Almost dying forces prostitute Sylvianna to rethink her lifestyle, especially when John, the handsome cop who found her, decides he wants her all to himself. They've both been brought up to believe there are no happy endings on the moon colony Urba. But their intense sexual attraction forces them to admit to emotions they never expected to feel.
When Sylvie decides to go after the son taken from her eleven years ago, she tries to leave behind her lover. But John won't give up on Sylvie. Or the son she so badly wants to save.
Golden Priestess Me'la is the chosen lover of Traz Duran, guardian of the boy who will be Speaker to the Star God. One week in each other's arms is all Me'la and Traz have. Even as they're lost in a haze of sexual bliss, a tender love grows between them. Me'la has proof their religion is a lie, and she must convince the stalwart Warrior-Priest that the eleven-year-old boy he's been protecting for years is doomed to die unless they act.
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November 13, 2009
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Excerpt from Star God by Riley Ashford
By the time Sylvie recovered from the laser damage, got the cosmetic surgery to fix the jagged burn marks on her back and thighs, bribed enough officials to get her Class 2 license reinstated, and forked over enough 'crons to get her corner back from another whore, three months had passed.
Curled on the red spongian sofa in her two-room apartment, Sylvie opened her palm-sized journal and turned it on. All that was left of her adolescence were a few family photos and Mamma's journal. Sylvie had never grown tired of rereading her mother's words, reliving her mother's adventures. Mamma wrote like the poets Sylvia had studied in school--before she'd quit her studies to enter the trade. Her mother had been such a gentle soul, such a kind woman. She didn't deserve to waste away, to die poor and alone in a BioGov hospital.
Sylvie had started her own journal the year her mother died, the only tradition she could carry on. She started to type...
I've spent a lot of that time in the company of John Curtis, though I don't know why. He's a cop. He's also funny and charming and sexy. He wants me too. The same way I want him. Oh, I've fantasized about being with him, even brought myself to orgasm dreaming of his cock sliding in and out of my pussy.
Time and again, I've seen the lust flicker in his gaze, yet he's never touched me, never even tried to kiss me. He could have paid me to fuck him...but he treats me like a Lady. Like a Mistress. Like a Husband-Father treats a Wife-Mother.
He makes me nervous.
What could we possibly have in common? What kind of relationship could we possibly create? Damn it. What does it matter? I've chosen my path, and he's chosen his.
Tonight will be my first night back and I can't say I'm all that excited. Sector 9 is the same piss-poor neighborhood with ugly gray buildings, dark and dusty, that I've known for the last ten years.
I hate that I fit right in.
* * * * *
Sylvie patted the two-jolt laser gun concealed in her money belt and walked to her usual corner.
She leaned down to expose the sight of milky-white breasts to the two college boys contemplating her from their rented shut-car. The Piers College was eight sectors away in a clean, well-kept part of Urba. She loved it when na?ve little bastards like these two slummed it in Sector 9.
"Hey, baby, how much for the both of us?"
She straightened and sashayed toward the car. "I'm quality, boys. It'll cost a hundredcron each. One position only."
"What if I want to fuck you in the ass while he fucks your cunt?"
She laughed, not put off by their crude language. They probably got demerits if they mouthed off like that in Sector 1. "You can't afford it."
* * * * *
John Curtis leaned against the pseudo-brick wall of Shue's Drugs 'N' More and watched Sylvie lean on the passenger-side window of a shut-car, talking to two young men who probably didn't know what to do with their dicks.
He'd been watching out for her since the night he arrived at the hospital and saw her, pale and beautiful, against the white sheets of the bed. Damned if he hadn't wanted her. Oh yeah. He'd felt the tight pull of sexual need just looking at her. Red hair and green eyes and a body made by Venus. A natural body too. He knew the look and the feel of fake tits, plumped asses, reshaped legs and torsos. But there was something else, too, that night when he watched her sleep. A need to protect her. Some asshole psych doc would probably tell him it was because she was a whore, like his mother, and that he wanted to save Sylvie the way he could never save Delia.
He knew all about Sylvie. Pulled her file and read about the child raised by a single, loving mother--a mother who died and left her daughter to rot in the foster care system. And now she was a Class 2 prostitute. Not bad, but not as cushy as getting the status of Mistress. He didn't know many Class 2 whores who worked the streets. It was too beneath them when a job in a High House offered more perks and pleasures.
Sylvianna Mary O'Malley. Her sexy smile offered temptations he was determined no other man would ever know again. He wouldn't let her go back to the street. Wouldn't let her go back to fucking for money.
She deserved better.
Three months he'd watched over her recovery. She was funny, sexy, sarcastic. She'd taunted him and teased him and made him want her with every passing day.
Somehow, some way, he'd fallen in love with her.
Not that she noticed. Not that she even gave a fuck if he was around or not. He'd seen the way she looked at him. If he offered to pay her, she'd fall into bed with him. But he refused to degrade her like that. I won't make her think what she could give me, what I could give her, can be bought for any amount of 'crons.
He straightened the black bod-suit--the uniform of police officers--and grinned down at the gold shield on his left shoulder. A cop. John Curtis--abandoned by his father, raised by a whore--was a cop. He'd gone to college and gotten a degree in criminology. Then he went into training at cop school and received his badge. The request to work in Sector 9 was granted and he'd spent the last few years in the place he'd grown up--grown up and hated--taking out the human and alien trash. It filled his life with purpose, with joy and with hope.
He watched Sylvie trail her fingers into the hair of the boy making a deal for her services. Jealousy gripped him, made him check his sleek plasticon laser cannon strapped to his thigh, and then he reined in his temper. With a final tug on the uniform, John strode forward, hurrying toward Sylvie before she could take any 'crons from the boys.
She's mine now. Mine.