Spaceport Mercy, Book 4
I hate R and R. Who needs it. I sure as shit don’t. Not just because I’ve had a tech upgrade (thanks to the Galactic Union’s super-secret, Super-Cop initiative), but because seriously, what does one do on R and R anyway? Rest and relaxation? The most relaxing thing for me to do is bust the asses, noses, clavicles, sternums, necks, spines—well, you get the idea—of scum-bucket criminals. And I never rest from relaxing. I don’t want R and R. I don’t need it. I’m a freaking super-cop, for Otyn’s sake. Even before my tech implants I didn’t need it. R and R is for the weak, the pathetic. The lazy.
But what’s a tech-improved GU Enforcer to do when her commander orders her—orders her—to take a leave of absence? “You’re close to burn out,” he says. “You need some down time,” he says. I tell you what she does. She heads to Spaceport Mercy. Cause honestly, you won’t find a greater horde of scum-bucket criminals in one place anywhere else in IAC space—or any other space, for that matter. If it’s dodgy, chances are it’s at ‘Port Mercy. What better destination for unwanted R and R than a veritable cesspit of crooks?
A mere two steps into said cesspit and my mouth began to water and my tech began to zing.
By Otyn. The place was a smorgasbord.
Striding through the crowded docking level, I catalogued everything I saw. Known slave traders, infamous spice dealers, wanted WMD suppliers, hell, even an IAC-listed terrorist moved freely about their nefarious business, unaware a tech-enhanced GU Enforcer walked amongst them.
My mouth watered some more. I was going to have a blast. Why hadn’t I taken R and R be—
I snapped straight, scanning the horde around me.
One of the upgrades the GU white-coats had so thoughtfully installed in me allowed my tech to detect battle class droids and cyborgs of any design, make and model. That upgrade—millions of microscopic tiox nanobots implanted in my cerebral cortex—now fired into pulsing life. Somewhere on the thoroughfare was a Q-42 battle droid, a highly efficient, volatile and superseded war-class android.
I searched the teeming masses again, tuning my tech into the Q-42’s energy emission. Q-42s were decommissioned by the GU for a reason. They were dangerous. If one walked ‘Port Mercy it was illegally activated and would need to be shut down.
My right hand automatically reached for my blaster before I remembered the spaceport’s strict boarding rules—no energy weapons in public places. I wriggled my fingers and forced calm into my muscles. No matter. It would be more fun taking out the droid barehanded.
Grinning, I scanned the crowd once again, zeroing my gaze in on a giant of a man dressed in combat fatigues not eight feet away.
The Q-42 shoved his, er, that should be its way through the packed thoroughfare and I followed. Eagerly.
As if I wouldn’t.
Five minutes on ‘Port Mercy and already I was enjoying my R and R. The Q-42 strode though the docking level, pushing people out of its way, its pace quickening. I narrowed my eyes, my stare locked on its towering frame. It seemed to be trying to elude something.
The thought had merit. Q-42s were still advanced tech. It was entirely possible a Q-42 operating in human stealth mode—as this one was—could detect the tiox-emissions of my own tech. Possible and, if the case, kinda fun. It would make bringing the battle droid down more challenging.
I lengthened my stride, dodging more than one scum-bucket, never taking my eyes off the droid.
Until the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen crossed my line of sight, dressed in nothing but skin-tight black leather pants and a slave collar, his pitch hair tumbling around his shoulders in a tussled mess, his bronzed skin gleaming under the thoroughfare’s harsh lights, his muscles rippling with latent strength.
Oh, dear gods, he’s delicious.
My feet stumbled a little and I bumped into a Raavelian hurrying past me. “Watch it, cunt,” he snarled, shoving at my chest.
Now normally, that kind of antisocial behavior would prompt me to slam the foul-mouthed git to the floor, break his shoulder-blade and threaten to teach him some manners. At this very moment in time however, education was far from my mind.
My tech was sparking into over-drive.
So was my pussy. Whoever the slave in the black leather was, every molecule of my existence, both engineered and biological, was reacting to him. Big time. Which made me…curious.
The last time I’d been sexually attracted to a man, they’d turned out to be a GU Unit Zero assassin gone bad.
What did it mean when not only my body reacted to the hunk, but my tech implants did as well? What did that make—
The slave turned his head and looked at me with eyes the color of Old Earth emeralds, the corners of his lips curling. As if he knew something I didn’t.
My breath left me in a little gasp and the pulse in my neck kicked up a notch, trying to out-throb the pulse in my sex. By Otyn, his stare made me hornier than a Nil Rajan. What could his hands do?
The slave cocked a dark eyebrow, the grin on his lips stretching wider, and he ran a slow inspection over my body. From head to toe and back up to head. Holy shit, did that inspection make me wet. Damn wet.
Now here is the problem. I’m a cop. I don’t approve of slaves. I abhor the notion of imprisoning someone innocent just for personal use, to treat them like nothing more than an object, but right at that very moment, I could think of nothing more resting and relaxing than imprisoning the man in the black leather pants and slave collar and fucking him until I was dripping in sweat.
In case you haven’t figured it out now, I have no problems expressing myself. And I’m not shy. Far from it.
Forgetting about the Q-42, I titled my chin and fixed the slave with a look I knew spoke volumes: I want to fuck you.
The slave ran another slow inspection over my body—this one so deliberate I almost passed out—and then turned and walked away. Not even looking over his broad shoulder once.
I followed. Whatever it cost, I was paying for the man’s services for a good two hours. I’d find the slave’s master after those two hours, arrest him (or her), give them a damn good “education” via my fists and charge GU Command the credits I’d spent procuring the slave’s services as a work expense when I returned to active duty. Three for the sweat of one: fucking, freeing and fighting. Win win, I’d say.
Pussy sodden in anticipation, I stepped through the narrow door into the dimly lit room the slave had just entered, ready to negotiate a price.
And felt strong hands grab my wrists.
Half a second before I was shoved against the wall.
Buy the complete book: