Ours to Share: ES Siren 8 Read online

  He frowned at his dirty thoughts—she looked so innocent and trusting. Then again, she was elite and no elite he’d ever met would know the meaning of the words. His mood seemed to only titillate her interest. “What’s your name?” she asked huskily.

  His voice came out raspy and harsh. “Call me 322.”

  They didn’t need to know any more than that. He didn’t want them to know any more than that. They might be intimate for one night, but that didn’t mean they should be personally invested.

  The elite were about as emotionally detached as a person could get … and that suited him just fine.

  Chapter 2

  Jasmine watched the interplay between Cloey and their prisoner with interest. 322 appeared hesitant, having undoubtedly assumed Cloey was quiet and reserved.

  She smiled. He’d yet to see past Cloey’s outside and realize that her sleeping tigress sometimes woke, hungry and wild. But he’d soon learn appearances could be very deceptive.

  She stepped toward them, the air thick with lust and more than a little restraint. She clucked her tongue. “Now, now, Cloey, we don’t want to scare 322 away before we’ve even started.”

  The prisoner’s lips firmed and Jasmine’s smile widened. She liked that this arrogant and strong-willed man could be caught off guard. He reminded Jasmine of her father, Kennedy, except she doubted anything surprised him. Not after Jasmine’s mother had ran away with another man—one without means.

  Her father had become even more cynical and tyrannical as Jasmine got older. Whenever he looked at Jasmine, he saw her mother, the one woman who’d irrevocably hurt him. The last few years before she’d left, he’d avoided Jasmine as much as possible. He hadn’t even protested the purchase of the Siren tickets that would permanently take her away.

  Jasmine wondered if he’d ever realize that his hurt had been nothing compared to her own.

  She shook off the thought, choosing to focus on the present, and the man of the moment. And what a man he was! He towered over both of them, and although he was broad-shouldered, she could tell despite the yellow prison uniform that he was lean with hard, corded muscles.

  This was a man who could easily overpower and kill them if he wanted. But he wasn’t a murderer, or mentally unstable, not according to the color of his uniform. Only the cons wearing “whites” carried that label—they were to be avoided at all costs.

  Well, except for the one who’d painted their portraits. He had seemed perfectly sane, though she’d heard terrible rumors that he’d murdered his own family. She didn’t even want to think about that possibility.

  But no matter the color of the uniform, no prisoner wanted to be shoved out of an airlock. And that was exactly what 322 faced if she or Cloey reported even a hint of insolence to the guard come morning.

  No, they were safe enough with their musician. Jasmine’s tongue darted out to lick her lips. He was a strong, virile man who she had no doubt would also be an amazing lover.

  Standing beside Cloey, she reached up and ran a hand over 322’s bristle-roughened cheek. His sweat-slicked skin had dried and she breathed in his salty, masculine scent. “I’m Jasmine,” she said huskily, “and this is my girlfriend, Cloey.”

  The column of his throat moved and she had a sudden desire to clasp his nape so that she could lick his throat, and then gently suck the slight lump of his Adam’s apple. She blinked and instead murmured, “We’re going to enjoy you tonight.”

  Cloey giggled, but it wasn’t a girlish sound, it was sexy and aroused. “And I’m certain you’ll enjoy us too.”

  The prisoner’s nostrils flared and Jasmine didn’t need to look down to imagine the thick length of his cock. Her belly clenched with need, the rush of moisture between her thighs telling her exactly how much she wanted this man.

  “And let me guess,” he drawled, his voice honeyed whiskey, “whatever you girls want, you get?”

  Jasmine glanced at Cloey, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Little wonder. Cloey hadn’t been born into wealth and privilege, she’d fallen into it when her parents had been given work in the towers. Not that money had brought Cloey’s family happiness … not in the end.

  Jasmine turned her attention back to the prisoner, keeping her voice neutral. “You’re judging us, and yet you’re the one in uniform.”

  He raised a dark brow. “I’m betting it was my uniform that sealed the deal for you both.”

  She heard the undertone of bitterness in his voice. But there was no point in speculating. The time she and Cloey spent with him would be short and passion-sweet. After tonight, he’d go back to prison and they’d get on with their own lives. No harm done.

