When his calloused thumb pressed against her anus, she let loose a groan. “Oh, please, Danny.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Fuck no. Jesus, that feels so good.”
His thumb pushed inside, a burning stretch that had her pussy and asshole clenching. His hips renewed their hard, sharp movements, slamming his lower belly and groin against her, slapping sweat and leaking pleasure, echoing the pulsing, wet wind that washed over them.
The moment felt elemental, destined. A silly sentiment if she’d thought about it any other time, but the man straining behind her, pounding into her, was a hard, buffeting force, his breaths coming in ragged gasps and chopped groans to match her own shuddering sighs.
When her orgasm consumed her, she almost cried out a complaint because she was nearing the end. But the strength of it stunned her, curling tightly inside her core, pulsating outward toward her limbs until she collapsed against the bed.
They lay in a tangle, his body blanketing hers. A kiss landed on her shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t. Ever.”
“Could get complicated,” he murmured.
“When is it anything else?” She reached back a hand and caressed his cheek. “Lie with me.”
“I should close the window.”
Jenna shook her head against him, her lips curving. “I like storms.”
Danny smiled, pulled free and spooned his body around hers. They both faced the window with its billowing curtain. Everything precious lay inside his grasp. A feeling of homecoming, of hope for a happy future, eased away the last of the fear and anger that had ridden his body throughout the night.
He slid his hand between her legs, cupping her sex, feeling possessive and pleased.
Jenna let out a deep sigh, and her breaths evened out in sleep.
Outside, the wind died down, and the last jagged white forks descended from a pitch-black sky.
Red Dawn
‡
Planet: Mars
Farming Tract: 782
Year: 2213
Mary stood alone in the middle of a vast golden field, only her small house in the distance to break up the view of her large tract. No signs of civilization, other than her well-ordered crops. She feathered a finger across the tip of the wheat stalk she held. Stiff, but not brittle. The harvest was still a month away.
Loneliness nagged. She hadn’t thought it would bother her. The interminable days of chores and nightly reporting should have kept her too busy to notice she was alone, without another human being to talk to, other than the dispatcher who’d confirmed that on this day, her first resupply shipment would arrive.
Tension rode her shoulders, boiled in her belly. Today, her life would change. Again.
Among the first who’d stepped outside the dome without a breathing device, she’d taken the chance the air was truly safe—that alien toxins wouldn’t accumulate in her blood or that the newly manufactured atmosphere wouldn’t smother her.
She’d had no fear. Only a sense of wonder and fierce pride that she, Mary Bledsoe from the Americas Sector, was among the first colonists of Mars.
Fifty years of terraforming the barren planet had, at last, produced a habitable world to replace the one they’d ruined. The Mars-Tech Company owned exclusive rights to the project and had released oxygen trapped in the northern icecap to form an atmosphere to mimic the former success of Earth’s natural greenhouse to normalize the temperatures. They introduced animals, insects, bacteria—everything necessary to ensure the soil would be ready for the first crops. They dug canals to deliver the water beginning to melt from the icecap to the plains where crops were sown by huge industrial machines—all in preparation for the colonists who would assume responsibility for the first harvests, and thereafter all future plantings.
Mars would feed Earth. Animals bred from the first herds shipped from the home planet had been raised in cramped stalls inside the domes. Now, they would be turned over to the farmers and ranchers, further nurturing the classic model of pastoral life that was almost extinct on her own overcrowded planet.
The environmental lessons scientists learned from the mistakes humans made in the past, along with strict adherence to new social rules and an ordered reclamation of Martian resources, became a roadmap for humanity’s survival.
In her own little way, Mary was part of this grand experiment, this last chance for humans to survive long enough before jumping out into the galaxy to find new worlds to populate.
Given her own plot of land as a dowry, she’d eagerly signed her acceptance of a mate, which the company would choose according to her preference profile and attributes needed to complement her skill set. Guesswork, or messy natural selection, wasn’t permitted. This she’d known before making the long journey from Earth to her new home. Since she’d had few relationships there, and all had been unsatisfying, she hadn’t thought twice about accepting a mate sight unseen. Better the AI matchmaker make the selection.
She had yet to meet her new mate, or even learn his name. However, she was notified days after she’d resettled on her small homestead, with its pre-fab concrete cabin, fiber-board barn, canal-fed stream and pond, that he would be selected from among the new shipment of prisoners. Because intelligent, healthy men chose professions which required less physical labor, furloughed prisoners would be given a second chance to earn their freedom by becoming spouses to pioneer men and women—a fresh start for people healthy enough to adapt to the rigors of this life and who harbored no hopes of ever returning home. An alternate life sentence.
She hoped he’d be strong. That he harbored no violent tendencies. But again, she trusted the company to choose well on her behalf. So far, all their promises had come true. She’d signed on for a new adventure, a chance to live a life outside the crowded mega-cities with their choked air and transits.
Here, she could breathe, watch a fiery sunset that had nothing to do with pollutants tainting the air, and the deed for the land was in her own name. Her crops for the next few rotations would be claimed by the company—the hope being, that after she’d returned their investment in her endeavors, she’d be allowed to sell her grains in a free market and reap the profits.
A true pioneer, she’d stepped onto an alien planet, full of hope for a new future for the human race.
For once, that thought didn’t comfort her, didn’t inspire her to strengthen her resolve to adjust. Returning to her home, she glanced around, noted the grayness surrounding her, and wondered why the company, with all its psychological studies, hadn’t figured out that cheerfully colored walls could do wonders to lift a woman’s spirits. But then, a color scheme probably seemed like such a little thing, they hadn’t bothered due to the expense. Each item she’d been provided was exactly the same as what was given to every other pioneer. She’d have to find her joy in the colors nature afforded her—golden wheat, blue skies.
She pushed back the sleeves of her shirt and set to cleaning her little home, ignoring the images from her childhood that the smells of lemon and pine pulled from her memories.
*
The transport arrived amid a whirl of dust kicked up from the barren yard beside the house. The gritty air nearly obscured the moon, Phobos, as it made the first of several orbits for the day. The aircraft hovered, framed by the uneven curves of the asteroid, then set down with a thud that shuddered the fiber-board planks of her front porch, vertical engines stalling then shutting off altogether. Slowly, the dust settled.
She’d been sweeping, preparing the cabin for the transport’s arrival. As with every element of the company’s schedule, the ship arrived precisely on time. Although she was prepared, a flutter of anticipation tickled her belly. She set aside the broom, wiped her palms against the sides of her sturdy blue work pants, and descended the stairs, eager to meet the shipment.
A man dressed in a gray company coverall climbed out of the cockpit and strode toward her.
Mary’s heart skipped a beat when sh
e realized she hadn’t had a face-to-face conversation with another human being in a very long time. She pasted on a smile. “Welcome.”
His sharp gaze swept her little cabin, the golden fields beyond it, then finally rested on her. “You Mary Bledsoe?”
He likely wondered how someone of her stature had managed to pass the physical tests to qualify for farming. She stiffened her spine to add a few centimeters to her small, wiry frame and met his gaze with her usual calm, chilly stare. “I am.” She bit back a sarcastic, Who else do you think I could be? Every one of the thousand colonists had been handpicked and transported by the company—they had a monopoly on Martian transportation and industry.
His mouth twitched, but he kept his gaze steady. “I have your shipment, and I’ll need your signature on the bill of lading.”
She nodded. “I’ll need to inspect.” She’d received notice of the contents of the shipment via the comm-console situated in the cabin’s main room shortly after claiming her homestead.
Although the fields had been pre-planted and her new home fully furnished, there were still some items, especially the perishables, that needed stocking: replacement blades for the combine sheltered in the barn, pallets of foodstuffs, clothing, and fuel packs…and her mate.
Trying not to appear overeager to see him, she waited as the transport commander’s crew scurried to let down the rear ramp and roll out the pallets. With well-trained efficiency, they stacked them beside the porch. She counted the pallets with their quick-wrapped goods, scanned her gaze over the identifying labels, signed for delivery, then shoved her hands into her pockets to hide the fact they were beginning to shake.
The commander’s mouth firmed into a straight line. “Did you receive training in the use of the B-Mod collar?”
He knew she had. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here, already in possession of a land grant. She gave a curt nod. “Yes. I also signed saying I knew there were no guarantees for my safety or his willingness to work. If we don’t suit, if he proves stubborn, then I’ll return him.”
“Just don’t get too attached, ma’am. You have enough on your hands without coddling one of these rejects.”
The brusque quality of his voice surprised her. Was he truly worried? Should she be more concerned? Her hands drew into fists inside her pants pockets.
But then he extended the chain with the controller for the prisoner’s behavior modification collar, a thin ID tag with a recessed button on one side. She slipped it over her head and followed him to the side of the transport. The guard inside the vehicle opened the door. The prisoner scooted on the seat toward the edge, hands still in manacles, then slid to the ground beside her.
Heart rate rising, she gazed up into a face set in grim lines. Blue eyes, cold as ice, sparked with some deep emotion as he stared back.
He was larger than she had expected. Surprisingly so. Prisoners built like this one were generally shipped to company loading docks or to the dome’s arena. He was dressed as she was in sturdy denim pants and long-sleeved shirt. She studied his broad chest and wide shoulders. He was built like a gladiator; his arms and thighs were deeply muscled. “You’re sure he’s mine?” she asked, turning toward the commander who’d fished a key from his pocket to unlock the prisoner’s handcuffs.
The pilot’s grunt and the flinty glare he gave the prisoner said he too had some reservations. “His collar matches the invoice. Guess they thought you might need the extra muscle.”
Anger flashed at his comment. She’d had enough of men thinking she wasn’t up to the rigors of Martian prairie life. Her hand still gripped the B-Mod chip. She slipped it slowly away, remembering her training. Show no fear. As long as she had the chip, she had control.
Without glancing at the metal torque hugging the base of his neck, because she didn’t want to betray her sudden case of nerves, she lifted her chin and cleared her expression.
“Do you have a name?” An inane question. She winced inwardly.
