Pleasure Dome

by L. F. Hampton

  Subdued table lighting came on. The stage was bare. End of the show. Too bad. Gabe sighed. He had failed to pay enough attention to the performance to even get more than a token hard-on. His fickle cock was back to being under his control. Despite the swamp of sexual emotions swirling around him, the swirl of lusty pheromones, his body rested now that the show was over. Customers disappeared into the shadows.

  "Commander Merriweather?"

  A tingle went down his spine, and Gabe looked up through a slight drunken haze and met the black dancer's intense stare. His empathy senses buzzed a warning. That direct gaze stared too deeply into his. Gabe felt the threat that this woman presented a danger to him, and he drew his warrior senses over him like a shroud. His muscles bunched. His nerves sparked. Blood throbbed. But the dancer only pulled a sheer, glittering robe over wide shoulders that shone like glossy satin from her exertion. Her slight, white-toothed smile didn't quite reach her sloe eyes. Her cool, dark gaze flicked over him with such disdain that Gabriel flushed. He forced down his responding anger. This was a dangerous female but nonetheless a female. And he'd learned to always exercise caution around females. He could do such damage to them without meaning to. Moments passed, but he still picked up violence from the dancer's mind. Gabe pretended indifference.

  "May I help you, Ms.—?” He rose, purposely stumbled on a chair leg and waited for the dancer to supply her name. Most people didn't consider a clumsy man a threat. Gabe knew the dancer's name of course. He had heard the announcer proudly announce her act. He also knew from gossip that she was Captain Scott's best friend.

  "de’ Marco. Gellico de'Marco.” She added her first name almost as an afterthought. Her elegant brows knit together, and her dark eyes shone in the shadows as if she assessed Gabe and still found him wanting.

  He again flushed. And again he controlled his heated response. Then he firmly held a chair and motioned for her to sit. de'Marco ignored him for a moment, a brow raised and her jaw tight. Gabe jiggled the chair, thumping the legs on the floor. His best patient grin was finally rewarded when she snorted, shook her head and sat. Gabe glimpsed a quick flash of mocking white teeth in the dim light. He leaned in over her chair, as if to push her closer to the table, but instead, drew in the heady scent of her exotic jungle flower perfume. It was designed to entice, but although his blood surged, all Gabe felt was a stirring of appreciation, a token rise in his pants. He sat down across from her and waited for her to speak.

  As if she realized his near lack of sexual response, she gave him an annoyed frown, drew away from him and settled back in her own chair. She pulled out a smoke from somewhere and stared at the tip. In those few moments of closeness, Gabe felt her relax, her deep calm stilling her roiling thoughts. Perhaps he had passed whatever test she had just given him.

  "You don't come here often.” de'Marco squinted her dark eyes at him and lit the long, brown reefer. She took a drag, held it, then puffed fragrant blue smoke in his face. Gabe didn't need a kit to identify the heavy tang of sweet contraband in the air. He ignored it. He wasn't on any kind of drug duty. Besides, he was a diplomat not an agent for the drug enforcers. They didn't frequent the Straits where contraband flourished. Pay off credits flourished here.

  "I've never been here,” he replied, wondering at the game she played. Even with his enhanced talent for reading people, he felt like a mouse under a cat's gaze, especially in his near drunken state. Gabriel knew better than to drink like this. Empaths never drank, even socially, unless they had backup. Chakkra never drank at all. The warriors were violent enough without the haze of alcohol.

  "Did you enjoy the dance?” de'Marco's even, mysterious gaze disconcerted him. What lay behind it? Gabe couldn't resist the temptation, and he reached out with a tentative mind touch. Pain roared back at him. His chair rocked forward from his lazy, tipped-back position. His teeth clicked together from the jolt of his seat connecting with the floor. The dancer's violent past shot out from her and gripped him by the throat, and Gabe shuddered under flashes of violent, bloody impressions of death and destruction. He swallowed hard and shook his head clear. An awful truth filled him. de'Marco hid a tormented past, almost as tortured as his, but he didn't try to understand the images that nearly made him gasp aloud. Sometimes his empathy talent twisted his visions and couldn't be trusted.