  Cloey shrugged stiffly. “What can we say? We’re attracted to bad boys. I guess it’s a curse.”

  Jasmine smiled in agreement and began to unbutton the prisoner’s shirt. They weren’t here for a get-to-know-you session—at least, not of the talking variety. The gaping uniform soon revealed silken smooth skin broken by a thin trail of crisp, dark hairs. She stifled a groan as she imagined where that trail led.

  Her lashes fluttered before she looked up at him and said huskily, “We’ll make sure you forget all about your crimes tonight.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to forget,” he answered harshly, his eyes flashing and his lips thinning.

  Cloey shook her head. “Everyone has something they don’t want to remember.”

  Jasmine glanced at Cloey. They shared everything, not just this prisoner. And yet Cloey had never once mentioned something she’d rather forget. But all thoughts of her lover dissipated the moment she released the last button on his shirt, and her fingernail scraped the flat plane of the prisoner’s belly.

  He growled with barely restrained desire and she turned back to him. Her mouth dried. She’d been right. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. He was all lethal power and raw lust.

  Jasmine pushed the shirt over his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. The tribal ink on his neck flowed down one muscular shoulder and upper arm. Damn. She’d chosen well. He was … perfect.

  But not so perfectly trained. The moment she went to unclasp his pants, he put his hands over hers to stop her. She arched a brow. “Having second thoughts already?”

  His eyes gleamed mockingly. “No, baby-doll, I’m in this all the way. But you’ve removed one piece of my clothing, I’m thinking you should both return the favor.”

  So he liked to be in charge? She smiled, something pleasantly forbidden warming her belly and stoking the heat between her thighs. She’d play along … for the moment.

  She clasped the hem of her dress, but 322 stopped her with a brusque voice. “Why don’t you let your girlfriend do the honors? And then you can take off her top. Slowly.”

  So he liked to watch, too? The temperature went up a couple more degrees. She and Cloey weren’t above a little bit of female–female exhibition.

  They turned to one another. Cloey grasped the hem of Jasmine’s dress and tugged it up little-by-little, revealing Jasmine’s lacy thong and then her taut midriff, before finally baring her breasts.

  The prisoner exhaled sharply and Jasmine knew even without looking at him that his gaze was feasting on her breasts, which would probably fill his big, calloused hands. Her nipples tightened even as her breasts grew heavy.

  She didn’t often go out braless, but the dress had a specially designed panel in the bodice that supported as well as concealed. Besides, it was one less thing to peel off her body when all she wanted was skin-on-skin contact.

  Cloey’s baby blues were electric with yearning and Jasmine’s belly clenched at her lover’s beauty. Cloey wasn’t smack-you-in-the-face beautiful, hers was a unique gorgeousness. With her gamine face, big eyes and luscious mouth, she was a woman most people would take a second and then a third and fourth look at.

  Jasmine only hoped 322 appreciated his luck.

  She bent her head a little and whispered close to Cloey’s ear, “Let’s give our prisoner something to moan about
this time.”

  Cloey’s eyes widened before a smile kicked up the corners of her lush mouth. “You’re a wicked woman, you know that, right?” she murmured.

  “And you love me for it,” Jasmine answered, before pressing her lips to Cloey’s succulent mouth, giving her a long, slow kiss that was as much for their enjoyment as it was for the prisoner’s hungry stare.

  She sighed against Cloey’s mouth. Her lover’s lips tasted as decadent as strawberries and twice as sweet, and she was reluctant to pull away. But she wasn’t here for girl-on-girl action. Not this once.

  She needed 322 for complete sexual gratification … as did Cloey, even if she had yet to admit it.

  Jasmine clasped Cloey’s crop top and dragged it easily over her head. A sheer white bra pushed up Cloey’s small breasts, and Jasmine traced the center of one cup with her fingertip, her lover’s nipple stiffening prominently against the material and her breath coming out in a sharp hiss.

  Jasmine turned to face 322. “Time for you to lose another piece of clothing.”

