Ours to Share: Dirty Sexy Space, #8

By Mel Teshco

If stealing from the rich to give to the poor is a crime, then Silo Warrick is a felon of the highest order.

A gifted horticulturist found guilty of stealing from the elite greenhouses, Silo is also an extraordinary musician, and therefore the perfect con to throw onboard the Earth Ship Siren.Though he’s promised a fresh start on Solitaire, Silo’s not about to believe his captors.

But his disgust of the elite is about to be challenged by highbrow lovers Cloey Pederson and Jasmine Hewitt. They aren’t the arrogant and superior snobs Silo has learned to hate, even though trusting them is a whole ballpark out of his league.

One woman might whet Silo’s carnal appetite; two is cause for all his wet dreams to come true. But are Cloey and Jasmine double the trouble or twice as nice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mel Teshco
• Release date: Feb 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386701958

Mel Teshco

As a rather quiet, introverted child, Mel Teshco would never have believed it possible she'd one day be making a living writing hot, erotic stories and meeting so many other wonderful writers. She can most often be found at her computer, giving into her children and/or cats demands and occasionally/often drinking home brew, which brings out her sociable (i.e. loud) side. Her long-suffering husband is still waiting for retirement. She loves hearing from readers and will answer all emails at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter One

The music was loud. Ear-ringingly, head-splittingly loud. And it was exactly what Jasmine Hewitt needed. She glanced toward her lover, Cloey Pederson. It was what they both needed—along with half the people aboard the ES Siren, going by the crowd in the bar.

Tensions had escalated after the Sprite, one of the three earth ships heading to Solitaire, had been severely crippled by a micrometeoroid shower, and at least half of its surviving passengers had boarded the Siren.

Overcrowding and dwindling food rations didn’t just affect the prisoners. The civilians onboard suffered too, though compared to the inmates on the lower zone, Jasmine suspected she and the other civvies had nothing to complain about.

At least the bar made a tidy profit. People were more than willing to exchange their precious credits for the mind-numbing piss that passed for beer. Add a band whose talent was undeniable, and whose music helped people forget their problems, and the bar was doing a roaring trade.

Jasmine gave in to the press of the crowd and aligned herself behind Cloey, wrapping her arms around her lover’s waist. But for once, her attention wasn’t on the pixie-slender woman whose short brown hair feathered her nape, and whose cherry blossom shampoo filled Jasmine’s nose, washing away the scent of stale sweat and booze.

She stared at the guitarist on the makeshift stage, his fingers flying over the strings with skilled precision, bringing the music to life. She ignored the singer, bass player and drummer. She only wanted the guitarist, the con whose past she couldn’t care less about.

She wanted—needed—one night of carnal abandon to relieve the ache within. An ache that could no longer be fully quenched by her lover’s feminine hands and tongue.

The guitarist’s biceps bulged in the sleeves of his prison yellows, his height less apparent as he bent low into a solo riff, the chords fast and furious. Her pussy clenched. He played his guitar the way she wanted to be taken: hard and aggressive. She imaged every part of him dripping sweat, his hot body sliding over hers as he played her, got lost in her.

His riff over, he straightened, looming again, his dark brown hair falling away from his even darker, glittering eyes. His was a stare that could wound in one glance. Jasmine shivered, despite the hot, perspiring bodies in the room; despite the heat gathering between her thighs.

His fierceness called to something within her. A need to tame and restrain, maybe even a need to break.

I’m my father’s daughter, after all.

Cloey turned her head a little, her ice-blue eyes round and her lips brushing Jasmine’s skin between ear and jaw. He’s beautiful.

Jasmine nodded. If a man who was all hard edges and hostility could be labeled such a thing, she guessed the guitarist was it. His magnificence was almost intimidating, his air of barely restrained violence doing things to her body she’d never felt before.

The tribal ink kissing his neck and disappearing under his unkempt hair made her want to lick the swirling design, taste his sweat and inhale his scent. She wanted to grip his rough, disarrayed hair and push his head down to her pussy, until the stubble on his face prickled her inner thighs while he suckled and licked.

Then, her body still shuddering with pleasure, she’d have him take her, fill her with his pulsating length until another orgasm took away her breath … her sanity.

She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d give Cloey that same satisfaction.

She swallowed and took in a steadying breath. Bloody hell, she really did have it bad. Sex made her feel alive, and right then only the cock-filling-pussy variety would do. It was a shame the talk about Jasmine and Cloey being lesbians had turned so many men away—though it had suited them both for a while. It kept away the undesirables, and there were plenty of those onboard the Siren.

The guitarist had barely looked their way, but Jasmine knew he was aware of them, more than aware. Her nerve endings smoldered, on the verge of combusting. Even the reluctant Cloey was aroused. And she’d bet the guitarist would welcome sexual release after the adrenaline of playing for the rowdy crowd.

