MissionMenage (10 page)

“You’ll soon find that out.” Vegas extracted his sword from
the sheath strapped to his back, metal rasping against the leather.
Fuck.
It’d been a long time since he last held a sword. Juggling the weapon between
his hands, he re-familiarized himself with its weight and balance.

“I enjoy hunting on these primitive planets.” Sunlight
reflected off the Balazoid’s sword. “Phasers are so quick and clean and
impersonal.” The assassin twirled the weapon in circles, switching hands
seamlessly, his movements flowing and graceful. “A shot to a target’s head
isn’t as satisfying as severing a jugular with a finely honed blade.”

Vegas didn’t answer, finding no satisfaction in any death.
They circled, studying each other. The Balazoid was light on his feet, moving
like a dancer, and his weapon was an extension of his arm, a oneness that spoke
of experience and rigorous training.

Vegas waited, watching for an opportunity, his body coiled
with anticipation, his mind wiped of everything except the male before him and
the small fighting area surrounding them.

The Balazoid’s eyes flashed a forewarning and he sprang
forward, his sword lashing out with frightening speed, a blur of silver. Vegas
caught the downward arc with his own blade, grunting with the effort. Although
the warrior didn’t make a sound, his torso strained into the connection, trying
to force through the block.

They remained locked, testing each other’s strength, the Balazoid’s
muscles rippling under his leather, Vegas’ entire body shaking with the strain.
Moments passed, a trickle of perspiration ran along Vegas’ aching back, before
the Balazoid twisted away, turning with a smooth continuous movement, breaking
the stalemate.

“You are a worthy opponent,” the Balazoid conceded, dipping
his head in acknowledgement.

Vegas bowed slightly, his gaze not leaving the warrior’s,
cautiously awaiting the next strike. “As are you.”

“I will honor you by using your female well.” The assassin’s
reference to Raylee scattered all pretense of civility, anger bubbling up in
Vegas. “After I sever your head from your body, I will take my release deep
within her.” The Balazoid’s smug smirk punctuated his words.

Vegas gritted his teeth, his fingers squeezing the handle of
his sword, his knuckles white, every protective gene in his body shouting at
him to attack, to vent his rage on the warrior threatening his woman. It took
all of his Federation training to remain still.

“She is little.” The Balazoid continued his oral offensive.
“She will be snug around my big cock.”

Vegas’ jaw ached, his anger biting into his chest like the
lashing of a bullwhip. “She’d never allow you near her and you’re not strong
enough to subdue her.” He launched a counterattack. “I saw her stand up to you
on Ungaria. Everyone saw her defiance and your pitiful retreat, a mighty Balazoid
warrior unable to control a little female.”

The assassin’s red eyes glowed. His white lips thinned.

“It was a good joke. I laughed and so did others.” Vegas
curved his mouth in a semblance of a smile, having not found the encounter at
all humorous. The damn woman had almost gotten herself killed. “They must be
laughing at you throughout the galaxies.”

“I’ll kill her.” The assassin launched himself at Vegas, his
sword carving through the space between them. Vegas blocked and disengaged. He
surged forward, countering with his own attack. The Balazoid arrested his
downward motion. They spun and swung in a lightning-fast dance of death, sparks
lighting, the clanging of metal against metal their beat.

Vegas’ right arm grew weary and weak and he switched to his
left, the Balazoid doing the same. They fought, their worlds narrowing to the
two of them, both combatants aware that one error, one slow response would
result in death.

Vegas’ grunts were underlain by the Balazoid’s wheezing.
Their twisting, turning bodies, one tanned, one pale, slickened with a thin
shiny sheen of perspiration.

Vegas was a generalist. He was a spy, an operative and a
warrior. He didn’t have the Balazoid assassin’s killing focus and, as he tired,
he made mistakes, the Balazoid nicking his arms, his hips, his legs with his
sword, the tiny slices dissipating his energy.

The warrior advanced, pushing Vegas off the well-trod path.
He caught the toe of his boot on a tree root and stumbled. The Balazoid carved
his blade into exposed flesh and Vegas sucked in his breath as pain seared
through his upper thigh, blood gushing from the deep wound.

