Alien Bride by Brie McGill
Sex, Drugs, and Biopunk
Book 1
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Blurb: Ninkasi Mara didn’t plan to celebrate her university graduation entangled in a bungled kidnapping meant for her father, a corrupt senator in the pocket of Techthonic Innovations. Locked alone in the gilded tower of Chateau Bernadette, Ninkasi fears its opulent pleasures will erode her will until she collapses into the comforting arms of the mysterious masked man who frequents her chamber with vintage wines and sumptuous dinners.
For more than twenty years, Orion has plotted the perfect revenge. Manipulating the hand of an insurrectionist faction, he intends to settle a shadowy score with Techthonic Innovations, a biotech giant with a history of dubious experiments. When the faction’s amateurs fail to return with the senator, they further complicate Orion’s task by returning instead with a woman who is a painful reminder of a love lost long ago. Torn between risking the secrecy of the faction and a maelstrom of emotion, Orion secretly visits her chamber in disguise.
When Orion disappears, Ninkasi is dragged into the search and rescue mission. To find him, she must learn the truth of his secrets about his hatred for the company and the physical anomalies he tries to hide. The answers await discovery in a terrifying alternate world beneath her feet in which human sacrifice is the least of her worries.
There is a reason Orion went alone...
Buy links:
Amazon: Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/371639
ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-alienbride-1351778-340.html
Amazon: Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/371639
ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-alienbride-1351778-340.html
Excerpt:
Orion extinguished the butt of his hand-rolled cigarette into a skull-shaped ashtray on the nightstand beside a king-sized bed. Stripped down to a frilly cravat, tight leather pants, and silk gloves extending to the elbow—for this occasion, he wore exclusively black—he crossed his arms over his chest and observed the girl, displeased with her insolence.
A woman with an hourglass figure slipped out of a sheer lace negligee and flung it across the room with her toe.
Orion wrinkled his nose: she specifically disregarded his instructions concerning the garter belt and knee-high stockings. His invitation was not romantic—it was a scripted roleplay arrangement to enact his one fantasy in detail.
Or at least, it should have been; it was what they agreed. He suspected this one secretly harbored romantic intentions.
They all did.
He wasn't interested.
For the interim, he would forgive her, solely because she wore the waist-length, pin-straight black wig he had taken great pains to acquire. No mistress was allowed one footstep in his chamber without the wig.
“Master Orion, I beg you.” The girl fell to her knees, greedily frisking the stately erection battened by his pants. Groping at his belt, she pressed her wet lips against his body, speaking into him. “Please let us go to your bed.”
He deliberated upon her entreaty, a cool midnight breeze from the open window whipping his waist-length auburn hair.
By the flickering light of candelabras, he looked to the bed, crimson blankets of crushed velvet tucked neatly in preparation for a royal fuck. The musky fragrance of burning copal wafted through the air, conjuring distant memories. Fuchsia anaglypta wallpaper shimmered, tinged with gold. The belfry looked smashing—on the rare event he chose to clean it.
He cleaned when it was time to see a mistress. Otherwise, he didn’t care; it was a pain in the ass collecting the countless empty wine bottles beneath his bed.
Orion poked a finger between the girl's eyes and pushed her head back, appraising her beauty: her plump, pouting lips threatened to consume him; each full, round breast required more than one hand to command; her waist was narrow, with hips cresting in smooth curves, her body a landscape, a rolling testament to womanhood.
She was a beauty, surely, of world-class standards.
But none of this struck his fancy. He was a particular man.
He stared nostalgically into the girl’s eyes, fierce green eyes. He selected her for her eyes. Those fiery eyes were his one shot at climax.
It was a long shot.
But it was worth a shot.
His time between shots grew longer and longer, and thus, he procrastinated confronting an increasingly formidable armada of empty bottles beneath the bed.
She dragged her nails along his pants, scratching at his inner thighs, whispering sweet nothings into his hips.
Pulling her head away from his body, he studied her. “Do you want it?”
The girl’s face flushed and she sat back on her ankles, mashing a hand between her legs, rubbing and pounding herself, huffing ecstatically. “I want it now!”
“Get on the bed.” He snapped and pointed.
The girl scrambled, hopping onto the bed, eyes wide with excitement, drinking up his every word as if a benediction.
“Face down.” He strutted behind her, unbuttoning his pants, his every order noncommittal. “You’ll touch nothing without my command.”
“Oh, yes!” The girl tucked in her knees, face pressed against the bedding, and hoisted her hips into the air. “Yes, Master Orion, yes!”
