Milly, a freighter captain, has had a thing for the sexy stripper for months. But when Johnny, the subject of many of her hottest fantasies, asks her out to dinner, she runs. All is not lost, however; a chance encounter yields an Aries 7000 sexbot, hers for a weekend of pleasure.
It seems too good to be true. Sex with the man of her dreams without risking her heart. But Milly’s bot has some secrets…secrets that could save her life when the past returns to haunt her.
By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
An Excerpt From: ARIES REVEALED
Copyright © MINA CARTER, 2012
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
“Ladies, gentlemen and beings of the appropriate sexual persuasion… He’s big, he’s bad and he’s totally sexy… For your viewing pleasure, let me introduce… Johnny Ram as the Aries 7000!”
The announcer’s voice was drowned out by the heavy beat that filled the air. Johnathon Howe, Johnny Ram to the screaming fans on the other side of the curtain, stood motionless in the close darkness and let the opening bars of the music wash over him. Then the curtains swished back, the lights snapped on and he jerked his head up.
The crowd went wild as he strutted onto the stage. Every inch of his tall, muscled form was oiled down, pigment added to give his skin a metallic, bronzed sheen. Naked to the waist, he wore black combats and heavy boots, the webbing straps of an adapted tactical-rig across his shoulders. It wasn’t there to do anything another other than highlight the width of his shoulders and frame the muscled perfection of his chest, bars glinting in both nipples.
“Johnny. Johnny. Johnny!”
The crowd chanted as he reached the front of the raised stage. Hands linked behind his back in the classic military “at-ease” posture and hips thrust arrogantly forward, he kept his expression impassive as he scanned the room.
With the lights in his face he couldn’t see a damn thing, but he didn’t let that stop him from looking like he could see each and every member of the audience. He’d been told the marks liked that. Liked the personal connection they felt with him. Amusement pulled at his lips. If they knew the truth, they sure as hell wouldn’t want any kind of personal connection.
He reached the end of his turn and jerked his chin to a stop mechanically, playing up the part of a cyborg as he stiffly turned his head again. Painted on his cheek, just under his eye, was the letter and number sequence associated with cyborgs. Outlawed and listed as highly dangerous, the authorities warned members of the public not to approach anyone they suspected of being one, but to report them instead.
So far, he’d been reported fifty-three times. And so far, the authorities had pissed their pants laughing every one of those fifty-three times, informing the complainants that there was a difference between reality and fantasy and that Johnny Ram was a stripper. Just a stripper.
God, he loved the stupidity of the average cop.
In a blur of movement, he pulled the replica pistol from the holster at his hip and aimed it into the audience. The laser pointer stabbed a thin red line into the smoky darkness, drawing a collective coo from the crowd. Eyes adjusted to the dim light conditions, he caught movement in his peripheral vision and hid his grin as a woman slid off her seat and into a little heap on the floor. Instantly the staff were on hand to deal with her. Another fainter. What was it about women and bad boys?
Looking forward again, Johnny froze and waited for the music to change. The beat came in with a thud that reverberated through his body, the bump and grind music cranked up to the max. Surging into movement as the lights rotated over him, he dropped the stiff movements and slickly re-holstered the fake pistol.
Arms up over his head, he rolled and thrust his hips, tensing his abs into a tight washboard that brought gasps of appreciation. Working the crowd, he moved around the stage in the same routine he’d danced every Saturday night for the last year. Whoops and hollers told him at least some of the audience had seen the show before and knew they were just getting warmed up for the main event.
A swift grin split his lips as he turned and looked over his shoulder, a practiced, arrogant look on his face. The sort of look he’d been told got women hot, thinking of how bad he could be to them, for them and with them. Closing everything else out, he concentrated on the music as he displayed his body for the paying customers.
He knew he looked good. The mirrors dotted around the stage threw his reflection back at him. Tall at well over six foot, his broad shoulders extended into well-muscled arms and flowed down into a hard abdomen, narrow waist and into lean hips, then heavily muscled thighs. His skin gleamed with the metallic oil of his costume. Ripped, he thought absently. He looked like one of those image-obsessed lifters who spent all their time in the gym to maintain their physiques.
They’d be pissed if they knew he hadn’t been near a gym for months. He’d say his body was natural, but that would be a lie. Unless it was created in a lab and under the knife, he was so far from natural it was unreal.
He was Johnny Ram, stripper extraordinaire, known across three systems for his sexy cyborg stripper act, but it wasn’t talent or a love of the gym that made him look the way he did. He’d been designed to look this way and to do a hell of a lot more than dance on a stage for the delight of all the lovely ladies around him. And he knew they were lovely, all women were in his eyes.