Fuck. I’m dead.
He reeled from the blood loss, his
already exhausted body weakened from the blow. Vegas thrust his sword wildly,
the assassin easily avoiding each attack.
Forget your fuckin’ life. Think of
Raylee.
Delay the
Balazoid
and save her.

Pushing back the darkness threatening to overwhelm him and
drawing on all of his remaining energy, Vegas battled.
Protect Raylee. Fuck.
Let her live.

* * * * *

From her vantage point high up the hill, Raylee saw the
blood squirt from Vegas’ leg and she screamed until her lungs ached. No one
heard her because her mouth was covered by a big, calloused hand. She struggled
while the huge, almost-naked stranger held her easily, the bastard chuckling
softly, his mouth at least a foot above hers.

There is nothing humorous, damn it, about the man I love
dying.
Raylee bit the insensitive ass’s palm, his skin the consistency of
the toughest weathered leather.

That stopped the laughing. Her captor growled, shaking her
until her teeth rattled. “Your mate, the male you smell of, fights.” His words,
the first he had spoken since catching her, rolled out of him like the rumble
of a starship’s engine. “You go close. He looks at you, not rival. He dies.”

The big, hairless ape has a point.
The Balazoid would
use any distraction to kill Vegas and she wouldn’t be any help to him at close
range either, being small and not having much hand-to-hand combat experience.

I don’t have to be close to assist him.
Raylee
shrugged her right shoulder, drawing the ass’s attention to her bow and quiver.

“Ahhh…clever female.” Her captor’s grip on her loosened.
“You stay here. Shoot weapon. Do not hit mate.”

No shit.
Raylee squirmed free. “You bastard!” She
spat. “If your delay results in Vegas’ death, I’ll personally hunt you down and
slay your ass.”

If I can.

The man was huge, bronzed by the sun, his blue-black hair
woven into long, neat braids. His high, protruding forehead and flattened nose
identified him as a native Lokan. His silver eyes sparkled with mirth, as
though this was all a big joke to him. She wanted to slap him, but she had
higher priorities.

Raylee put the Lokan out of her mind, focusing on the battle
before her. Vegas fought with the wildness of desperation and the Balazoid
calmly, coldly stalked him, playing with his prey. Raylee extracted an arrow
from her quiver, carefully aiming her bow. Neither combatant was aware of her
presence.

“You are fearless, little female.” The Lokan loomed over
her, smelling of fresh earth and the planet he lived upon.

“I’m not an idiot. I fear. God, I fear.” Her stomach twisted
with terror. “But I love him and I’ll do anything to protect him.”

The tentacle-headed warrior lifted his sword, preparing to
swing, and Raylee released her arrow, the feathers whistling, the arrowhead
making a satisfying thunk as it pierced the Balazoid’s shoulder.

His red eyes widened with surprise, his gaze lifting to her
form, and his mouth dropped open.
Take that, you male chauvinistic bastard.
She smirked, drawing her bow once more, preparing the kill shot.
This weak
woman is about to kill your pale ass.

Vegas lunged at the assassin, his sword extended. Blades
connected, metal chasing metal, faster and faster, until the weapons sailed out
of their grips, the men pulling back, giving her a clear shot.

Raylee released the arrow.
Shit. My aim is off.
The Balazoid
caught the arrow in one gloved hand, an impossible feat, and when Vegas
barreled into his torso, a dagger in each hand, the warrior slammed the
arrowhead into his back, piercing his body armor.

Raylee shrieked in horror at what she’d inadvertently done
and the Balazoid smiled, falling backward onto the ground, blood bubbling from
his pale lips. Vegas slumped on top of him, stabbing him again and again and
again before lying still.

Is he dead? Did my arrow kill the man I love?

“Wait.” The Lokan caveman caught her arm. “Tell your mate
the delivery—”

“Fuck the delivery.” She thrashed, semi-delirious with
panic. “He’s dying. He’s dying.”

“From that wound?” The Lokan raised thick black eyebrows.
“Unlikely.” He didn’t remove his big paw of a hand. “Tell him the delivery has
been received.” Finally releasing her, he swatted her ass, shoving her in
Vegas’ direction.

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” She tossed that choice bit of
sarcasm over her shoulder while sprinting down the hill, away from the Lokan’s
laughter and toward the man she loved. “Vegas,” she called out to him.

