Enjoy, folks.
PLANET ALPHA: ASSASSIN
By Nicola Cameron
Available: October 24, 2014
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-77233-077-9
Available: October 24, 2014
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-77233-077-9
BLURB:
While hunting raiders, Duncan Shea and other members of the New
Black Watch run into a deadly ambush. Injured and alone, Duncan stumbles across
a grounded shuttle carrying an Alphan warrior named Taric and a mysterious
Xyran named Zhan. The handsome aliens agree to help Duncan, but he quickly
learns they also have a plan of their own -- to claim him as their mate.
Forced to hide their bond from their respective governments, Taric
and Zhan never expect to find their third bondmate while on an unauthorized
mission to stop a vicious Xyran slave master. Neither of them can resist the
urge to claim Duncan, but will their new mate help them catch their old foe, or
turn them over to Earth -- and Alphan -- justice?
BUY LINKS:
EXCERPT
Duncan stepped back as the
airlock hatch rose, revealing a huge golden Alphan warrior in a black uniform.
A brief memory flickered across his mind, an afternoon with a tall, broadly
built watchman who had tumbled him laughing into a bed of leaves before fucking
him senseless. The sex had left him with a distinct appreciation for men built
on the alien’s scale.
“Greetings, human,” the Alphan
said, golden eyes staring at him curiously. “Are you in need of aid?”
The low, rumbling voice knocked
him out of the memory. “Uh, yeah. I mean, yessir,” Duncan said, wondering if he
should salute or what. “Name’s Duncan Shea. I’m with the New Black Watch.” He
showed his right arm, where a band of green and blue tartan had been clumsily
sewn. At the alien’s puzzled look he added, “It’s a guard unit. We were
tracking some thieves when we got ambushed about five klicks from here.”
The alien glanced at the woods
behind him. “You are alone?”
Duncan grimaced. “My men are
dead. Bastards planted some kind of mine in the woods.” Like an alien’s gonna know what a mine is. “You step on it, it
blows up,” he clarified. “You heard anything about that, sir?”
The Alphan’s eyebrows rose.
“About … mines?”
“Or thieves, sir. Local ones.”
The alien shook his head. “I know
nothing about local criminals, Watchman Shea. Nor do I know anything about
human explosive devices.”
Duncan sagged. Even if the Alphan
was lying, there was no way he could prove it. And forcing his way on board an
alien ship, even if it wasn’t hiding outlaws on board, was suicide. “All right,
thank you.” With a weary tip of his hat, he turned to go.
“Wait,” the alien ordered. “You
were injured in this explosion.”
It was a statement, not a
question. Duncan shrugged, then winced as his cold, tight muscles cramped with
the motion. “Got banged up a little, yeah.”
This time the Alphan glanced up
at the gunmetal sky and the cold rain pouring down. “This weather is not safe
or healthy for an injured human. Board my ship and I shall assist you.”
It was Duncan’s turn to raise his
eyebrows. “‘Scuse me?”
“Did I use your language
incorrectly?” The Alphan switched to a loud, slow tone. “Board … my … ship …
and—”
Duncan shook his head. “I got
that. I meant, why are you gonna help me?”
The alien smiled. It made his
craggy, handsome face more human, somehow. “My race signed a treaty with yours
to offer assistance when and where we could. As such, it is my duty as an
Alphan warrior to assist an injured human warrior.”
“Oh.” That did line up with what
he’d heard about the gold aliens and their sense of honor. “Well, sir, in the
case, I’d be pleased to get out of the rain for a spell.”
The Alphan stepped back, and
Duncan climbed into the airlock, pulling off his hat and swallowing a moan as
the warm air hit his cold, wet skin. “Oh, that feels good.”
“I imagine it does.” The Alphan
towered over him by a good six inches, and a pair of pointed black horns on his
forehead added another inch of height. Duncan couldn’t help checking out the
thickly muscled body straining the seams of its uniform. While he was in good
shape, he suspected that the Alphan could crush him like a bug.
Or throw you down and fuck you silly, part of his mind suggested.
He shivered pleasantly at the
thought. “Um, do you—”
“What a sodden creature,” another
voice said sourly. “Do we let it drip dry, or do we wring it out?”
BIO
Nicola Cameron is an
expatriate Chicagoan who has lived in England, Canada, Holland, and Sweden, and
keeps a confusing amalgamation of languages in her head as a result. Currently
located in the clavicle of Texas, she has finally mastered the proper use of
"y'all," much to her Chicago family's dismay.
Despite a healthy interest in
sex since puberty, it wasn't until 2012 that Nicola decided to try writing
about it. As it turned out, the skills she picked up during her SF writing career
transferred rather nicely to erotic romance. When not writing, she wrangles
cats, smooches her husband, makes dolls of dubious and questionable identity,
and thanks almighty Cthulhu that she doesn’t have to work for a major
telecommunications company any more (because there’s BDSM, and then there’s
just plain torture...).
Thanks so much for hosting me, Doris!
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