MissionMenage by Cynthia Sax

Lokan’s
laughter and toward the man she loved. “Vegas,” she called out to him.
    “Raylee.” He groaned, rolling off the dead Balazoid,
snapping the shaft of her arrow in two. “I’m going to truly beat your ass this
time.” Vegas sat up, wonderfully alive, and the chill in her body eased. “Give
me something to slow this.” He gestured to the gaping wound on his thigh.
    She looked around them, her gaze settling on the Balazoid’s
weapon holster. It’d be perfect to stem the flow of blood. “Is he dead?” Even
lying still, flat on his back, the assassin was intimidating.
    “Yes, he is…oh, fuck.” Vegas sprang to his feet, grass
crunching under his big boots. “Run! Run!” He grabbed Sexy’s detached head by
the hair.
    Shit. Not again. She ran for what seemed like the
hundredth time that day, heading toward the ship, her knees aching from the
trek upward. Vegas placed his hand on the small of her back, pushing her
faster, his breath hot on her neck.
    They were halfway up the hill when a boom rocked the terrain
and she was thrown to the ground, her gasping mouth sucking dirt, a heavy form
landing on her back, flattening her, while a rush of hot, wet air blew past,
leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake.
    I’m not dead. She turned her head, spitting out earth
and grass. Her aching body was painfully alive. “Vegas, are you hurt?” She
stared into Sexy’s blank eyes, his face covered with blood and what looked like
pale Balazoid skin.
    Vegas groaned, the sound muffled by the humming in her ears.
“I’ll survive.” The weight on her back lifted and she breathed deeper. Moist
hands rolled her over. “You okay?” he asked. Vegas was covered with blood too,
his thigh wound matted down with dirt. Thankfully, it wasn’t all his blood. The
damn assassin must have blown himself up, his last act an attempt to kill them
both.
    “I’ll feel better once we’re off this fucking planet.” She
summoned up a smile, knowing she must look as bad as he did.
    “Agreed.” Vegas smiled back, laughter lines crinkling around
his blue eyes, his black hair spiked straight up. He was handsome and
disheveled and hers. She took his hand, savoring the contact as he helped her
to stand.

Chapter Eight
     
    “Is the seam noticeable?” Sexy peered at his naked form
reflected in the mirror, touching his neck. He had been fussing over his
inferior spare body, as he declared it, for hours.
    “No,” Vegas lied, the endless fretting irritating him while
he waited naked on the bed for Raylee to return. His thigh no longer pained
him, the wound laser-sutured, and she had extracted the arrowhead from his
back, sealing that tear in his skin also. He was rested and ready. He flexed
his hands, debating how hard to punish her.
    “And look at this cock.” The android stared down at his
erect shaft, his lips twisted with disgust. “It doesn’t even self-lubricate.”
    Sexy’s long, hard cock was thinner than his previous member,
making it perfect for delivering a rigorous and satisfying ass fucking. “The
lube is in the top drawer.” Vegas clenched his butt cheeks in anticipation, as
the android retrieved it.
    Sexy squeezed a glistening line of lube onto his cock,
slathering the gel over his synthetic skin, making it shine. “You’ll have to
stick some of that up my ass,” Vegas advised. Fuck. Sexy is right.
Lack of self-lubrication is a bitch.
    The door slid open and shut. “Starting without me?” his mate
teased.
    “Strip naked, Raylee,” he commanded, swinging his legs over
the side of the bed. “And come here.” He patted his thighs.
    “You’re hurt.” The levity vanished from her voice, replaced
with the smoky drawl of desire edged by fear. He read the recollection of his
promise in her expressive face.
    “It isn’t me you should worry about, woman,” Vegas warned,
growing hard as she unfastened her blue flight suit, exposing the curves of her
breasts with their taut pink tips. Her garment hung off her