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  Starlight

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-435-4

  Copyright ã 2009 Astrid Cooper

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Starlight

  The Complete Series

  By

  Astrid Cooper

  No matter how far humans roamed among the stars, no matter what forms they adopted, one night was always special—Christmas Night. Some celebrated for religious reasons, others because it was the night when humans were first contacted by the Voyagers and humanity entered the star-faring fraternity, welcomed into a universe alive with life and possibilities. Within fifty years of first contact, Terrans had spread out across the galaxy, playing and loving among the stars, their sexual appetites and willingness to experiment saw humans become a sought-after species; they took their place among the elite of the sensualators—men and women who devoted their lives and bodies to gifting pleasure and among the most coveted and the most enigmatic were the felinus—the cat shifters…

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to J and T at eX—for going that extra light year for me. As always!

  Starlight Ecstasy

  I can do this! Samantha Sinclair looked at her reflection in the bathroom holo-mirror. The black silk negligee clung to her body like a second skin, hiding nothing, highlighting everything.

  She might be wearing a seductive outfit, but she was no seductress; just a thirty year old widow whose Christmas Night was to be celebrated in the arms of a man—a very special man—whom her friends had gifted to her for the night.

  John was some gift. Make that capital ‘G’—Gift! A flesh and blood sensualator, he didn’t come cheap—literally and figuratively. Come being the operative word.

  She had asked him what his true name was, not his professional alias. Laughing, he had insisted it was John.

  They had met, as arranged, in the cocktail lounge of the Saturn Hilton, had a few drinks, then dinner.

  Sam was awkward at first, but John had quickly set her at ease. He was a professional, after all. Once she had relaxed, his tactics altered. The slow seduction began. A scrape of knee against hers beneath the table, a fingertip meeting hers as he handed her a fresh glass of green Centauri champagne. She was aware that he studied her throughout the night, but when her gaze lifted to his, she always found that he was looking elsewhere.

  “Are you a vegetarian?” she asked, trying to make conversation, watching as he swirled a skewered piece of tofu around the lime and coriander sauce on his plate.

  He set the fork down and nodded. “And I don’t eat Nutrina either.”

  Sam shuddered, remembering the times she had been forced to consume the liquid nutrients. “Nutrina tastes like plastic.”

  “You’re in the habit of eating plastic?”

  “You know what I mean. It tastes like plastic smells.” She laughed. “So you’re a vegetarian. I am, too. People used to eat dead animals for food. Some still do. Imagine that!”

  “I’d rather not.” He paused. “I’m a slow, real food guy. As with all things that count, Samantha, I prefer to take my time.”

  “So, you’re Mr. slow and thorough?”

  He grinned and raised his champagne flute in salute. “Verrrry slow, verrrry thorough.”

  Sam laughed. “Can I ask you something?” His golden brow arched. “Tell me about sensualators. No one knows about you guys and…”

  “Honey, I never kiss and tell.” He paused. “Besides I’d rather know about you.”

  “There’s an old earth saying: curiosity killed the cat.” His gaze narrowed at her, a measuring that Sam didn’t understand. “I’m a very dull gal. You must have guessed that by now? I’ve never left the solar system, never done anything—”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “You told me you’re an artist. I saw some of your work in the hotel foyer. I liked how you captured the mists of Neptune, all the different blues and greens and the sweep of red, hinting at the inferno within. Your eyes are green and I think there’s a fire smoldering inside you. Perhaps I’ll call you Maera Passionata.”

  She stared at him, flushing all the way to her heels. Maera Passionata—Mistress Passion. Yeah, right! “You speak Galactic Standard with an inflection I can’t place. And as for your old earth English, the words are clipped, sometimes harsh, sometimes soft.” Contradictory, like the man—she kept that to herself.

  “I roam the stars, Samantha, I pick up accents from every world I visit.”

  “Occupational hazard?” She grinned at him, catching his gaze. “What else do you pick up on your travels? Or, rather who?”

  He laughed.

  She liked the sound. “You did it again.”

  “What?”

  “When you laugh, at the end, it sounds like a purr.”

  “Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “Am I?”

  She flushed and reached for her glass. His right hand intercepted, his fingers sliding over hers.

  “Relax, honey. You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me.”

  “You’re a dead cert, is that it?”

  “I’m here because I want to be.” His eyes narrowed, the light and amusement gone. “Not because…”

  “Because…?”