One side of his mouth quirked. That flash of movement might have been her imagination because he gave her a stony stare.
“Colm O’Riordan.”
The commander cleared his throat.
“Ma’am,” the prisoner amended with a drawl.
Heat crept up her neck, but she ignored the blush threatening to suffuse her face. Turning back to the commander, she offered her hand.
His grip was strong, the look he gave her doubtful. “Good luck to you, Mary.”
Not a professional form of address, but no one had called her by her first name, alone, for a very long time. For that small gift, she gave him a warm smile. “Thanks for everything. We’ll be fine here.”
A duffel was tossed from the transport by one of the guards. The bag was small. Likely only a couple changes of clothing for the prisoner. She jerked her chin toward it, knowing she was still being observed by the crew. “Bring it,” she said, making her tone curt. She turned, walking toward the cabin, wondering if the lock on her new mate’s door would actually hold the man.
Colm followed the small woman inside the cabin. Everywhere he looked was gray. Bare concrete walls, fiber-composite cabinets. No curtains on the windows, just cheap solar-glass that turned a milky color to reflect sunlight when it hit directly. Utilitarian. Ugly.
Ugly everywhere he looked. Except the woman.
She was a surprise. Small and slender. She didn’t look capable of driving a combine, much less handling a man as large as he was. But for the chip he spotted hanging around her neck, he could overcome her inside a single heartbeat. And yet, she hadn’t hesitated in accepting him.
Her clothing was the pioneer uniform. Heavy denim trousers, a form-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, insulated to retain body heat or to wick away moisture if the air grew warm. Her small feet were encased inside clunky work boots. And yet, she was lovely. But likely didn’t know it.
She wore no makeup. Her bluntly cut hair was held up with a single band at the back of her head—a pretty brown with streaks of blonde and red setting it afire. Her eyes, when she’d stared up at him, were a soft green, like springtime blades of grass. Something he’d seen in domed parks back home. Vivid and fresh, those eyes. And so unaware.
The perfect product of the company’s long assimilation program. Despite her slight stature, she’d survived the grueling testing and come to this place. But why? As pretty as she was, she needn’t struggle for her survival. She’d have made some company scion a fine mistress. Or a gladiator a concubine. He’d have taken her on, for a full month’s use, just to see whether he could make that blush she’d betrayed deepen.
His loins stirred, and he sighed, knowing he was concentrating on the puzzle she presented because doing that was better than sinking into a black hole of despair over the fact he was here. That this would be his life until he died.
In another time and place, he might have enjoyed the adventure, travelling months to reach this desolate planet, testing his mettle against the elements for his own satisfaction against whatever obstacles arose from living on another world. However, he’d left behind a mess. One he was fated never to repair. Everyone he knew and cared for left behind forever. Lost.
“Your room’s in here,” the woman said, her soft gaze lingering on him.
She likely wondered if he was a half-wit, he’d stood there so long, staring at nothing.
“Drop your bag beside the bed. You can put away your things later. We have work to do.”
Colm said nothing, but stepped past her, making sure to brush an arm against her, just to see how she reacted—see whether her hand would dart to the chip.
Her quick, indrawn breath and startled gaze told him a lot. She was every bit as aware of him as he was of her. But her hands remained at her sides. Satisfaction warmed him. Here was something he could work with. Perhaps he could convince her to toss away the chip. And soon. The memory of the sharp pains it invoked, seeming to tap every single nerve with fire and pressure and agonizing cramping, was enough to nauseate him.
He dropped his bag beside the narrow cot. As stark as any prison cell, at least the room had a window, although the hardware surrounding it told him there would be no escape. Not that he had anywhere to go if he did manage to slip away.
However, just the thoughts of walking freely in the outdoors, of swimming in the stream he’d seen that perfectly divided fields of wheat from oats, were enough to keep him thinking about breaking out.
“We work until the sun sets,” she said, her voice oddly gruff.
The sweet note it had held when she’d spoken with the commander was gone. But then, from the way the other man had eyed her up and down and given her unsolicited advice, perhaps they knew each other.
The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He was already feeling possessive of his new jailer. “Tell me what needs to be done,” he said, dropping his voice to infer he was ready to do more than labor in the fields. “I’m here to help.”
Her cheeks pinkened, and she turned, bending to pick up a pack on the floor then striding toward the door. “Let’s just make sure water’s making it to the plantings. We’ll walk the fields.”
And walk they did. Colm was amazed at the size of the tract she’d been handed. On Earth, land this rich, this verdant, was so rare only the very wealthiest could afford it. And yet here, as far as he could see, stretched gold and green fields filled with fragile bio-gold.
He and his new mistress carried all-service tools slung over their shoulders, which changed with a click from a shovel head to a pick, depending on the need. At mid-day, she unearthed crusty protein wafers and bottles of fresh water from the bottom of her pack.
He grimaced at the stale taste, but did have to admit the food satisfied his growling belly. Then back to work they went, with the woman walking between neat rows to inspect plants for wilt or disease, although every grain brought to Mars had been specially engineered to suit the soil and climate.
Ultra Strokes Page 8