“You will say nothing” —he unzipped his pants, relieved to discover his erection still intact, and unhooked the riding crop from his belt— “unless I command it.” He lashed at the chubbiest chunk of her ass, observing the ripple he created with a grotesque fascination, and twirled the crop in his hand, bracing himself to strike again.
The girl moaned into the sheets, wiggling her starving ass, aiming it at him.
He grimaced and whipped her again.
Glistening with immediate arousal, she cried out.
Unleashing a halfhearted series of lashes, he wondered why he did this to himself. He took a step back, dodging the ass that lurched toward him.
He did this in hope. He struck her again, ignoring the rapturous cry.
Hope that perhaps one day, he may grow as aroused as any of these women who all wept with joy at the sight of his bed.
He lashed harder, faster.
Hope that perhaps one of them would offer him a release from sadness, a delivery from the prison of his mind, a way to forget the cruelty of the world and pretend.
The girl quivered, bucking toward him. “Oh, please, Master—Oh!”
He spoke quickly, authoritatively, punctuating each word with the slap of leather across flesh. “I. Told. You. Not. To. Speak!”
She threw her head back and seized with a deranged howl, a devolved amalgamation of ‘more’ and ‘oh.’ She bounced toward him, clutching the blanket in fists. “More! Master Orion, more! Please!”
He shook his head, whipping up and down her thighs.
She moaned and whimpered with delight.
No, he did this in despair. He reflected deeply upon the dichotomy of administering pleasure while receiving none, and concluded the truth was, he did this all de profundis in despair.
“Give it to me!” The high-pitched shriek came like nails down a chalkboard. “Master Orion, give it to me, please!”
He dropped the whip. There was no more terrible moment than this, no possible deeper admission of despair: he could have all the women in the world, but he still felt nothing beyond consummate emptiness.
Despair moved him; he ignored the nagging reality that it was impossible to replace the love of another. He did it over and over again, by virtue of despair, in the doomed hope he might find someone who understood him, someone who could make him feel the same way—someone who was—well—her.
But his whole life was a fucking circus because she never loved him anyway.
He absent-mindedly entered her body.
The girl whimpered, railing her hips into him; she rubbed her cheek against the blanket, eyes fixated through the wall with an ascended haze.
He buried himself deep inside her, gliding slowly on autopilot, staring into the candelabra: the only love he once knew was wholly unrequited.
She cried out, arching her back.
She never loved him, no, not like that.
And she was dead. Orion froze mid-thrust. There would be no sex with corpses. Not on his bed.
Especially considering the time that Aleister—
“Master Orion!” The mistress panted, peering over her shoulder. “Don’t tease me!”
Some love was best left unrequited.
With his free hand, he spanked her.
She cried out with delight.
This was nothing like what he wanted. A part of him felt guilty, like his lifestyle should have provided more than he ever could have wanted—but something left him cold.
The woman collapsed on the bed, eyes rolling into the back of her head, jubilantly rocking her hips for more.
He smacked her for her slavish worship, her asinine infatuation. He spanked her because it was no good to want him so badly when she knew nothing of the revolting truth of his character.
He spanked her for allowing herself to be used by him, and for liking it.
The woman reared up on all fours, throwing her head back in ecstasy.
The wig drooped sideways, exposing her curly red hair beneath.
The momentum of his upturned hand slowed: he melted, deflated, shriveled, retreating from the woman’s voracious body.
This mistress, that mistress, Orion could only fool himself for so long before it inevitably ended this way.
The woman leapt and whirled around, tucking her knees into her chest. “Master Orion, have I displeased you?” She clutched frantically at her wig.
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing out the window; he stood and buttoned his pants. “That will be all.”
She crawled to the edge of the bed, planting a hand against his chest.
Turning away, he wandered to the other side of his room.
“Master Orion. . . Will you forgive me?” Her lip quivered.
Bowing to her, he opened the door, and extended a gloved hand, bidding her exit with a gentleman’s poise.
“I can’t believe this.” She collapsed to her knees, dragging her hands down her face. “I don’t understand!” The girl crawled toward the wall, and banged her head against the headboard, ripping off the wig. “You’re cruel! Cruel! Why are you so cruel to me?! Why can't you take me like I am?!”
Resting his forehead in his palm, he winced: it was always an awkward moment when his mistress went mad.
He pulled the last one inside after she tried to exorcise her despair by jumping through his window.
A punk kid with strawberry blonde barged into the room, interrupting them. “Lord Aleister says that—whoa.”
Orion grimaced. It was Aleister’s pet, Nero.
Nero raised his hands, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to—”
The redhead scooped up her lingerie, dressing in a hurry.
Clenching his teeth, Orion twirled the riding crop in his hand. “Do you want me to bend you over my knee and spank you with abandon, Nero?”