  He shrugged and smiled. Back to games, Sam thought.

  “So, tell me about yourself. Your work.” John topped up her glass.

  Admitting defeat—for the moment—she talked and he listened…listened attentively until she realized she had told him far too much.

  Sensualtors were good at listening; it was part of the job, to find out about the client before going in for the fuck.

  “Is that what you think, honey? Moving in just for the fuck?”

  “Are you telepathic?” Horror raced through her. If he knew what she’d been thinking… Oh stars!

  He ran the little finger of his right hand around the top of his glass. “I have a sensualator’s awareness.”

  “Is that an explanation?”

  “All you’re gonna get from me. At least here.” The last added sultrily, leaving her in no doubt of the meaning of his double entendre.

  She glanced around, trying not to stare at the clientele, all dressed in their finest, with jewels flashing at throat or temple, tail or tentacle. Several performers were dancing in the null-grav field in the center of the room, their bodies painted golden and shimmering with diamantes moving in time with the electronic music. She flinched as the discordant syntho-sounds grated on her nerves.

  “Honey, am I upsetting you, or is it that stars awful music?”

  “Both.”

  “That beat’s all the rage on Deneb. But th
en the locals have six arms and four legs. Believe me, it brings a whole new interpretation to the tango.” He paused. “What music do you like?”

  “Opera.” She paused, studying him. “And you?”

  “Opera.”

  “You’re just saying that as part of the deal.”

  “No, Samantha.” For the first time there was a hard edge to his voice. “Computer-generated music has no soul. Do you sing?”

  “Only in the shower.”

  “Ah, then I’ll have to be around when you shower next—only to hear you sing, of course.” His eyes danced mischief. “Who is your favorite composer?”

  “Puccini. And if you say Puccini is your favorite, then I’ll…”

  “What will you do? Something drastic maybe?” He grinned. “We share good taste, Samantha. We like real food and opera. I think we both enjoy good company. I’m enjoying yours, how about you?”

  She swallowed nervously. “Yes, when you’re not interrogating me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Like the Inquisition.” She glanced at the entertainers.

  “Do you like to dance, Sam?”

  “I’m out of practice.” Like a lot of things.

  “Mm. I prefer to dance in private.” He purred.

  The buzz of conversation around her faded, her gaze, her attention diverted to the man sitting opposite her. As he probably intended.

  “Let me show you the steps.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Time, Samantha…”

  She drew her thoughts back to the present and swallowed hard against the tight dryness in her throat.

  Yep, now it was time.

  She had left him sitting in the lounge-room of her hotel suite, before excusing herself, using the old cliché, “To slip into something more comfortable.”

  His reply had made her blush—he was going to be the one slipping into something comfortable.

  In the mirror she watched the trembling path of her fingers as she fashioned her blonde hair into its customary bob. Her green eyes, now dark with desire, and perhaps fear, stared back at her.

  She fluffed up her hair, grimacing at the result. Instead of sexy, she looked like she was having a bad hair day. She smoothed it down. Stars—who am I kidding? Can I do this? Can I?

  Her stomach muscles were coiled like a spring. But beneath was tension of another kind—she ached for a man. Celibate for five years since Andy’s death, her needs and frustrations had been assuaged through other means. Sometimes with surreal sex from the computer link, but most often through work. Bone-numbing, sex-numbing work in her art gallery.

  One morning she had awoken, knowing that she needed to be held. To wake up, for once, not alone. To be loved. Well, she couldn’t expect love tonight, and she’d never, again, trust a man who said he loved her. Sex with John was safer. No strings attached.

  The light knock on the bathroom door snapped her from her reverie.

  “Honey, are you okay?”

  “Um, yes, just coming.”

  “Lucky you,” he responded, laughing.

  Samantha squared her shoulders, palmed the door open and halted.

  He was leaning against the back of the metal divan, arms folded, waiting for her. In her absence he had removed his jacket. His grandpa collared cream shirt was rolled up to the elbows to reveal muscular bronzed arms. Not a man of space, his skin was sun-kissed. Which sun? Which world did he call home? He never did tell her, despite her questions about his accent.

  His clothes were expensive, natural fibers—no synthetics for him. The platinum bracelet around his left wrist was studded with diamonds and pearls.

  His raw silk trousers clung to his lean hips. She followed down the long length of his crossed legs, ending in an expanse of ankles before disappearing into woven green and purple leather shoes.

