Sex Slaves 03 Waiting for Dawn Read online

  WAITING FOR DAWN

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, February 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1337 Commerce Drive, #13

  Stow, OH 44224

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0147-8

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  WAITING FOR DAWN Copyright © 2005 LORIE O’CLARE

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Waiting For Dawn has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Sex Slaves:

  Waiting For Dawn

  Lorie O’Clare

  Chapter One

  The Whisky Room could be a good thing, and right now, Trent Dar thought it might be the best thing.

  Nothing had gone right today. Command Center dodged every argument he’d applied to stop the Poltar Leap. This wasn’t their fight. It wasn’t well planned. It lacked order. No one cared about the safety of his crew. None of the fucking officials who ran this project gave a rat’s ass whether any of them came back alive or not. Dealing with them all day had him wishing he hadn’t agreed to rejoin the Gren military. Life had been better when he decided what battles to fight.

  Stepping out of his glider onto the artificial surface of Molten, Poltar’s only moon, and its only remaining grasp at civilization, he pushed the button on his belt, adjusting the weight of his gravity shoes. The Whisky Room was housed in an isolated dome-shaped structure, common architecture on this moon where many Poltarians now lived after the Bortan had attacked. He stared at the large planet that hovered in the star-filled sky, blocking the view of most of the galaxy. In the morning he would tell his crew they were headed to the surface, entering the battle zone instead of going home. None of them would be pleased.

  Yeah. The Whisky Room was definitely the best thing. A few hallucinogens and his headaches wouldn’t matter, at least for the night. Maybe a piece of ass, or two. He deserved some downtime.

  Trent Dar had first learned of The Whisky Room during the war on his home planet, Greneen. Its reputation had spread across the Ryclox solar system during those days, and the place still held true to its name after all these years.

  With this new mission pending, thoughts of returning home anytime soon were out of the question. No matter. Nothing and no one waited for him there. But his crew—he hardened his insides, refusing to allow emotions he seldom used to surface. They were trained warriors. They would do as he said.

  Pushing the heavy door open to the club, Trent ascended the stairs, stopping at the top in the small foyer to endure the brief security clearance into the club. No criminals allowed. Plain and simple. The smallest mark on your record, and the doors wouldn’t open.

  Trent placed his hand over the red glowing surface, the security panel humming to life. In the next second the metal doors in front of him slid open silently. He smiled, little more than a twitch of his lips. Molten’s security wasn’t good enough to penetrate through his shielded past.

  Heads turned immediately as he strolled into the dimly lit atmosphere. Couples leaned into each other on the booths along the wall, whispering over their drinks, their expressions worried when they looked at him. A local, dressed in the drab attire common to these people, leaned over the bar, grabbing the bartender’s attention and gesturing toward him.

  Trent Dar moved with confident laziness, his body relaxed although his senses were on alert. A man at the end of the bar moved in front of a scantily dressed cocktail waitress, glaring at him as if Trent had just said something out of line.

  Their reaction to his presence wasn’t anything new. Trent Dar was a Gren. The entire solar system feared his people. He’d grown up with this reaction from strangers, people moving out of the way, huddling into corners and whispering. No one would approach him. No one would challenge him. His people were feared. Their militaristic nature and reputation for conquering anyone who challenged them, made his life simple. He could do what he wanted. No one would stand in his way.

  It would take little effort to change his attire, not wear the long, black cloak common to his people. He could remove his Greneen uniform, shield himself from the fear his image brought. But he would still be First Commander Trent Dar, high official of the first house of Dar. The simplest of clothing wouldn’t change the fact that he was a trained killer, a warrior seasoned and in his prime.

  He saw no reason to pretend to be something he wasn’t.

  Ignoring the man at the end of the bar, Trent strolled through the mingling crowd, many of the recently freed sex slaves from Poltar lingering naked, or in the thin material imported from the planet Benox, working the people surrounding him. None of them approached him.

  Not that he cared. The Poltarian sex slaves, from a planet recently destroyed in war, were small people, way too delicate to handle his sexual appetites. There were no Gren females in the place. He wouldn’t get laid tonight.

  Several females from Benox, their bodies highly adorned with the colorful tattoos those people were known for, moved away from their table at the sight of him. He silently thanked them, taking one of the still warm seats.

  He hadn’t been to The Whisky Room in quite a while, but the place hadn’t changed. A convenient hangout for all walks of life, provided you could get through the security clearance. The place still smelled of illegal activity and sex. Just because someone didn’t have a record, didn’t make them an upstanding citizen. All it meant was the people in there were smart enough not to get caught, or clever enough to cover their tracks if they had been caught.

