Stranded
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Praise for the writing of Victoria Michaels
Stranded
Alien abduction and masterful seduction--Victoria Michaels blends both in a rousing tale of adventure and lust that will singe your fingers and ignite your libido!
--Camille Anthony, author of Werewulf Journals 1: Wild in the City (Loose Id, Summer 2004)
Victoria Michaels writes a swimmingly twist-filled story that'll have you squirming in your seat and hanging on for dear life.
--Jordan Summers, author of "Mesmerized" in Wicked Women on Top with Tina Donahue and Jen Nicholas (Kensington Brava, February 2005)
Wow! Victoria Michaels' debut is a cinnamon candy of a novella: hot enough to send you into orbit and sweet enough to last for you.
--Diane Whiteside, author of The Irish Devil (Kensington Brava, August 2004)
Compulsively good reading! I defy anyone who likes their romance hot and their heroes alpha to put this book down once they've started it. The only thing wrong with Victoria Michaels' stories is that they're over too soon. I wanted this book to go on and on.
--Stephanie Vaughan, author of Dead Man's Party (Loose Id, Fall 2004)
STRANDED
Victoria Michaels
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
* * * * *
This book is rated:
Contains substantial explicit sexual content, graphic language, and other material some readers may find offensive.
Stranded
Victoria Michaels
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-29
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © 2004 by Victoria Michaels
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 1-59632-008-7
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Linda Kusiolek
Cover Artist: Angela Knight
www.loose-id.com
Chapter One
Alexandria Kenyon lay staring up at the ceiling fan circling lazily over her bed. Each moonlit rotation sent shadows spinning across the cherry colonial furniture, but she was far more interested in the erotic images flickering through her own mind. Her nipples rose hard and hungry under the lace of her camisole, and she ran her fingers over them, sighing in pleasure.
Closing her eyes, Alex pictured a man, broad shouldered and blond and feral, with broad, hard hands and a long, hungry cock. And a cruel mouth that rasped erotic orders.
He’d taken her prisoner. Now she lay on his immense bed looking up at him, bound and naked and breathless. He stood there with muscled legs braced wide, surveying her with a conqueror’s smile, his cock jutting in cruel anticipation of his pleasure. “You’re mine now, sweet. You challenged me and lost, and now I’ll take you. Every way that pleases me.”
Imagining the lust and triumph in her dream lover’s gaze, she licked her lips and slid her other hand down the waistband of her little lace panties. Bad Alex, she thought as she stroked between the soft, creamy lips. Not politically correct, Counselor.
She didn’t care. Bob had moved out a year ago, and she hadn’t wanted to get anywhere near a man after what he’d done to her. Now her libido was gnawing holes in her self-control. Yet cruising singles bars wasn’t the kind of thing an Atlanta prosecutor could afford to do.
God, she needed a man. A bad man. A wicked dominant who’d grin in anticipation when he discovered the submissive streak she hid under the persona of ass-kicking prosecution lawyer. Brass-balled bitch by day, bound and gagged by night.
Oh, yeah. She slid a finger between her dewing lips. Fuck me, Master.
Yeah. Like she’d ever call any man master. She’d spent the first twenty years of her life trying to get out from under Daddy’s suffocating protection. And he’d been trying to get her back under it ever since she’d moved out nine years ago.
Which was not a thought conducive to orgasm.
She added a second finger and slid it deep inside her pussy. Kneading her nipple with the other hand, Alex hummed at the lazy swirl of pleasure.
He slid one brawny knee onto the bed as she gazed up at him, quivering in a combination of arousal and fear. “I’m going to fuck you, sweet,” he rumbled. “ I’m going to suck those pretty pink nipples until you stop struggling and start begging. I’m going to get you hot and creamy enough that when I drive my big cock into that tiny cunt, you’ll hardly scream at all.”
“No,” she moaned, as his big body mantled hers. “You can’t do this to me. I don’t want this.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He lowered his head to one bare breast. “I’ll have to punish you.”
“If you release me, my father will pay you well!”
“It’s not money I’m interested in.” He gave the desperately hard nipple a slow lick. Pleasure sizzled through her. “It’s you.” Another slow, swirling lick. “Your pretty tits. Your tight aristocratic pussy.” He switched his attention to her other breast, considered the impudent point. Raked it gently with his teeth. “I’m going to tame you, Alexandria. I want to see you on your knees, that lush mouth sucking my cock like the slave you are.”
“No! I’ll never yield to you! I’m of royal blood!”
His gaze shot to her face and hardened. “No more. I rule now. I conquered your lands as I’m going to conquer your body. You’ll fall to me just as your castle did.”
He slid a hand between her spread legs. She groaned in shame and pleasure as he found her wet and ready for him. Triumph shone in his eyes. “And something tells me my conquest won’t take long at all.”