  He cleared his suddenly dry throat and wished for more of the nasty tasting drink before he spoke. “Yes. I enjoyed your dance very muchhh. You are extmly ... extremely talented.” His purposely slurred words sounded strange to the roar still echoing in his ears. Perhaps if she thought him drunker than he was, she'd let something slip about Scott.

  "I know.” Her strong chin lifted. Her defiant eyes assessed him in a narrowed glare. “Don't you feel the need for a room, Commander? A private room like the one you stayed in at the Pleasure Dome?"

  The dancer leaned closer to the table, and more of her sleek flesh escaped through the costume's flimsy, loose top. The rouged tips of her nipples poked through the gossamer fabric. Sweat popped out on his brow, and Gabe looked around, noting that they were the only two people left in the place. He gave an exhale that puffed his cheeks. Evidently the others had found rooms to their liking. The Circus's pleasure business was really good tonight.

  "I don't make a habit of staying in the palaces. And I'm afraid that I can't do justice to your dance, Miss de'Marco. I'm here because I'm looking for someone.” Gabriel ruined the seriousness of his statement with a hiccup. It was feigned. He no longer felt that drunk. His thoughts were focused arrow straight. He was here for a purpose, and she—that purpose—stood in the shadows. This close he could even feel each soft exhale of the captain's breathing. All his senses died under her influence. All except his damned cock. Gabriel stretched first one leg then the other under the table. It didn't help.

  "Oh?” The dancer's perfectly arched brows rose. She seemed amused as if she read right through his pretense of indifference. “You're here looking for someone who, perhaps, means a lot to you?"

  Again, Gabe felt like he was being tested. Ms. de'Marco was reading him as if she were an empath. He knew she wasn't one. There had been no tingling of minds when he met her, only that prickling of threat that had gone up his spine. The dancer was dangerously astute just the same. He cleared his tight throat again before speaking, “Yes, someone I care about. But, evidently, I mean nothing to her, so I'm giving up.” Gabe lifted his palms in a defeated gesture and stood. Thankfully, his cock cooperated and rested.

  After fumbling in his pocket a sufficient amount of time for both the captain and the dancer to think, Gabe threw enough credits on the table to cover his drink plus a healthy tip.

  "She must not be worth your time.” Again, the dancer's elegant brows lifted in a mocking arch. She rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin on her joined hands, as if praying.

  Before she spoke again, Gabriel said, “Look Ms. de'Marco, let's cut to the slip stream. We both know who we're talking about. I know you are a friend of Captain Scott's. Just tell her that I give up. If she wants to talk to me, she knows where to find me. I'll be waiting.” Gabe hurried for the exit, but turned at de'Marco's call. Her words stopped him dead in his tracks.

  "What about the child, Merriweather? Can she have it? No trouble from you?"

  Gabe's breath left his lungs in a whoosh. So the captain was pregnant. Damned fertile Chakkra blood. It always came through with its driving need to procreate. There were only a few true Chakkra left, thank the gods.

  Gabriel had been hoping for a sterile ending from their one night at the Pleasure Dome,but she was pregnant. And what did he want? Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. He tilted his head back and closed his tired eyes. Only an honest answer would satisfy de'Marco—and the captain. “I don't honestly know about the kid. I need time. I ... I don't think I want a child, but..."

  "Then leave Soledad alone.” The dancer snapped to her feet so suddenly her chair crashed to the floor. The heat of her angry glare surprised
Gabe. He didn't need his talent to feel the venom that emanated from her. It radiated in waves.

  For a moment, Gabe lost his diplomatic composure. Blood pounded in his throbbing temples. He fiercely whispered. “I can't give her up. I wish I could, but I can't."

  "I'll fight you for her.” de'Marco strode toward him, magnificent in her rage. Her robe fluttered from her long, bare legs, but Gabe could tell that she didn't care. She glared up at him, even thrust out her chin, her features hard and fierce in the dim light. “Commander or no, I won't let you hurt her."

  "I won't hurt her.” Gabe backed away from the truth of her edgy anger. The dancer was like a raging warrior bent on breaking his neck. It was hard to believe that she had been a lithe and tender seductress just moments before. In his checkered past, Gabe had honored his mother by never striking a female. A single blow from a Chakkra warrior would kill a delicate-boned female. But this one looked like she could split his spleen without blinking and laugh while doing it. Gabriel used his best asset, his diplomacy, to convince her of his sincerity. “I mean it, de'Marco. I have no intention of ever hurting the captain."