He danced every weekend, in public view, as the ultimate revenge for the hand life had thrown at him. His lips quirked as he moved. After all, who would expect a real cyborg on stage pretending to be one?
He slid between the mirrors, using them to cast more images of his gyrating body, much to the delight of the crowd as he performed a series of hip thrusts, his fists bunched at the side of his hips. A pair of pink panties flew through the air and brushed his shoulder. With near inhuman speed, he snatched them out of the air, blew a kiss at the woman who’d thrown them and slid them into his pocket with a suggestive look.
Thud. Another one hit the deck.
The music switched again. With a hop, he reverted to the stiff movements and marched down the center of the stage. Without appearing to, he scanned the occupants of the room, looking for one particular face. She had to be here, she was always here. Every three weeks, on the dot, so regular he could set an internal chronometer by her. He knew. He had.
There. By the door. The tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying drained out of him on his next breath as he allowed his gaze to wander over her. Petite, with an abundance of curves that made him rejoice that he was male, and long dark hair, she wasn’t dressed like most marks. Not for her the tarty outfits, or heavy makeup. Instead, she wore comfortable cargo pants and a t-shirt that molded itself lovingly to her breasts.
Johnny shuddered as he clumped down the steps at the front of the stage for his crowd walk around. He’d never wanted to be a t-shirt so much in his life.
Hands stroked at him as he stalked through the tables, keeping in his cyborg persona. Cold, calculating, inhuman killer. That was how his kind were portrayed. Which was as weird as fuck, because the act sure seemed to get the ladies hot, if the amount of room keys and comm codes on cards shoved down his pants were any indication. He didn’t mind, unless they shoved them down the crack of his ass. Paper cuts hurt like a bitch.
Keeping her in the corner of his eye, he worked the crowd. He stopped at one table in cyborg mode and let the occupants stroke their hands over him. One grabbed his crotch, squeezing his balls, and got his attention. Still “in character”, the cold look he shot her made her visibly shiver and release him. Jerking his head up, he moved on, the women around him falling away like water as he marched…no, stalked…toward the only woman in here he really wanted to touch him.
Oh god, please don’t let her be too late.
Milly Locke hit the doors of the Saturn lounge at a run, her heart in her throat at the thought she might be late and miss the show. As soon as she’d hit the station this afternoon, things had gone wrong for her. The dockmaster had wanted to go through her shipment crate by crate, refueling had been a bitch and worst of all, her rat bastard ex had called. The resulting argument had made her late.
She needn’t have worried. As soon as she shoved open the heavy door and stepped inside, the smoky darkness wrapped around her like a warm, slightly wet blanket. From the noise and myriad perfumes that assaulted her, the place was packed to the rafters. Her t-shirt instantly felt grubby as it stuck to her back.
Great, just what she needed, sweaty before she’d gotten an eyeful of the hunk she’d come to see.
Sliding into a seat near the door, she thumbed the automatic waiter in the middle of the table, ordering and paying for her drink in one go. Since she only had one option on record—vodka and lime—she didn’t have to pay attention to the little screen and could concentrate on the stage. And she had every reason to need to pay attention to the stage.
Johnny was already on it and dancing. No, not dancing. He was in the “machine” part of his act, playing a cyborg as he marched down the steps at the front and into the crowd. She loved this act. She’d seen them all, but this one was her favorite. With his big, sexy body and a face that wouldn’t look out of place in an art gallery or porn vid, the idea of him being a killer cyborg was laughable.
She nibbled her lip, nodding her thanks absently to the android waiter who brought her drink and concentrated on the man walking through the tables again. It was freaking hot, though. She fought back a shiver as he stood in front of a table and let the women there caress him, one even going so far as to cup his crotch. The look he shot her sent excitement sizzling from Milly’s head all the way down to her toes. What was it about such a bad boy that turned her on?
She gulped some of the drink, feeling the alcohol burn all the way down to her toes. The good stuff. She should know, she’d run this shipment from Helias Minor for the Saturn and other establishments on the station herself. It wasn’t watered down either, giving it that extra kick that warmed her through as she looked up.
And met Johnny Ram’s eyes.
Fuck, he was coming her way!
Panic and excitement hummed through her in equal measures as the stripper made a beeline for her table, his face set with determination. Unable to move, unable to look away, she was caught by his gaze as he approached.