As pleasure swirled around her masturbating fingers, Alex shuttered her lids and grinned at the fantasy she’d conjured. I really should be ashamed of myself. Two fingers stroked deep. But I’m not.
So she had a kinky streak. After twenty-nine years of playing by the rules, she was entitled to…
Blinding light exploded across the room, jarring her out of her sensual preoccupation. Alex jerked her head up and yelped in shock. The ceiling fan had disappeared, replaced by a glowing, six-foot hole. “What the…?”
Something jerked her up off her bed and sucked her right into the blazing opening. She didn’t even have time to scream.
“All right, dammit,” John Hawke growled as he floated in the Caribbean blue water. “I’m here. Give me whatever it is so I can go home.”
Overhead, the tell-tale ring of clouds remained open. And stubbornly empty.
A bumblebee circled his head. He swatted it aside absently as he glared up at the clouds. Maybe they were finally going to send him that axe he’d been doggedly visualizing for the past month. If he thought about something long enough, sometimes the Bastards would send it to him.
Last time the gift had been a waterproof bag that turned out to contain five pounds of io
dized salt. It had been more than welcome, since the mineral was otherwise unavailable on the artificial world of the Goldfish Bowl, with its freshwater sea and tropical temperatures. He’d have died of a fatal electrolyte imbalance without it.
Over the past year, he’d found the Bastards sent him whatever he couldn’t catch, scrounge or make for himself, dropping it from the cloud ring they used as a sign. Of course, immediately afterward they’d send something that would try to kill him, so he never felt grateful.
He’d tried to ignore the ring this time, sick of playing their sadistic little game, but the Bastards had promptly triggered a migraine so severe, he’d had no choice but to swim out and wait. As usual, the headache had disappeared as soon as he’d obeyed.
There was a reason he called them the Bastards.
As he watched, the cloud ring began to sink toward him. Treading water, Hawke blinked at the sky. It had never done that before. Usually they just dropped the gift and let him dive after it.
The ring kept descending until it was about six meters over his head. Despite himself, he felt a sudden spurt of hope. Was it descending to scoop him up? Back in Afghanistan, the damn thing had just sucked him right off his feet, pack, body armor, and all. He’d almost drowned when he’d hit the water before he managed to cut his way loose from his own gear. So what were the Bastards up to now?
Something too big to be an axe plummeted out of the ring, falling right toward him. A piercing female shriek rang out.
Sweet Jesus, it was a woman!
SPLASH! Water flew skyward as she hit.
Hawke sucked in a deep breath and dove, afraid she’d drown. A trail of bubbles led him to her in the blessedly clear water. He could tell by the way she writhed that she was disoriented, not sure which way was up. Without his help, she didn’t have a prayer.
He clamped a hand on her wrist and hauled her up until he could grab her shoulders from behind. Then, holding her pinned against his body despite her panicked struggles, he kicked toward the shimmering light above them with everything he had.
She broke the surface choking and fighting in animal panic, flailing arms and kicking legs battering at him. Luckily Hawke had anticipated that, which was why he’d grabbed her from behind. Now his greater strength kept her from drowning them both. “Lady, you’re all right!” he shouted over her sputters as he began a one-armed stroke toward shore. “I’ve got you!”
Long, wet fingers clamped around his wrist in a death grip, but she had the sense to quit fighting. “What’s going on?” She spat out another mouthful of water so violently she narrowly missed the bumblebee that lazily circled them. “Where the hell am I?”
“God alone knows, sweetheart,” he told her grimly. “I sure don’t.”
It took only a couple dozen strokes to reach the artificial shallows, since what passed for ocean floor in the Goldfish Bowl resembled the bottom of a swimming pool more than anything else. When his bare feet hit the fine sand, Hawke waded up onto the beach, half-carrying his wet, trembling gift. The minute he let her go, she collapsed into a panting tangle of slender limbs and long hair.
“You okay?” He crouched beside her.
“I don’t… I don’t know.” Blinking, she stared wildly at the beach around them, visibly bewildered by her close brush with death. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Finally getting a good look at her, Hawke whistled silently. Even half-drowned, she looked like every wet dream he’d had for the past two years.
Hell, she looked like every wet dream he’d had since puberty.
She wore a pair of tiny panties that barely covered the shadow of her bush, and her soaked shirt was some kind of silk and lace thing that had gone perfectly transparent, revealing round, pert tits with hard little nipples. Hawke couldn’t tell what color her wet hair was, but there was a lot of it, falling in tangled strands over that centerfold body.
When she looked around at him again, her gaze was sharp and considering. She recovered fast, he’d give her that. “You saved my life. I thought I was dead.” Her eyes were a clear, crystalline blue, even more vivid than the Goldfish Bowl’s ocean. Her nose was straight and narrow in her elegant, long-boned face, and her mouth--damn, those were definitely dick lips. Full and soft and lush, the kind a man wanted to see wrapped around his cock. They made quite a contrast to that blue-blood diva face. She sat up, raking her hands through her hair, unconsciously trying to set herself to rights. “Thank you.”