“Raylee.” He groaned, rolling off the dead Balazoid,
snapping the shaft of her arrow in two. “I’m going to truly beat your ass this
time.” Vegas sat up, wonderfully alive, and the chill in her body eased. “Give
me something to slow this.” He gestured to the gaping wound on his thigh.

She looked around them, her gaze settling on the Balazoid’s
weapon holster. It’d be perfect to stem the flow of blood. “Is he dead?” Even
lying still, flat on his back, the assassin was intimidating.

“Yes, he is…oh, fuck.” Vegas sprang to his feet, grass
crunching under his big boots. “Run! Run!” He grabbed Sexy’s detached head by
the hair.

Shit. Not again.
She ran for what seemed like the
hundredth time that day, heading toward the ship, her knees aching from the
trek upward. Vegas placed his hand on the small of her back, pushing her
faster, his breath hot on her neck.

They were halfway up the hill when a boom rocked the terrain
and she was thrown to the ground, her gasping mouth sucking dirt, a heavy form
landing on her back, flattening her, while a rush of hot, wet air blew past,
leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake.

I’m not dead.
She turned her head, spitting out earth
and grass. Her aching body was painfully alive. “Vegas, are you hurt?” She
stared into Sexy’s blank eyes, his face covered with blood and what looked like
pale Balazoid skin.

Vegas groaned, the sound muffled by the humming in her ears.
“I’ll survive.” The weight on her back lifted and she breathed deeper. Moist
hands rolled her over. “You okay?” he asked. Vegas was covered with blood too,
his thigh wound matted down with dirt. Thankfully, it wasn’t all his blood. The
damn assassin must have blown himself up, his last act an attempt to kill them
both.

“I’ll feel better once we’re off this fucking planet.” She
summoned up a smile, knowing she must look as bad as he did.

“Agreed.” Vegas smiled back, laughter lines crinkling around
his blue eyes, his black hair spiked straight up. He was handsome and
disheveled and hers. She took his hand, savoring the contact as he helped her
to stand.

Chapter Eight

“Is the seam noticeable?” Sexy peered at his naked form
reflected in the mirror, touching his neck. He had been fussing over his
inferior spare body, as he declared it, for hours.

“No,” Vegas lied, the endless fretting irritating him while
he waited naked on the bed for Raylee to return. His thigh no longer pained
him, the wound laser-sutured, and she had extracted the arrowhead from his
back, sealing that tear in his skin also. He was rested and ready. He flexed
his hands, debating how hard to punish her.

“And look at this cock.” The android stared down at his
erect shaft, his lips twisted with disgust. “It doesn’t even self-lubricate.”

Sexy’s long, hard cock was thinner than his previous member,
making it perfect for delivering a rigorous and satisfying ass fucking. “The
lube is in the top drawer.” Vegas clenched his butt cheeks in anticipation, as
the android retrieved it.

Sexy squeezed a glistening line of lube onto his cock,
slathering the gel over his synthetic skin, making it shine. “You’ll have to
stick some of that up my ass,” Vegas advised.
Fuck.
Sexy is right.
Lack of self-lubrication is a bitch.

The door slid open and shut. “Starting without me?” his mate
teased.

“Strip naked, Raylee,” he commanded, swinging his legs over
the side of the bed. “And come here.” He patted his thighs.

“You’re hurt.” The levity vanished from her voice, replaced
with the smoky drawl of desire edged by fear. He read the recollection of his
promise in her expressive face.

“It isn’t me you should worry about, woman,” Vegas warned,
growing hard as she unfastened her blue flight suit, exposing the curves of her
breasts with their taut pink tips. Her garment hung off her hips for several
heartbeats before falling to the floor, the fabric whispering against soft
skin.

Damn, she’s gorgeous.
Vegas suppressed the wild
impulse to slam her back against the wall, wrap those shapely legs around his
waist and ram his rock-hard cock into her wet, hot pussy again and again until
she screamed for mercy.

“Vegas.” She must have read the savagery in his face because
she hesitated, twirling one lock of her long brown hair around her finger.

“Come here, Raylee,” he repeated. “If you make me get you,
your punishment will be doubled.” He prayed she’d listen to him because lasting
through one reprimand would be challenging and he couldn’t last through two.

“I saved your life.” Her walk was slow and seductive, her
curvy hips swaying. “I should be rewarded, not punished.”