn, he was big all over.
As Jasmine swung the door open and stepped inside, Cloey realized she really didn’t mind his size. She wanted him big and strong. Wanted to feel every long, hard inch of him as he pounded into her. She wanted him, period.
Wanted him despite the fact she’d barely even looked at a man since she and Jasmine’s friendship had deepened into intimacy, around six months before they’d boarded the Siren to start their new life together.
The prisoner didn’t immediately follow Jasmine. He stayed motionless for perhaps a few seconds before he released a ragged sigh and stepped inside, his stare not once touching on Cloey as he observed the other woman.
Cloey frowned. So what if he didn’t look at her? Sure, she wasn’t classically beautiful. She was thin and small-breasted, her eyes and lips a little large for her snub nose and pixie face. But Jasmine had said she was exquisite, and she believed her.
Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the cabin and shut the door without so much as a backward glance at the guard and the other prison band member, who had yet to be escorted back to his cell. The guard would be returning for 322 early tomorrow, but until then, she didn’t need to put up with his leering stare.
Cloey leaned against the door, safe in the cabin she and Jasmine had made their own. This was their one refuge from the overcrowded ship and all its tensions. She pushed away from the door with a little smile. By the end of the night, she had no doubt there would be very little tension left in her body.
Silo Warrick took in the cabin with a sweeping glance, barely refraining from curling his lip at the room that told him right away the two women were elite. From their own square table and four chairs—did they entertain in their cabin often?—to the homey thick rug on the floor and the big double bed they clearly shared, with its thick, mint-colored comforter.
He’d known these women were elite from the first moment he’d seen them on the dance floor. They’d stood out like snowflakes among the bleak dregs of humanity.
The dark-haired beauty especially had shown her true colors, and not just with her edgy clothing and the way she radiated class. He had observed how she’d taken control of the guard. He’d found her arrogance amusing, until he’d discovered that her bribery involved him.
Not that a prisoner would ever refuse a night with a beautiful woman, let alone two of them. His cock had felt the grip of his own hands for long enough.
He frowned as his stare landed on a glass-fronted wall cabinet filled with jars of rare coffee beans and bottles of liquor. Big mistake. Those items should be locked away in a safe, hidden. There were people onboard who’d kill for just one taste.
Evidently these women imagined that their money brought protection. He dragged a hand over his face. Maybe they were right. Hell, if one lousy token bought a guard a blow job from any number of willing prisoners, he could only imagine what a whole internet bank of credits would buy—certainly someone’s safety.
A portrait of the women, which was attached magnetically to the wall, caught his attention. He squinted. The initials “TF” were signed at the bottom. Tristan MacFallan might be a dangerous “whites” prisoner, but he was one lucky son of a bitch getting hitched to Chief Warrant Officer Rita Songworth.
Had these women been attracted to Tristan too? Had they shared more than their profiles with the artist?
Bloody hell. Could one prisoner seriously be that blessed?
He quelled the snarl building in his throat. Tristan might not be his closest friend, but he knew enough about the man to know that Rita was the only woman for him. Not that Silo gave a damn either way.
Even when he’d been a free man on Earth, and he’d had women who’d wanted more than just a night of gymnastics between the sheets, he’d never craved more than his own company. He shouldn’t and didn’t care if these women had sampled half the prisoners on the Siren.
It wasn’t his concern.
His arm dropped back to his side, the magna-cuff glinting under the dull light, reminding him exactly who he was and what he was here for. Sex. Nothing more, nothing less.
In a perfect world, Earth wouldn’t be dying and he wouldn’t be agreeable to slaking his lust with women who were elite. But even as he thought it, he knew he was fooling himself. He couldn’t wait to sink balls-deep into first one of these women and then the other. He’d known that from the moment he’d seen them.
He always lost himself in the music on stage, and yet he’d been hyperaware of both women. That their attention had been wholly on him, too, when not on each other, had heightened his interest a hundredfold.
But having chemistry with these strangers didn’t mean he had to like them. He’d take advantage of the situation in exactly the same way they’d taken advantage of him.
His breath hissed at the touch on his arm, feminine soft and yet sizzling hot. He glanced down at the elfin, short-haired woman who he’d assumed was a little shy. She didn’t back off, didn’t remove her light grasp from his taut arm.
Her eyes filled her face, and the luscious lips that curved into a smile seemed perfect for sucking a man’s dick.
He frowned at his dirty thoughts—she looked so innocent and trusting. Then again, she was elite and no elite he’d ever met would know the meaning of the words. His mood seemed to only titillate her interest. “What’s your name?” she asked huskily.
His voice came out raspy and harsh. “Call me 322.”
They didn’t need to know any more than that. He didn’t want them to know any more than that. They might be intimate for one night, but that didn’t mean they should be personally invested.
The elite were about as emotionally detached as a person could get … and that suited him just fine.