Hawke was rock hard behind his loin cloth. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure.”
But even as he imagined everything he was going to do to her, he wondered what the Bastards would do to make him pay.
She’d been rescued by Tarzan.
Alex blinked up at her savior, who wore only a strip of brown hide around his narrow hips. Luckily, he had the kind of body that could pull off an outfit like that. Shoulders easily twice the width of hers, biceps the size of coconuts, and a six pack that made her want to purr, It’s Miller Time! His legs were long and muscular, giving her the impression he’d easily catch anything dumb enough to run away.
Not that she had any intention whatsoever of going anywhere.
And his face--well, he definitely didn’t look anything like the parade of pretty boys Mama assembled for her approval every time she went back home. First, of course, there was the long, blond hair that lay in wet tangles across those quarterback shoulders. Daddy wouldn’t have let him in the house with that hair. Yet he was intensely masculine, with a regally Roman nose and broad, high cheekbones. A broad jaw and square chin gave him the look of a heavyweight boxer, though a sensual, well-shaped mouth and smoky gray eyes saved his face saved from outright brutality. Judging by the hungry heat in his gaze, it was for damn sure he wasn’t gay. That wasn’t always a given with Mama’s dinner guests, whether Virginia Kenyon realized it or not.
The question was, how the hell had she gotten from her bed to the feet of a sex god, with a dunk in the ocean in between? “Who are you?”
“John Hawke. And who are you?”
“Alex. Alex Kenyon.”
“Nice to meet you, Alex Kenyon.” Reaching out, he cupped her chin in long, strong fingers, tilted her head up, and leaned in close. “Very, very nice.”
Even as her inner Southern Belle squealed in offended shock, his mouth closed over hers in a warm, wet slide.
Her heart, just beginning to slow its frantic beat after her brush with death, lunged back into a gallop. Automatically, she started to pull back in surprise, but his callused fingers tightened, holding her in place. His tongue stroked boldly between her lips as he kissed her with a rough, predatory hunger that made her nipples peak. She really should knock him on his backside for his gall, but God, it had been so long. And maybe he deserved a kiss for saving her life.
So Alex closed her eyes and kissed him back.
Then a wet hand boldly cupped her breast. The big opportunist was groping her! “What are you doing?” She jerked back, outraged. “A kiss is one thing, but saving my life doesn’t entitle you to paw me.”
Tarzan’s luscious mouth curled into a dark smile. “Look around, Dorothy. You’re not in Kansas anymore. This is the Goldfish Bowl, and I make my own rules.”
He had a point about the Kansas thing. She’d already noticed it was broad daylight, which was pretty damn weird considering the moon had been shining just a minute ago.
And then there was the beach. She lived in Atlanta, hundreds of miles from the ocean, so how had she got to the seashore?
Frowning, she turned to look out to sea. And stared. She sure wasn’t in Georgia anymore. She wasn’t even in Miami, despite the stretch of pristine white sand underfoot and the clusters of big palm trees inland.
For one thing, the horizon was far too close. It was almost as if they were an immense, round room--if a room could be ten or fifteen miles across. And the sky… Alex tilted her head back and stared upward. It had an odd, milky quality, painted in swirls of iridescence--not clouds, but patt
erns of moving light, something like the Aurora Borealis. She couldn’t see the sun at all, yet the light was as bright as noon. “Where are we?”
Hawke rose to his considerable height. “Like I said, I call it the Goldfish Bowl.”
“I can see why.” It felt odd lying at his feet, so she scrambled up too, noting absently that he didn’t offer her a hand. To her annoyance, her legs trembled. She stiffened them as he strode to a pile of equipment on the sand. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling we’re about to get a guest a lot less pleasant than you.” He crouched and started picking through the gear.
“What kind of guest? And what makes you think that?”
“It’s the pattern. They send me something, and then something worse shows up.” Hoisting a pouched belt that reminded her of something solders wore, he buckled it around his narrow waist with the grim air of a man expecting eminent attack.
She propped her fists on her hips and frowned at him. “What do you mean, worse?”
“As in ‘kill it before it kills you’ worse.” Next, he strapped a short, sheathed knife to his ankle. Tarzan evidently had access to Velcro.
Then he picked up something she first took for a stick and some kind of belt. As he swung it across one shoulder, she got a better look. “Is that a sword?”
“Yep.” He belted the thick leather strap diagonally across his torso. The sheathed sword it supported was easily three and a half feet long, not counting the two-handed hilt.
He wasn’t Tarzan, he was Conan the Barbarian.
Hawke turned toward her, settling the blade into place with a shrug of those Olympian shoulders. “When I was first snatched, this weapon was an M-16. By the time I arrived here, it had morphed into this. Evidently the Bastards didn’t want me having access to fire power.”