  "Oh, you men never do. But you will hurt her, Commander, just the same.” For a moment, de'Marco's dark gaze looked sad then her features hardened. She glared at him. “You have before.” Somehow Gabe knew she meant his involvement in Sol's forced retirement.

  "That's the Guild's doing. Not mine. I just told you the truth. I give up. Tell the captain to do whatever she wants. Have my ... my child. Raise it to fly the wonders of space.” He waved his hands expressively in the air. “Or whatever. I don't care. I'm too tired to fight anymore. She knows where to find me if she wants me."

  With those parting words, Gabe stormed out of the establishment's forced darkness, forgetting to stumble. He stopped and blinked in the dome's light of the recycled new day. He hoped Captain Scott had enjoyed his performance. At the end, Gabe had sensed Sol edging ever closer to him. Even before he felt her muting of his tormented emotions, her troubled thoughts had come from the shadows, so vivid that he'd known her exact location.

  It had taken every bit of his will power to walk out of Dante's Circus. For once, he thanked his damned half-breed bloodlines.

  He'd given the captain the bait. Now all he could do was wait to see if she took it.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seven

  "What do you mean? An hour ago you said you wanted nothing to do with the commander. Now, you want him?"

  Sol shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I do, Gelli.” Now that she knew that Merriweather wasn't pursuing her to take her child, Sol was curious about the rat bastard. She'd already devoured all the information she could find on him, which wasn't much. Hacking into sealed records, she'd discovered that he'd grown up on Chakkra with the warring race before going to Academy on Rigel Three, where he was an excellent student. Figures. Sol had also researched the mystic Chakkra people and learned nothing new. But she and the commander could share traits in their offspring. What might those mysterious traits be? Sol shivered at the thought.

  "I don't know my own mind anymore, Gelli. Maybe I just want to talk to him again. Maybe find out if what I remember is right or if it was just wishful thinking.” Sol sighed deeply. “He made me feel so good with all the giving—made me feel as if he meant it.” Her words trailed off. She felt her cheeks heat. Never in her life had she blushed as much or as often as she did now.

  Gelli snorted. “Oh, sweetie, I don't know what to do with you.” She sat down next to Sol with a tired flounce that sent her flimsy garb to dancing in the air. The thickly padded, zebra-striped sofa cushions sighed with her sudden weight. Looking at her friend's deep scowl, Sol thought that the room's jungle theme, with its prowling tigers and angry lions depicted on the grassy plains’ straw-wall coverings, suited Gellico. Only fake animal fur covered the floor and furniture. Gellico would never hurt an animal—humans, however, were a different story. The sharp swords, the lethal knives, the spears and the decorated shields that adorned the walls had been used for more than superficial art in her friend's lifetime. Some carried brown stains.

  "First you don't want this man, and now you do.” Gellico continued to frown at Sol. “What made you change your mind?"

  "He looked so lost in the theater the other night.” Sol couldn't keep the slight tremor from her voice. She sounded a far cry from the hard captain she once was. What the hell was happening to her? Too many years sterile or too many hormones all at once? Or had she discovered her femininity after all these years? Who knew? Sol sure as hell didn't, and she wasn't sure she liked the changes.

  "Lost?” Gellico laughed and shook her head. “Him? The Great Gabriel Merriweather? Bloody hell! More likely he was drunk."

  "No.” Sol bristled, surprised at her defense of the commander. “I don't think he was drunk. I think he was making a last ditch attempt at getting my attention—and it worked."

  "Yeah.” Gellico snorted then muttered, “Perhaps, it worked too damned well.” It was evident that she didn't believe a word she'd said. She swirled the contraband whiskey drink in her hand. “Well, he sure has been quiet ever since."

  "Yeah, you're right.” Sol sighed. “Maybe he meant it when he said he was giving up."

  "Meant it, my ass. Gabriel Merriweather will give up on something he wants when Drakian pigs fly.” Gellico grunted and rose from the comfortable sofa that Sol was using as a bed while hiding out from Merriweather. She gulped the last of her drink and wheezed, “Well, sweetie, if you're serious, perhaps we can change his fickle mind."