  Activity toward the back of the establishment captured his attention. Tables were pushed up against each other, creating a stage-like setting. Men and women moved over each other on these tables, fucking and sucking, getting off being watched, or simply enjoying a willing pussy for the night. Many men and women came in here, escaping the orders laid on them with their work, just as he had. The Whisky Room offered entertainment for everyone, whether it be voyeurism, one-on-one sex, gangbangs, or simple flirtations. It was easy to put the day behind you when you entered into this place.

  After taking a minute to study the panel in front of him, he punched in his order for a stiff drink—he wouldn’t be flying anywhere tonight—and then relaxed in his seat.

  There was commotion around him. He didn’t
care. The hour was late and many already felt the effects of the mind-altering drugs mixed in with the drinks. The rich smell of the smoke from maljuana drifted through the air. Smoking that drug made people stupid. He ignored its sweet odor, keeping his eye on two women kneeling on the table at the end of the dark room, both making a meal out of a man’s cock.

  An older cocktail waitress, seasoned at her job, with her ample breasts bulging forward, her nipples pierced with the trendy pale yellow Poltarian metal, brought him his drink.

  “Don’t know why she’d be interested but the lady at the bar asked if you’d like company.” She set the tall glass down in front of him, bending close enough that he could smell the cheap perfume she’d splashed over her full fleshy mounds. “You want her, Gren?”

  He didn’t bother to look up. The way she took her time straightening, she didn’t want him to look at her face anyway. Many women in the solar system found it exciting to risk their time with a Gren. But he wasn’t into hurting women. And the simple truth was most couldn’t endure the aggressiveness that got him off.

  “I’m in no mood for company.” He waved her away, returning his attention to the people fornicating on the tables.

  “Then why the fuck you in a bar?” she mumbled, walking away, leaving her sweet perfume lingering in the air around him.

  Trent took a long swallow of the drink he’d ordered, allowing its fumes to go to his head, fog some of the frustration of his day. Taking another drink, he entertained the thought of getting good and drunk, allowing himself the luxury of forgetting about the pending mission, if even for a few hours.

  Maybe some of the former slaves in this place were trained to handle rough sex. He glanced around, taking in the women who weren’t tattooed—the easiest way to spot one of Poltar’s ex-slaves.

  “The waitress said you didn’t want company.” A female pulled him out of his thoughts.

  Trent wasn’t sure why he looked up, but he did. And for a moment, he wasn’t sure he could answer. Something stirred inside him, something carnal, an emotion that had hibernated for too long. The most captivating creature he’d ever laid eyes on stared down at him.

  Without a word, she pulled out the seat next to him and sat down.

  He didn’t speak but simply watched her movements. Dressed in black skin-tight leather, not from the Bosha herds off of Benox, but the softer, more durable leather from Greneen gave proof that she either had money, or knew someone who did. Taller than most women, she moved with grace, silently, simply staring at him for a moment, sizing him up before she slowly licked her lips.

  Everything inside him hardened to stone.

  “Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want. You’re going to help me.”

  Trent raised an eyebrow, watching as she leaned forward and crossed her arms. “And how am I going to do that?”

  “You’re going to help me deliver a shipment.” Her lips were full and moist, barely moving when she spoke. Long hair, blacker than night, fanned her shoulders and fell over the rich curve of her breasts.

  Trent straightened, needing to get away from this woman. He turned his attention back to the tables, several men having now singled out one lady, fucking her while her cries of passion were lost with the thumping music coming through the computer system.

  “I’m not for hire.” Command Center might beg to differ with that argument, another thought that didn’t appeal to Trent at the moment.

  “When you do the Poltar Leap in the morning…” she paused, grabbing his attention. She ran her tongue over her lips. “Drop this bag off anywhere over Grok.”

  She plopped a cloth bag down in front of Trent, its contents making it bulge at the side. Without another word, she stood and walked away from his table, disappearing as she worked her way through those lingering around the bar.

  Trent needed to go after her. No one, absolutely no one, knew about the Poltar Leap. The plan had been devised only hours ago. And he’d been present in the council room when the decision to send their fighters over the planet, attacking the few remaining colonies of Bortan, had been devised. They would fly low enough to do serious damage to the despicable race that had destroyed Poltar, but risk being shot down in the process. Not to mention, with such high speed and quick attack, more than likely more than a few Poltarians would perish with the maneuver.

  He glanced down at the cloth bag and then grabbed it, leaving the table to find the woman.