Raising his arms in defense, he stumbled backward through the door. “Hell no!”
“Then you have no business in my quarters.” Orion’s nostrils flared. “None whatsoever.”
“Lord Aleister requests your presence” —he edged toward the stair, wiping sweat from his forehead— “to discuss some last-minute details of the mission!” He turned and thundered down the stairs, running for his life.
The woman exited after him, slamming the door behind her.
Orion reached into his pants and lit a hand-rolled cigarette, alone again, staring at the disheveled wig on his bed. Frankly, he didn’t get it, naked women alternately throwing themselves at his feet and over his balcony, like he was some kind of fucking legend.
All he had, in reality, was a legendary soft dick.
A woman with an hourglass figure slipped out of a sheer lace negligee and flung it across the room with her toe.
Orion wrinkled his nose: she specifically disregarded his instructions concerning the garter belt and knee-high stockings. His invitation was not romantic—it was a scripted roleplay arrangement to enact his one fantasy in detail.
Or at least, it should have been; it was what they agreed. He suspected this one secretly harbored romantic intentions.
They all did.
He wasn't interested.
For the interim, he would forgive her, solely because she wore the waist-length, pin-straight black wig he had taken great pains to acquire. No mistress was allowed one footstep in his chamber without the wig.
“Master Orion, I beg you.” The girl fell to her knees, greedily frisking the stately erection battened by his pants. Groping at his belt, she pressed her wet lips against his body, speaking into him. “Please let us go to your bed.”
He deliberated upon her entreaty, a cool midnight breeze from the open window whipping his waist-length auburn hair.
By the flickering light of candelabras, he looked to the bed, crimson blankets of crushed velvet tucked neatly in preparation for a royal fuck. The musky fragrance of burning copal wafted through the air, conjuring distant memories. Fuchsia anaglypta wallpaper shimmered, tinged with gold. The belfry looked smashing—on the rare event he chose to clean it.
He cleaned when it was time to see a mistress. Otherwise, he didn’t care; it was a pain in the ass collecting the countless empty wine bottles beneath his bed.
Orion poked a finger between the girl's eyes and pushed her head back, appraising her beauty: her plump, pouting lips threatened to consume him; each full, round breast required more than one hand to command; her waist was narrow, with hips cresting in smooth curves, her body a landscape, a rolling testament to womanhood.
She was a beauty, surely, of world-class standards.
But none of this struck his fancy. He was a particular man.
He stared nostalgically into the girl’s eyes, fierce green eyes. He selected her for her eyes. Those fiery eyes were his one shot at climax.
It was a long shot.
But it was worth a shot.
His time between shots grew longer and longer, and thus, he procrastinated confronting an increasingly formidable armada of empty bottles beneath the bed.
She dragged her nails along his pants, scratching at his inner thighs, whispering sweet nothings into his hips.
Pulling her head away from his body, he studied her. “Do you want it?”
The girl’s face flushed and she sat back on her ankles, mashing a hand between her legs, rubbing and pounding herself, huffing ecstatically. “I want it now!”
“Get on the bed.” He snapped and pointed.
The girl scrambled, hopping onto the bed, eyes wide with excitement, drinking up his every word as if a benediction.
“Face down.” He strutted behind her, unbuttoning his pants, his every order noncommittal. “You’ll touch nothing without my command.”
“Oh, yes!” The girl tucked in her knees, face pressed against the bedding, and hoisted her hips into the air. “Yes, Master Orion, yes!”
“You will say nothing” —he unzipped his pants, relieved to discover his erection still intact, and unhooked the riding crop from his belt— “unless I command it.” He lashed at the chubbiest chunk of her ass, observing the ripple he created with a grotesque fascination, and twirled the crop in his hand, bracing himself to strike again.
The girl moaned into the sheets, wiggling her starving ass, aiming it at him.
He grimaced and whipped her again.
Glistening with immediate arousal, she cried out.
Unleashing a halfhearted series of lashes, he wondered why he did this to himself. He took a step back, dodging the ass that lurched toward him.
He did this in hope. He struck her again, ignoring the rapturous cry.
Hope that perhaps one day, he may grow as aroused as any of these women who all wept with joy at the sight of his bed.
He lashed harder, faster.
Hope that perhaps one of them would offer him a release from sadness, a delivery from the prison of his mind, a way to forget the cruelty of the world and pretend.
The girl quivered, bucking toward him. “Oh, please, Master—Oh!”
He spoke quickly, authoritatively, punctuating each word with the slap of leather across flesh. “I. Told. You. Not. To. Speak!”