  He held his arms out to his sides. “I’m all yours.”

  Jasmine stifled a smile. So he was a typical male, after all. She glanced at Cloey. “Your turn.”

  *

  Cloey stepped toward 322, every cell in her body screaming to be touched. She looked up, awed by his looming physicality and his dark, almost black eyes that glittered with need. She swallowed. He’d do more than touch. He’d devour.

  Her skin tingled and her nerves danced. She hadn’t wanted this when Jasmine had first confessed her need for something more … someone more. Hell, a man hadn’t been on her agenda since her friendship with Jasmine had progressed into intimacy after a night of drinking and steadily deepening flirtation.

  She should have known better. This man was off the charts in masculine perfection, a lover who’d satisfy them in every way. He’d know how to give pleasure; it was in every arrogant line of his superb body and was probably stamped into his DNA as surely as his ability to play music.

  Cloey focused on the prisoner, her voice husky when she said, “I want to take your boots off next.”

  He looked surprised, even a little shocked. “You’d do that?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. Either no one had cared about this man or he assumed she was above doing menial tasks. More than likely it was the latter. A man with his charisma and looks could get a woman to do anything he wanted.

  She kept her voice neutral. “You think that task is beneath me?”

  He arched a mocking brow. “Actually, I thought you’d want to take my pants off first and get an eyeful of my cock.”

  Despite the tidal wave of need within, heat crept up Cloey’s face. But Jasmine’s snort of laughter broke the tension.

  322’s lips curled a little before he added grudgingly, “And yeah, I did think it would be beneath you.”

  Jasmine stepped behind Cloey and clasped her shoulders with soft hands. Her voice rippled past Cloey’s ear, startlingly erotic. “Even us elite like to get our hands dirty sometimes.”

  Cloey pulled in a breath and slowly released it. Jasmine knew which buttons to push at the best of times. Going by 322’s flared nostrils and compressed lips, he hadn’t been charmed one bit by Jasmine’s comment.

  Cloey cleared her throat, Jasmine’s rigid nipples scraping against her back more than a little distracting. “We’re really not the women you imagine we are.”

  His jaw tightened. “Is that so?” His tone suggested he didn’t believe her for one second. “I guess I’ll never find out.”

  Cloey’s sigh filtered past her lips before she could stop it. She frowned, not enjoying the peculiar ache in her belly at the thought of losing this man so soon. She hadn’t even kissed him yet! Jasmine’s hands fell away as Cloey dropped onto her haunches and muttered, “I guess not.”

  She drew one of his boots off, taken aback by the size of his foot. Friggin’ huge. Her gaze moved up to his crotch, and her mouth dried even as her pussy moistened. Neither she nor Jasmine had been with a man since leaving Earth a little over eleven months ago, and they’d certainly never shared one—let alone been with someone of this sized anatomy.

  As if reading her mind, the prisoner drawled, “You’ll be plenty ready for me when I take you … count on it.”

  She gulped at his softly spoken promise. Her lashes fluttered closed for a moment, before she focused on his threadbare socks. She ran a finger over the frayed wool, recalling the discomfort of bare skin against hard, unyielding leather.

  A soft sigh escaped her lips. She’d attended sock-knitting classes—she could knit him a decent pair of socks. At least then he’d have something to remember her by … something that wasn’t entirely overshadowed by the beautiful Jasmine. Not that she’d ever felt it necessary to compete with her lover. She simply saw what the prisoner saw and knew she was … deficient.

  She paused and then, slowly exhaling, she removed his other boot before she straightened. Despite his socked feet, even in her heels she was no less dwarfed by him. She looked up, for a moment getting lost in his dark, fathomless stare. What was he thinking? What secrets did he hide?

  Was he attracted to her …?

  She shoved this last, far too dangerous thought away—wishing for things like that made her vulnerable and weak, and she despised vulnerable and weak. She managed to hold his stare as she cleared her throat and said, “I guess we go barefoot too now.”

  A slight shake of his head indicated his dismissal. “No.” His voice turned husky. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen women wear something so damn sexy.”