Why had she ever thought his act was cold? There was enough heat in his eyes—green-gold she knew from her secret fan-girl poring over the holos of him available in the public-access databases—to power a station sub-reactor. She swallowed again, the movement making a dry “clack” in her throat, and managed to drag her gaze down his body.
A slab of a chest, gleaming with oil. The silver glint of bars in his nipples teased her. Washboard stomach. Stomach tattoo. The suggestion of hair in a tight vee just above the fastener of his low-slung pants.
A whimper broke from her throat. All she wanted to do was slide to her knees and trace that treasure trail over his skin with her tongue. Unbutton the pants and follow it down.
Heat exploded through her lower body, sliding from her pussy to soak her panties as she pressed her thighs together. Fuck, she was a slut. Hot and wet from just looking at him. She needed help. Professional help. Months of it. Years probably.
He slammed his hands down on the table in front of her, seamlessly switching his “character” as the music changed back to the beat that reminded her of sex. Rhythmic beat, hard on the bass. Dum-dum-dum-dum. His fingers steepled as he braced over the low table, his gaze locked on hers as he thrust his hips, air-fucking the table right in front of her.
All she could think about was being on that table, legs spread as he took her in feral need. Hot and hard, thick cock powering in and out of her as he took what he wanted. Pin her up, tie her down, she didn’t care. She’d let him do whatever he wanted. Do her however he wanted. Perhaps he’d even want to play dressed up as a cyborg, role-playing the ultimate dominant lover.
Whoops and hollers around them brought her back to the present as he stood and grabbed the front of his pants. With a sexy sway of his hips, he teased them all with the possibility he might take them off. Heat washed through her in an unstoppable torrent. He had a gorgeous ass. Firm and muscled, it begged to be grabbed, a woman’s fingers digging in as he powered into her. Crap, there she was, right back to sex again.
He reached out a hand in a silent order, his eyes daring her to take it. Her heart stalled, hot and cold chills chasing each other over her skin as catcalls and orders were bellowed from the darkness around them. They faded into the background as she looked at him, the world narrowing down to the confines of the spotlight trained on them, the music and the man dancing in front of her.
Confusion filled her. Why her? She was short, fat and not exactly dressed like any of the sex kittens who thronged the tables near the stage. Yet here he was, Johnny Ram, as large as life and twice as sexy, and he was dancing in front of her with that “come be bad with me” expression on his face.
In with both feet…
Before she could think and decide this was a bad idea, she put her hand in his and allowed him to haul her to her feet. He didn’t drag her all the way up against that ripped, oiled body, just halfway, more was the pity. She’d happily get covered in that bronze stuff for the chance to feel those hard muscles pressed against her. Hell, she’d never wash her clothes again. Just keep them hidden in her room and take them out to sniff whenever she had a crazed fan-girl moment.
Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and pulled her arm out as he claimed the other with his free hand and did the same, dancing close to her. His eyelids dropped, hooding his eyes. She was so close she could see the numbers drawn on his cheek were beginning to run a little at the bottom, the ink feathering out over the pores of his skin, and that he had a tiny scar at the corner of his lip. Heat pooled in her cunt as the need to lick it pushed all other thoughts out of her head.
“Have dinner with me,” he whispered in her ear as he turned them and pinned her between him and the table. Hard hands urged her back so she was sitting on it, legs spread so he could dance between them. She swallowed convulsively. Asleep, she had to be asleep. Yeah, that was it. She was asleep. Because in her reality, sexy as sin men like Johnny Ram did not ask women like her to dinner.
“Wha…?” she managed to croak, her ability to frame a coherent sentence stolen as he urged her back, bracing himself over the table and doing the air-fuck thing again. Right over her. Almost touching her. The heat of his body beat at hers despite the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She couldn’t even think of what was going on further south, her brain shorting out at the fact she had Johnny Ram between her thighs.
He had her wrists again, pinning them over her head. Using the movement to cover what he was doing, he swept his thumb over her wrist mounted data strip. The thing bleeped as it registered his comm details.
He hauled her upright, beefy arms holding her in a close embrace that managed to keep a couple of inches between their bodies as required by law for a public performance.
“Say yes,” he ordered, pinning her with that green-gold gaze. Heat filled his eyes, the instant response licking her skin with flames of need.
“I…” she shook her head as he stepped back, staggering a little as a sense of loss filled her. Instantly she missed the feeling of his strong arms around her.
She squeaked and covered her gasp with her hand as he ripped the combats off in one quick movement. The room around them went wild, the noise almost deafening. The challenge still in his eyes he paraded in front of her, posing and posturing as the music changed to machine again.
God, he was perfection itself.