Cyber Ops Book One
Genre: erotic futuristic romance
Number of pages: 312 pages
Word Count: 79,000 words
Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill
Congratulations, Dr. Charlotte Barley! You won a one-way ticket to Diablo’s Shithole!
Yes, Dr. Barley, you saved earth from humanity’s extinction brought on by overpopulation, discovered wormholes, and gave humanity a new lease on life. But, you’re being hunted by someone using a wormhole device you can’t fathom, plagued by a type of sleepwalking that involves reliving your alien sexual experiences gleaned from wormhole journeys, and, yes, we see that you can’t deal with your murdered bodyguards–mercenary Space Marines forced to anchor your body to a bed at night by acting out the sex memories haunting your REM cycle. Get over it already because there’s nowhere left to hide except Diablo’s Shithole…And the shit is about to hit Diablo’s fan more than you could ever imagine…Because, deep down inside, you know you’re into all that kinky sex.
So, who will the next victim be? Is tall, long, and corded astrophysicist Major Fitzroy capable of dancing with death to save your ass, or are you willing to sacrifice hotter-than-sin muscle-bound explosives fanatic Corporal Laurel? Just don’t let their nuts rub together. And you know your alien-infested sexual dreams are a huge turn on for you. Just face the music, honey. Can your bodyguards fulfill the sexual fantasy of the king of all alien kings and his troop of humping brothers until the truth is exposed to save your ass?
So, Dr. Barley, you slut, ready for another slide down a slippery wormhole to Diablo’s Shithole? It looks like a lot of fun. And more than those feet are going to get wet in the SLIPSTREAM.
Warning: Reader should be prepared for a heroine who curses like a sailor and knows she’s a slut, Space Marines with sex on the brain, a Corporal with a clit fetish, aliens who bite and harvest things best left hush hush, as well as a little human m/f/m, even more alien m/f/m/m/m/m, and a plenty m/f in a plot heavily laden with reproduction and sexual gratification. Finally, this story proves one universal constant: it never hurts to drop the soap.
Laurel continued to study his cards.
Like he tried to avoid showing any emotion about what he held in his hand. Certainly his hand was better than my useless unrelated two, five, nine, jack, and king. Absolutely utterly useless. What can I do with these pathetic cards? It’s just time to head back to work. Or something equally conducive to saving my neck. More so because Laurel’s enormous don’t-fuck-with-me form is certainly giving me ideas. Maybe it’s the fact he’s wearing just a black tank top stretched to the damned max with dark hairs curling over the hem near his heart? Maybe it’s the fascinating linear vein on his bulging bicep that keeps drawing my attention? Or, rather, it’s the suggestive items he’s using for chips on the table…
Laurel’s gaze slid up to monitor the central pile of pre-packaged instant coffee, chocolate mints, Space Marine beer vouchers, and one long somewhat-flat golden rectangular heat-sealed wrapper.
As if he could read my mind about his body, leading to…What he’d tossed onto the pot. Some things were outright necessities like instant coffee and blood. You just never know when you’ll find yourself shit out of luck, especially serving a joy of a sentence on an uninhabited forested rock in the middle of nowhere deep space like me now, without coffee. But Laurel was preoccupied with an item that was outright useless on Diablo’s Shithole. An Omega Tickler condom. Black Cherry Fire.
The table’s bleeding.
Not good. My favorite flavor on one heck of a scary-looking black rubber to the uninitiated. Toss in the big heat factor that’s just enough to keep a man and woman warm when shifting positions…With all the damned ticklers on the tip and rubbery spikes protruding along the shaft. Talk about subtle unavoidable friction that will feel like pure ecstasy when riding a fully-engorged cock. One monster cock owned by the Corps’ prized beast across the table.
My heart swan-dived to the lowest pit of my core and left me feeling like magma oozed between my legs.
His gaze snapped up to anchor upon mine.
As if he’s toying with me by dangling a carrot, or he can sense my reaction to his poker chip. Rather his poker! Either way, Laurel wasn’t the type to play games. His type dives for the jugular with the Cherry-Fire-Tickler option. Cold. Ruthless. Who in her right mind would say no to that?
Right mind. Right mind. I should have one. But I haven’t slept in two days. Let me see if I can find some right mindaround here. I slid my gaze across the boring tabletop to Fitzroy.
The major leaned on an elbow planted atop the metal table.
Shooting me an indefinable expression.
Why? Does he know I’ve been contemplating sex with that condom? One that is advertised by the twenty-first century’s horrible marketing tactic geared toward safe sex with Space service: keep your cool on the dark side when popping cherries. On the other hand, if Fitzroy is in the mood for cherries, I don’t mind. But he hasn’t said a thing about sex. Nor has he bothered to hint he’s willing. No, he’s no Laurel with a coy yet blatant slap-it-on-the-table attitude.
Like throw me down and use that condom on me. Someone.
A chill fingered along my arms.
Just enough to cause the fireworks of an epiphany–at the moment the point that either big marine could throw me down. I won’t mind. It’s not like I’m going to live long enough to fret over the bad reputation certainly nurtured from my needs. Needs demanding big muscled man between my thighs.
“I’m sick of waiting,” Fitzroy said.
Breaking my train of ridiculous thought with an equally ridiculous one. He’s sick of waiting?
“Can anyone beat a full house?” Fitzroy placed his fan of cards on the table with great care like they were highly explosive.
Seriously, toss a grenade into the pot too. I could use a quick blast out of this madness. Maybe I’d land on a big cock? Speared. God. I hope I’m not groaning like a desperate prisoner resigned to the fact anything I want beyond roaches and rat for dinner is wishful thinking. But that’s reality in a nutshell.
Laurel and Denton sighed and tossed their cards face down.
Like they skewered a rat on a spit for my pleasure. I hate a subconscious that does nothing but make me horny. I dropped my horrible hand.
Fitzroy sighed a contented sound and reached for the loot.
Separating the chocolates by pushing them my direction. I guess I shouldn’t be a sore loser. Although, sore and losing could be quite an interesting combination in the light of the right perspective. What I’d really appreciate is both in conjunction with being abused by that prized condom. But Fitzroy tucked it inside the breast pocket of his camouflage shirt before shooting me what had to be a behave look. All the while that golden package stuck out of the top of his pocket like a freaking trophy.
How can you behave when your panties are so wet you’re getting a chill? And he’s seriously not planning on deploying the Cherry Fire.
I’m so the anti-thesis of being screwed. Literally.
About the Author:
Educated in geology and anthropology, writing lured Skhye away from finishing her thesis in (bio-archaeology) anthropology. Aside from muscled men in fur, leather, denim, and kilts, Skhye loves cultural ecology, cultural evolution, cultural relativism, and natural processes…Big ideas…Simple concepts that manifest in world building to crazy people like Skhye who studied anthropology and geology ad nauseum before turning to writing romantic fiction. Her rule of thumb is to love the good, the bad, and the ugly of every culture in her tales so that every culture in her tales and every aspect of her stories resonates as real as possible. And yes, she’s “certifiably” geek.