Hard Byte

by Misha Bell

  Once again dressed in a bespoke suit, he’s slicked his hair back and is clean-shaven. I’m suspecting he’s figured out that it’s the quickest way to get me randy, and he’s ruthlessly using it to full advantage.

  Without saying a word, he sweeps me up into a hungry kiss, and I feel like the ground has dissolved under my feet.

  We stumble toward my bedroom, lips locked and hands eagerly roaming each other’s bodies as our clothes fall off as if by magic. He deepens the kiss, and the next thing I know, it’s seven orgasms later—six for me and one for him.

  Combined, a perfect prime.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say as I’m lying blissed out in his arms hours later.

  “No.” He smiles tenderly. “Thank you.”

  I cozy up closer to him. “I’ve decided to tell you something.”

  He lifts up onto one elbow and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch sending a pleasurable shiver down my spine even after all the orgasms. “Me too.”

  “What?”

  His smile turns devilish. “Ladies first.”

  Fine.

  I take in a deep breath to quell the bees fluttering about in my stomach. “I think we fit together really well. Like L and J Tetris blocks.”

  He chuckles. “Wouldn’t that make us two squares?”

  “Exactly. Nice and tidy.”

  He squints at me. “You’re more of a T-block.”

  As in his favorite? The bees in my stomach throw a wild orgy.

  “Back to my point,” I say, drawing upon all of my courage. “Ever since I learned that a heart has four chambers, I thought it was my least favorite organ—but I don’t think that anymore, thanks to you.”

  He sits up all the way. “As a wise woman said in an awesome show, ‘I’m not a romantic, but even I concede that the heart does not exist solely for the purpose of pumping blood.’”

  Did he just quote Violet from Downton Abbey?

  He must’ve watched it. For me.

  Suddenly, what I want to say crystalizes perfectly in my mind.

  I sit up also and clasp his hand with both of my palms. “I love you,” I say with utmost sincerity. “I love you with all four chambers of my heart.”

  A slow, wickedly sensual smile blooms across his face. “I love you too, kroshka. With all five vital organs in my body.”

  Cradling my face between his palms, he kisses me again, and we tumble back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, our hearts racing in sync as the kiss leads to so many more orgasms I lose count.

  Hopefully twenty-three.

  As I lie in his arms afterward, I feel like I’ve reached Heaven—and all I had to do to get there was make a deal with my very own, personal, lovable Devil.

  Epilogue

  Alex

  “We’re almost there,” the limo driver whispers to me.

  I change into my livery and slick back my hair with a tea-scented pomade I got for this occasion.

  My sweet kroshka is going to love this, but to everyone else, I look like a butler—which I guess works, all things considered.

  The limo stops, and I tap her shoulder. “We’re here. You can take that off.”

  She turns, and her soft, full breast brushes against my hand.

  Fuck me.

  My dick—or Optimus Prime to close friends and family—instantly gets diamond hard, as it does whenever I touch her.

  “Do svidaniya, Euclid,” she says, and I can picture her cute little friend replying in Russian. The VR pet venture has been such a success that she’s about to launch it in my motherland—a wonderful thing because many of the Soviet-era hospitals there are drearier than anything imaginable in the US.

  As a result of this—and of dating me, of course—her Russian is rapidly improving. Also, as I predicted, her Britishisms are giving way to Russianisms, which isn’t a word but should be.

  As soon as she removes the VR headset, her intelligent blue eyes zoom in on mine. “Can I finally see the yobaniy surprise?” Then her eyes widen at my outfit. “I love it. Now take it off.”

  “The outfit isn’t the whole surprise,” I say with mock exasperation.

  She levels a meaningful glance at the bulge in my pants. “I’d say.”

  I laugh. “He’s not the surprise either. Not yet anyway.”

  She folds her lips in the most kissable pout ever. “Well, he and you in that outfit had better be somewhere on the agenda.”

  “Definitely. But after the real surprise.” Someone, give me a medal for restraint.

  “Fine.” She squints at the blackout windows of the limo. “Reveal whatever it is already.”

  I readjust Prime, then slide out of the car and hold the door for her.

  As soon as she comes out and sees our surroundings, she clutches her chest and greedily drinks it all in, speechless.

  My smile is devious. I had to ask her illusionist twin to help me with planning and misdirection, so I could arrange this surprise. I even bribed the limo driver into breaking the speed limit in order to make the trip duration short—and it would be fair to say that I suggested bringing Bella and Dragomir on this UK trip as part of that same plan. All they like to do is explore London—which is why my kroshka was expecting to see something like Hyde Park or Hampstead Heath right now.

  But no. Bella and Dragomir aren’t here. It’s only us… and a huge group of butlers, maids, and groundskeepers.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she finally says.

  “Indeed, Lady Hyman,” I say in my best British accent. “Highclere Castle, at your service.”

  The smile she beams at me is as radiant as her bright blue eyes. Reverently, she whispers, “This is the real Downton Abbey.”

  I nod, keeping my expression as impassive as her favorite butler would.

  “What about them?” She gestures at the sharply dressed people waiting for us.

  “Actors I hired,” I say. “A few are even from the show.”

  She squeals like a kid, and I tell her what else we have planned for today. Dragomir used his connections to get us a royal treatment that includes multiple tea services, a stay in the best rooms, and—especially for Holly—the chance to tidy any room she wants while wearing a maid’s uniform.

  She looks around again, as though not believing her eyes. “This is the best surprise ever.”

  “There’s more,” I say and ceremoniously hand her a thick package, custom made in the shape of a pentagram. “This is the last surprise of the day, I promise.”

  There’s confusion on her face as she fumbles with it—the problem with that shape is knowing which side is up or down.

  I’m slightly nervous about this next bit, so I remind myself of all the reasons why it should work out just fine. She’s grown to love Beelzebub as much as I do, and the furry traitor probably loves her more than he does me. More to the point, he’s finished his doggy school education, so he doesn’t make as many messes as he did when she first met him—and I’ve been following his example by keeping my place neat and organized… with prime numbers whenever possible, of course.

  Oh, and it goes without saying that we love each other, and she’s been spending most of her time at my place without complaint. Still, I can’t take her for granted. For all I know, she might not be interested in my proposal.

  “What is this?” She holds a metal key in one of her delicate hands and a plastic card in the other.

  Must not think about those hands on Prime—makes it hard to walk. I mean, difficult to walk.

  She looks at me expectantly.

  I point at the metal key. “That’s for the door to our room in the Castle. And that”—I point at the plastic card—“is the second surprise.” I wait a moment to build up the drama—another tip from her twin. “That’s a key to my apartment. Your permanent key.”

  Her eyes widen.

  I give her my best butlery bow, then ask in the most formal manner possible, “Lady Hyman, would you do me the honor of moving in with me?”

>   With a squeal, she tackle-hugs me—a great sign, as is the passionate, Prime-engorging kiss that follows.

  “Yes,” she says when we finally pull apart. “It would be my pleasure to move in with you, Lord Chortsky.”

  It would be unseemly to pump my fist in the air in this outfit, so I settle for another kiss.

  Now that this is out of the way, I’m much more hopeful about the success of my next proposal. The challenge there will be to somehow top today’s surprise.

  Maybe I’ll discover a new prime number for her?

  Or buy some prime real estate and build a replica of this castle?

  No, that’s not good enough. But I’ll figure it out when the time comes. For now, all I need to know is that she’s my future—and that means the future will be everything I want.

  Thank you for reading Hard Byte! If you enjoyed Holly and Alex’s story, please consider leaving a review.

  Can’t get enough of the Chortsky family? Read Vlad’s story in Hard Code, and Bella’s story in Hard Ware!

  Misha Bell is a collaboration between husband-and-wife writing team, Dima Zales and Anna Zaires. When they’re not making you bust a gut as Misha, Dima writes sci-fi and fantasy, and Anna writes dark and contemporary romance. Check out Wall Street Titan by Anna Zaires for more steamy billionaire hotness!

  Turn the page to read previews of Hard Code and Wall Street Titan!

  Excerpt from Hard Code by Misha Bell

  My new assignment at work: test out toys. Yup, that kind.

  * * *

  Well, technically, it's to test the app that controls the toys remotely.

  * * *

  One problem? The showgirl who's supposed to test the hardware (as in, the actual toys) joins a nunnery.

  * * *

  Another problem? This project is important to my Russian boss, the broody, mouthwateringly sexy Vlad, a.k.a. The Impaler.

  * * *

  There's only one solution: test both the software and the hardware myself... with his help.

  * * *

  NOTE: This is a standalone, raunchy, slow-burn romantic comedy featuring a quirky, nerdy heroine, her hot, mysterious Russian boss, and two guinea pigs who may or may not be into each other. If any of the above is not your cup of tea, run far, far away. Otherwise, buckle in for a snort-water-up-the-nose-funny, feel-good ride.

  “Me?” Eyes widening, he steps back.

  I’m committed now, so I barrel ahead. “It makes sense. I presume you trust yourself not to toss me into the Harbor. The privacy of the project isn’t compromised. And, well”—I blush horribly—“you have the right parts for it.”

  Unbidden, my eyes drop to said parts, then I quickly look up.

  The elevator doors open.

  “Let’s continue this in the car,” he says, his expression turning unreadable.

  Crap, crap, crap. Is he hating the idea? Hating me for even suggesting it? Ugh, how awkward is it going to be if he says no?

  Am I about to get fired for coming on to my boss’s boss?

  We get into the limo again, sitting opposite each other this time.

  He makes the partition go up. “Just to clarify: I test the male batch, acting as both giver and receiver, right? I actually already tested one of the pieces on myself after I wrote the app, so I could in theory do the same with the rest of them.”

  Yes! He’s actually considering it. I want to jump up and down, even as the blush that had slightly receded on the walk from the elevator returns in all its glory. “That wouldn’t be good end-to-end testing, and you know it. You wrote the code; that makes you biased.”

  His nostrils flare. “Then how?”

  Even my feet are blushing at this point. “You just act as the receiver. I act as the giver, and record the testing data. It’s the proper way these things are done.”