  A backhanded compliment if ever she’d heard one. On the dying Earth those lucky few who had the luxury to own and wear fashionable heels were deemed to have more money than sense.

  She tilted her head to the side. Did he also assume she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth? Poverty had been her birthright until her family had been “saved” by Kennedy Hewitt when he’d taken them in.

  Unfortunately, moving into the elite towers wasn’t the happily ever after her parents had imagined. Their relocation to the Hewitt Empire was just the first stepping stone toward blackmail and intimidation.

  Kennedy had a roving eye, and he’d set it on Cloey’s mother. He’d wanted her, and what he wanted, he got. Her mom had learned the hard way that the Hewitt kingpin didn’t take no for an answer.

  She ignored the ache forming in her chest, though her voice came out harsh when she finally answered, “Maybe we don’t want to leave our shoes on.”

  The prisoner’s smile was a brief, derisive twist of his lips. “Then don’t.”

  Jasmine’s hands returned to Cloey’s shoulders, as if in reassurance, before she broke the silence. “Why so uptight, Cloey? We both know how much you love your shoes. You get to keep them on and be pleasured. It’s win-win if you ask me.”

  Cloey sighed and settled against her girlfriend’s lush curves, feeling secure and aroused all at once. Her stare remained on the prisoner. “Perhaps I will keep them on—if I’m asked nicely.”

  He cocked a dark brow, but didn’t scrape out an apology. Instead, he said softly, “Cloey, it would please me very much if you would refrain from unbuckling your shoes.”

  “Nicely done.” The smile in Jasmine’s voice was obvious. “And we’ll be butt-naked while you’re almost fully clothed.”

  322 focused on Cloey once again. “Would you remove your girlfriend’s panties now … nice and slow.”

  Cloey’s breath hitched. He didn’t beg, but he knew exactly how to go about getting what he wanted. He could have been a politician on Earth. And damned if his quick mind didn’t turn her on almost as much as just being near him.

  She twisted in Jasmine’s arms, her heart shifting a little in her chest at the woman who meant everything to her. “Maybe you should have worn more clothes?”

  Jasmine lifted a hand and stroked her fingers under Cloey’s jaw. “And where would the fun be in that?�
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  Cloey grinned, despite the need that was thick in the air. Jasmine could never be accused of being boring. She played by her own rules … although it seemed for now she was happy going along with 322’s.

  Cloey was happy to do so too, as long as the prisoner acted the gentleman and asked nicely. Of course, neither she nor Jasmine would mind if he saved the rough and tough for later.

  She clasped the front waistband of Jasmine’s lacy panties and tugged them down, little by little, until Jasmine’s pussy, with its fine strip of hairs, was exposed. They’d both had laser treatment before boarding the Siren. Waxing and shaving wouldn’t be possible once they landed on Solitaire. They were nothing if not prepared.

  Jasmine stepped out of her panties, naked and proud. She tossed the prisoner a look. “Do you like what you see?”

  “Baby-doll, it’s the best thing I’ve seen for months.” His voice thickened. “Now you can take off Cloey’s bra.”

  Jasmine didn’t argue. She reached behind Cloey to unclip the bra with adept hands.

  Cloey bit into her bottom lip. She was small all over, but she celebrated her body just that little bit more when the prisoner groaned and uttered, “A perfect fit for your girlfriend’s hands.”

  Jasmine lifted her hands as if to prove his point, but 322 growled, “No touching. Not yet.”

  Cloey stifled a grin at Jasmine’s hissed breath. But still her girlfriend didn’t argue. Instead, she turned to him and said, “Your turn to take something off.”

  He lifted a foot in silent reply, his mouth curling.

  Jasmine had never taken orders from anyone, yet Cloey had never seen her more aroused. Jasmine seemed to be getting off on succumbing to the prisoner’s every command. Her breasts were full and swollen, her nipples sharp points, begging to be sucked.

  When Jasmine crouched at 322’s feet, her long black ponytail swinging between her ass cheeks, it was all Cloey could do to hold herself back.

  Neither she nor Jasmine had ever prolonged their satisfaction, and this man walked a fine line between building their anticipation and sending them right over the edge.