  Before he was in arm’s reach, an overweight merchant, one of the many Molten seemed to be known for, grabbed the woman by her shoulder. Trent fought the urge to remove the fat stubby fingers from the narrow curve of her arm.

  “Where is it?” the man hissed, forcibly turning the woman who almost towered over him. “You stole it, now give it back.”

  “They are already destroyed,” she hissed in the merchant’s face, suddenly looking quite capable of taking care of herself.

  She turned on the older man quickly, grabbing his meaty wrist with her hand when he tried to grab her cloth pack. Several strands of long black hair swayed over part of her face, the shadows accentuating her high cheekbones. But her dark eyes burned with a fire Trent noticed even in the dimly lit room. The woman had a temper, and wasn’t afraid to get mean when called for. He watched her, his insides burning with the desire to haul her off while the beautiful woman took on the angry merchant.

  “You didn’t destroy them. They are worth millions. A thief like you would be looking for a bidder. Give them back or you’ll pay more than your life is worth.” He poked a stubby finger into her face, veins protruding on his neck with his outrage.

  She didn’t hesitate but grabbed his finger, twisting it in her smaller hand. “You’re a fool. They are gone and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

  “What?” The hefty merchant exploded, lunging toward her. “Destroying those chips won’t stop the metamorphosis. The Bortan will evolve and nothing we can do will change that.”

  Several people around them stumbled, drinks suddenly spilling everywhere. The woman fell backward, although found her footing quickly and managed to slip out of the club amidst all of the confusion.

  Trent slipped out into the night after her.

  Chapter Two

  Dawn Corl ran too fast in the artificial atmosphere. Her breath wouldn’t come to her, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears hitting her too hard to focus on her surroundings. But slowing down wasn’t an option. She’d just taken the biggest risk of her life, and it had worked.

  At least she was pretty sure it had worked. Sitting down with that Gren had almost fucked up everything. Her mind had quit working. She thought she’d been around enough Gren for a lifetime not to be affected by them. He’d had the black unblinking eyes, the rich shiny black hair, the serious expression so typical of Gren. All traits of that race that shouldn’t affect her. She’d spent her life among them.

  She hurried to her carrier, which would get her off of this moon. The sooner she put distance between herself and everything that had to do with this assignment, the better. And then maybe, finally, her father would accept her.

  Her lungs burned when she sucked in too much air. The sharp pain distracted her from dwelling on her bastard heritage, her family shunning her, her father’s sad eyes. There wasn’t time to dwell on that.

  It was bad enough that the Gren inside had imprinted his image on her mind’s eye. It was more than his impressive good looks. She knew who he was, knew of his rank, that he was of the first house of Dar. And she knew by the slight twitch in his jawbone when she mentioned knowing of the Poltarian leap that she’d struck a nerve. There was something else about him. Something dangerous that had excited her, made her wish she could have sat with him longer.

  She sighed, slowing her pace while working her way through parked carriers. There was no time to dwell on the Gren, or her father. Beyond a shadow of doubt, both would be furious if they learned of the other’s existence. Both would have something to say about
the other, and how she was handling the mission. There was no time for any man’s temper. Every second mattered right now.

  Dawn slid her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out the flat card that unlocked her carrier. She didn’t look up when the door to The Whisky Club opened, its artificial light spreading across the dark surface of the moon. Shadows moved around her, but she forced herself not to pay attention to anyone else in the area.

  Just get the hell out of there.

  Strong fingers grabbed her shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  Dawn’s heart about exploded in her chest. Instinctively, she jerked her shoulder away, turning, ready to attack, when the Gren looked down at her. Suddenly her mouth was too dry to speak. She fought to control her nerves, running her tongue over her lips to moisten them. Those intense black eyes followed the small movement.

  “I’m leaving.” She turned from him, sliding the card into the carrier door so that it slid open.

  She jumped into the carrier and shoved the card into the ignition slot. The motor rumbled to life but the Gren had his hands on her before she could shut the door, pulling her back out of the carrier. He stuffed the bag of chips that she’d left with him into her hands.

  “You have explaining to do,” he told her, his voice offering no emotion—an annoying Gren characteristic.

  “Sorry, darling, but there is no time.” She used most of her strength trying to pull free of his grasp.

  Surprisingly, he didn’t fight to hold her to him, but instead pushed her back into the carrier. His strength sent her sliding over the driver’s seat. She found herself falling to the floor between her seat and the passenger seat when the Gren slid in, taking over the controls.

  “You are right about there being no time,” he said, and then quickly began pushing buttons on her control panel.