  "What do you mean? How?” Even Sol heard the pathetic sound of hope dancing in her voice. She frowned it away. Gellico grinned wickedly.

  "We'll dazzle him with a little com-link sex,” She wagged her pencil-arched brows up and down.

  "With what?” Sol felt her own brows go up to her hairline.

  "Oh, come on, dear. Let me dress you as something besides a galactic warship's captain and fix your makeup. Then you can send a sexy little looove message to your commander."

  "Dress me how?” Sol looked down at her stretched uniform. All she ever wore was the one piece spacer jumpsuit. The dark captain's red was beginning to look a little worn in places, but she refused to give them up. Even as a child, all she had ever wanted to do was command her own ship. But now the Spacing Guild leathers drew tight over her swelling belly. “I don't want a bunch of frilly things.” Sol gestured toward the ever present silk trappings that Gellico wore. “And no makeup."

  She frowned at Gellico. The dancer laughed and waved an elegant hand. “Oh, just let me do you up. Follow my instructions, sweetie, and I promise you'll be pleased with the results—and so will Commander Merriweather."

  * * * *

  Pleased wasn't the word that Gabriel felt when the captain's message arrived—surprised, yes. More than surprised, he was astounded and aroused to the point of blood-pounding pain, but pleased—no.

  In the midst of a dull diplomatic meeting, Gabe's wrist link had beeped. He quit tapping his fingers on the table, and without a second thought, pressed the receive button. Scott's sultry recorded message surged forth with the same leap his heart made. Quickly, Gabe stabbed the mute tab. He only grunted at the speculative glances on the assorted, refined faces of the ambassadors.

  With a quick “I'm not feeling well,” he hastily fled the room, his heart rate rocketing. He really didn't care what the foreign ambassadors thought. The meeting was going nowhere anyway. They were all lying, as usual. Maybe a delay would soften them up. How had the captain managed to not only get his private link, but to block the return trace on it as well?

  In the privacy of his room, Gabe jabbed the replay button over and over again, listening to Captain Scott's voice and watching her recorded image move and entice. She hadn't faked anything. Everything about her screamed truth, and Gabriel got just as hard the many times after as he had when he first heard it. How many times ago? He had lost count.

  "Hullo,
Commander Merriweather. Or should I call you Gabriel? After all we've done with—to—each other, I guess I'll call you Gabe. And you can call me Sol.” Her image grinned at him with sincerity, and the captain looked years younger. “Or you can call me Legs, as you seemed so fond of doing. But come to think of it...” She pouted, her mouth pursed in a pink-tinted moue of disappointment. “...you don't call me at all anymore, do you?

  "Don't you miss me?” The captain looked off to the right, gave a slight nod then rolled over onto her stomach. The captain's feelings weren't lies. Too much truth showed in the clearness of her direct gaze.

  The camera vision left her face and zoomed in on the valley of ample naked breasts revealed by the low neckline of the flimsy nightshirt she wore. The garment looked like male attire, and a sudden flash of heat swept over him. His pulse leaped. Gabriel recognized it for the jealousy that it was. How dare she wear another male's shirt? He snorted at his useless posturing and stared at her image. The camera zoomed out, then back in.

  Gabe knew who skillfully operated the camera, just as he knew who coached Sol in this carefully rehearsed sex tease, but for the life of him, he couldn't help enjoying the show. Why else had he played it over and over all night?

  Were Sol's breasts bigger? They looked it, or perhaps his dreams of her were fading, but Gabriel didn't have that worry for long. On the vid, he clearly saw the white mounds of Sol's sweet butt rising behind her while she lay on her stomach. Her feet playfully kicked the air. She wore nothing but the nightshirt and red four-inch stilettos. Gabe's palms itched. His balls drew tight, his cock twitched. He remembered the feel of her smooth skin under his hands. Gabe rubbed his palms over his knees, but he never took his eyes off the terminal screen. He had enhanced the com-vid to screen size. Hell, if he could have, he would have projected the image onto the ten foot wall. Sol's message continued in succulent whispers. Her sultry gaze beckoned.