  His eyebrows lift. “That’s stretching the definition of the word ‘proper’ way outside its comfort zone.”

  “Look.” I try to mime his accent as best I can. “If you want to quit, I understand.”

  A slow, sensuous smile curves his lips. “I don’t shy away from a challenge.”

  Can my panties really melt, or is that just a saying?

  Order your copy of Hard Code today!

  Excerpt from Wall Street Titan

  A billionaire who wants a perfect wife...

  * * *

  At thirty-five, Marcus Carelli has it all: wealth, power, and the kind of looks that leave women breathless. A self-made billionaire, he heads one of the largest hedge funds on Wall Street and can take down major corporations with a single word. The only thing he’s missing? A wife who’d be as big of an achievement as the billions in his bank account.

  * * *

  A cat lady who needs a date…

  * * *

  Twenty-six-year-old bookstore clerk Emma Walsh has it on good authority that she’s a cat lady. She doesn’t necessarily agree with that assessment, but it’s hard to argue with the facts. Raggedy clothes covered with cat hair? Check. Last professional haircut? Over a year ago. Oh, and three cats in a tiny Brooklyn studio? Yep, she’s got those.

  * * *

  And yes, fine, she hasn’t had a date since… well, she can’t recall. But that part is fixable. Isn’t that what the dating sites are for?

  * * *

  A case of mistaken identity…

  * * *

  One high-end matchmaker, one dating app, one mix-up that changes everything... Opposites may attract, but can this last?

  I’m all but bouncing with excitement as I approach Sweet Rush Café, where I’m supposed to meet Mark for dinner. This is the craziest thing I’ve done in a while. Between my evening shift at the bookstore and his class schedule, we haven’t had a chance to do more than exchange a few text messages, so all I have to go on are those couple of blurry pictures. Still, I have a good feeling about this.

  I feel like Mark and I might really connect.

  I’m a few minutes early, so I stop by the door and take a moment to brush cat hair off my woolen coat. The coat is beige, which is better than black, but white hair is visible on anything that’s not pure white. I figure Mark won’t mind too much—he knows how much Persians shed—but I still want to look presentable for our first date. It took me about an hour, but I got my curls to semi-behave, and I’m even wearing a little makeup—something that happens with the frequency of a tsunami in a lake.

  Taking a deep breath, I enter the café and look around to see if Mark might already be there.

  The place is small and cozy, with booth-style seats arranged in a semicircle around a coffee bar. The smell of roasted coffee beans and baked goods is mouthwatering, making my stomach rumble with hunger. I was planning to stick to coffee only, but I decide to get a croissant too; my budget should stretch to that.

  Only a few of the booths are occupied, likely because it’s a Tuesday. I scan them, looking for anyone who could be Mark, and notice a man sitting by himself at the farthest table. He’s facing away from me, so all I can see is the back of his head, but his hair is short and dark brown.

  It could be him.

  Gathering my courage, I approach the booth. “Excuse me,” I say. “Are you Mark?”

  The man turns to face me, and my pulse shoots into the stratosphere.

  The person in front of me is nothing like the pictures on the app. His hair is brown, and his eyes are blue, but that’s the only similarity. There’s nothing rounded and shy about the man’s hard features. From the steely jaw to the hawk-like nose, his face is boldly masculine, stamped with a self-assurance that borders on arrogance. A hint of five o’clock shadow darkens his lean cheeks, making his high cheekbones stand out even more, and his eyebrows are thick dark slashes above his piercingly pale eyes. Even sitting behind the table, he looks tall and powerfully built. His shoulders are a mile wide in his sharply tailored suit, and his hands are twice the size of my own.

  There’s no way this is Mark from the app, unless he’s put in some serio
us gym time since those pictures were taken. Is it possible? Could a person change so much? He didn’t indicate his height in the profile, but I’d assumed the omission meant he was vertically challenged, like me.

  The man I’m looking at is not challenged in any way, and he’s certainly not wearing glasses.

  “I’m… I’m Emma,” I stutter as the man continues staring at me, his face hard and inscrutable. I’m almost certain I have the wrong guy, but I still force myself to ask, “Are you Mark, by any chance?”

  “I prefer to be called Marcus,” he shocks me by answering. His voice is a deep masculine rumble that tugs at something primitively female inside me. My heart beats even faster, and my palms begin to sweat as he rises to his feet and says bluntly, “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Me?” What the hell? A surge of anger crowds out all other emotions as I gape at the rude giant in front of me. The asshole is so tall I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “What about you? You look nothing like your pictures!”

  “I guess we’ve both been misled,” he says, his jaw tight. Before I can respond, he gestures toward the booth. “You might as well sit down and have a meal with me, Emmeline. I didn’t come all the way here for nothing.”

  “It’s Emma,” I correct, fuming. “And no, thank you. I’ll just be on my way.”

  His nostrils flare, and he steps to the right to block my path. “Sit down, Emma.” He makes my name sound like an insult. “I’ll have a talk with Victoria, but for now, I don’t see why we can’t share a meal like two civilized adults.”