She threw her head back and seized with a deranged howl, a devolved amalgamation of ‘more’ and ‘oh.’ She bounced toward him, clutching the blanket in fists. “More! Master Orion, more! Please!”
He shook his head, whipping up and down her thighs.
She moaned and whimpered with delight.
No, he did this in despair. He reflected deeply upon the dichotomy of administering pleasure while receiving none, and concluded the truth was, he did this all de profundis in despair.
“Give it to me!” The high-pitched shriek came like nails down a chalkboard. “Master Orion, give it to me, please!”
He dropped the whip. There was no more terrible moment than this, no possible deeper admission of despair: he could have all the women in the world, but he still felt nothing beyond consummate emptiness.
Despair moved him; he ignored the nagging reality that it was impossible to replace the love of another. He did it over and over again, by virtue of despair, in the doomed hope he might find someone who understood him, someone who could make him feel the same way—someone who was—well—her.
But his whole life was a fucking circus because she never loved him anyway.
He absent-mindedly entered her body.
The girl whimpered, railing her hips into him; she rubbed her cheek against the blanket, eyes fixated through the wall with an ascended haze.
He buried himself deep inside her, gliding slowly on autopilot, staring into the candelabra: the only love he once knew was wholly unrequited.
She cried out, arching her back.
She never loved him, no, not like that.
And she was dead. Orion froze mid-thrust. There would be no sex with corpses. Not on his bed.
Especially considering the time that Aleister—
“Master Orion!” The mistress panted, peering over her shoulder. “Don’t tease me!”
Some love was best left unrequited.
With his free hand, he spanked her.
She cried out with delight.
This was nothing like what he wanted. A part of him felt guilty, like his lifestyle should have provided more than he ever could have wanted—but something left him cold.
The woman collapsed on the bed, eyes rolling into the back of her head, jubilantly rocking her hips for more.
He smacked her for her slavish worship, her asinine infatuation. He spanked her because it was no good to want him so badly when she knew nothing of the revolting truth of his character.
He spanked her for allowing herself to be used by him, and for liking it.
The woman reared up on all fours, throwing her head back in ecstasy.
The wig drooped sideways, exposing her curly red hair beneath.
The momentum of his upturned hand slowed: he melted, deflated, shriveled, retreating from the woman’s voracious body.
This mistress, that mistress, Orion could only fool himself for so long before it inevitably ended this way.
The woman leapt and whirled around, tucking her knees into her chest. “Master Orion, have I displeased you?” She clutched frantically at her wig.
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing out the window; he stood and buttoned his pants. “That will be all.”
She crawled to the edge of the bed, planting a hand against his chest.
Turning away, he wandered to the other side of his room.
“Master Orion. . . Will you forgive me?” Her lip quivered.
Bowing to her, he opened the door, and extended a gloved hand, bidding her exit with a gentleman’s poise.
“I can’t believe this.” She collapsed to her knees, dragging her hands down her face. “I don’t understand!” The girl crawled toward the wall, and banged her head against the headboard, ripping off the wig. “You’re cruel! Cruel! Why are you so cruel to me?! Why can't you take me like I am?!”
Resting his forehead in his palm, he winced: it was always an awkward moment when his mistress went mad.
He pulled the last one inside after she tried to exorcise her despair by jumping through his window.
A punk kid with strawberry blonde barged into the room, interrupting them. “Lord Aleister says that—whoa.”
Orion grimaced. It was Aleister’s pet, Nero.
Nero raised his hands, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to—”
The redhead scooped up her lingerie, dressing in a hurry.
Clenching his teeth, Orion twirled the riding crop in his hand. “Do you want me to bend you over my knee and spank you with abandon, Nero?”
Raising his arms in defense, he stumbled backward through the door. “Hell no!”
“Then you have no business in my quarters.” Orion’s nostrils flared. “None whatsoever.”
“Lord Aleister requests your presence” —he edged toward the stair, wiping sweat from his forehead— “to discuss some last-minute details of the mission!” He turned and thundered down the stairs, running for his life.
The woman exited after him, slamming the door behind her.
Orion reached into his pants and lit a hand-rolled cigarette, alone again, staring at the disheveled wig on his bed. Frankly, he didn’t get it, naked women alternately throwing themselves at his feet and over his balcony, like he was some kind of fucking legend.
All he had, in reality, was a legendary soft dick.
Brie lives with two devious cats, Lunar and Loki. In her spare time, she enjoys making laser sounds with her MiniKorg, channeling entities in hyperspace, and roflstomping video games from the nineties.
http://sexdrugsandcyberpunk.blogspot.ca
https://www.facebook.com/brie.mcgill
https://twitter.com/BrieMcGill
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7085769.Brie_McGill
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