Cloey lifted her arms and linked her hands behind Jasmine’s neck, her crop top pulling even higher, baring her taut stomach and the wink of her navel jewelry. Her head tilted back, her eyes glowing. He’s the one, isn’t he? she shouted above the music.

Jasmine swayed along with Cloey’s rhythmic dance. She couldn’t deny it, not even to spare her gorgeous lover possible angst. Her stare had already been drawn back to the man on stage when she answered, Yes.

Cloey’s grip tightened a little, bringing Jasmine’s attention back to her. You’re sure?

Absolutely.

Cloey bit her bottom lip, and Jasmine knew she was torn between excitement and uncertainty. Cloey accepted that Jasmine wasn’t wholly fulfilled by the touch of a woman alone. But it didn’t mean she was happy about it.

Her eyes turned serious, somber. Just the one night, right?

Jasmine nodded. Right.

There was no reason to prolong the interlude with the guitarist. Just one night of hardcore fucking to get her need for man-sex right out of her system, at least for a few months. Then she and Cloey could resume their otherwise marvelous relationship.

When the man in question turned and looked directly at them, finally acknowledging their presence, Jasmine leaned closer to Cloey and murmured, Let’s give him something to think about.

Cloey’s eyes narrowed, though she was used to Jasmine’s sometimes perverse ways. Her voice sounded breathless. What do you have in mind?

Jasmine leaned forward and kissed the side of Cloey’s neck, her eyes not once straying from the glittering stare of the guitarist. Moving a hand to the front of Cloey’s jeans, she slipped inside the low-slung waistband and under the lacy panties, finding the wet heat between her folds.

Cloey gasped, and then writhed a little against her touch. What if someone else sees?

Jasmine smiled. Everyone is watching the band.

Besides, they weren’t the only couple making out. Seemed like half the crowd was dirty dancing, rubbing asses against crotches and breasts against chests.

The guitarist turned away, but not before Jasmine noted a distinct and impressive bulge in his prison-issue pants. She withdrew her hand from between Cloey’s thighs with a smile.

They’d baited the hook, now it was just a matter of reeling their prey in. Shouldn’t be too hard—unlike certain parts of the guitarist’s anatomy.

The singer announced the last song and anticipation surged through Jasmine. She had to have the guitarist. No other man would do, at least, none who were still available. And she had a feeling this man was very available. He didn’t seem the type to tie himself down.

He was perfect.

Even before the song had finished, Jasmine spotted the guard assigned to watch the guitarist and one of the other yellow band members. She wondered idly how the two prisoners on stage had met the three civvies and formed a band. Perhaps they’d performed together on Earth?

But she didn’t speculate too long. She pointed out the guard to Cloey and they made their way toward him. The guard didn’t pretend any interest in his duties, and his eyes lit up at the two women approaching him.

Behind the speakers, the music was muted, so they could easily hear the guard’s drawl. What can I do for you lovely ladies?

Jasmine frowned as his appreciative stare took in their skimpy attire. She hadn’t worn her emerald-green halter-neck dress, with its short and ragged hem, for this man’s titillation. She held back a cutting reply and smiled instead. We’d like to offer you a tab at the bar in exchange for the guitarist’s release for the night.

The guard’s interest turned into a sneer. You want a criminal to fuck you both? At their silence he gave his groin a suggestive rub and added, I’d be happy to show you girls a good time.

Cloey’s spine stiffened even as Jasmine took a step closer, leaned forward and said slowly, My father, Kennedy Hewitt, might object to me being spoken to in such a way. At the guard’s whitening face, she pressed on. You might have heard of him? He’s one of the elite helping to sponsor this trip to Solitaire.

The guard gave a resigned nod. If that’s the way you want it, fine. He glanced at the stage. But just so you know, prisoner 322 mightn’t be one of those dangerous ‘whites’, but that doesn’t mean I can guarantee your safety.

Jasmine nodded. We’ll take our chances.

Lord only knew, traveling through the galaxy inside the metal beast that was the ES Siren was far more dangerous. There’d been plenty of skeptics who’d remained on the dying Earth, announcing to all and sundry that if anyone made it to Solitaire in one piece it would be nothing short of a miracle.

But it was a risk she and Cloey had been willing to take. Better to roll the dice and risk dying in space than slowly suffocate on a polluted world without hope.

The guard stroked his throat. I can only give you one night with 322. That way there’s no paperwork, and no one needs to be any the wiser.

Jasmine nodded. That’s plenty of time for what we have in mind.

The guard licked his lips, and said weakly, A bar tab, you say?

Cloey trailed behind Jasmine, admiring her lover’s long, inky-black hair, caught up in its usual high ponytail, its glossy ends swinging to her narrow waist. Little wonder both men and women wanted her.

With her hourglass figure and luscious hair, Jasmine was a Lara Croft lookalike from the vintage movie Tomb Raider.

She swallowed, for once just as aware of the man next to her as she was of her lover, who tangled her up inside.

The con was a sweaty hulk of a man, at least six foot five. His lips