  Naked ankles. She hadn’t noticed before, sitting in the dining room, or walking beside him to her room. Now in the privacy of her suite, she could not help but notice his every nuance.

  Especially his ankles, her particular turn-on. Around his left ankle was a chain similar to the one on his wrist. Her conniving friends had obviously informed John about her penchant. What else had they told him, in preparation for this night of seduction?

  Shivers of anticipation raced up her spine. Her nipples strained against the silk negligee. In that moment she longed for his hands to cup her aching breasts, longed for him to stretch his body over hers and fuck her, again and again. She drew in a deep breath.

  “Do I pass muster?” he asked, sultrily.

  His lazy smile teased as his hazel eyes swept her from head to toe and back again to linger on her breasts before lifting to hold her gaze with his own.

  The butterflies in her stomach increased their frantic gyrations. Her heart thudded against her ribs and her inner muscles clenched. She cleared her throat.

  “John, this is… I’m not…”

  He stood then—nearly two meters of predatory, seductive male dominating the room. Daunting, his height, the width of his shoulders, and she, standing at one point six meters, in her bare feet felt intimidated.

  “Are you scared of me?” he asked.

  “No. Well, yes.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture to placate.

  Long fingers, strong; her skin goose-pimpled with the thought of his hands upon her, over her, his fingers in her, stroking…

  “We’ve got all night, Sam. I’m not going to leave until—”

  “Until I’ve got my money’s worth?”

  He grinned. “Something like that. More champagne?”

  “No, my head’s spinning already.”

  “I’m gonna make it spin even more, sweetheart.”

  She lifted her chin, watching him with hooded eyes. “Is that a promise?”

  “Yep.” His indolent smile tore at her insides. He was a professional and knew how to lure her, reel her in. “Honey, that black silk is something else, but I kinda’ think you’d look better without it.”

  Samantha laughed. How skillfully he charmed. It was not difficult to imagine that he meant what he said.

  Her friends had selected him, theirs an appropriate choice because they knew her too well. Not a toy-boy for her re-introduction to sex, but a man perhaps a little older than herself. Tall, slim, muscular and bronzed. His golden-brown sun-streaked hair, tied back in a tail, highlighted the strength and beauty of his face. A face of harsh planes, softened by his easy smile.

  He walked up to her and Sam stood her ground. “Now you are moving in for the fuck,” she whispered.

  Smiling, taking her hands and turning her wrists, he lifted her hands and nibbled at her pulse points. “Relax, sweetheart. No need to be tense.”

  She ran a tongue over dry lips, instantly aware that his eyes darkened as he followed the path of her tongue. His gaze flickered over her. Reaching out, he framed her face with his hands.

  “This night is for you, Sam. Only for you. Whatever you want; however you want it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She hardly recognized her throaty whisper.

  He bent forward. The whipcord warmth of his arms enfolded her. At this touch, her muscles clenched and she felt the subtle tightening of his arms. Through the clothes separating them, his erection pressed against her stomach. And yet she also felt him trembling. Why? The thought intruded and was swept away as his mouth slanted over hers. Again she breathed in his scent, an unusual combination of sandalwood and man-spice…and something else; unidentifiable. His lips moved with gentle insistence against her mouth.

  At his touch, his nearness, warmth flowed heavily through her veins. His fingers traced a sensual path over the bare skin of her back, down the curve of her hips to clasp her bottom. He raised her gently against him, and rested his pelvis against hers. Again she felt his taut arousal, now larger, hotter than before.

  As his kiss deepened the warmth in her veins turned to fire, a heated maelstrom that pooled heavily at the juncture of her thighs. Her body throbbed and pulsed and cramped.
She sighed against his mouth.

  He drew back to look down at her. “Still okay?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Again his mouth possessed her. This time his kiss was harsher, demanding. With determined, assured strokes his tongue coiled with hers, mimicking a dance of thrust, retreat, thrust.

  Beneath her hands, muscles bunched. While his kiss held her captive, she felt herself raised into his arms and carried. But instead of laying her down, he sat on the bed edge and drew her onto his lap. His kiss intensified. On the periphery of her invaded senses, Samantha heard and felt the rustling caress of silk as he eased it up from her ankles, to knee, to thigh. She shivered at his slow assault. Feather soft, his hand traveled upon her, like a whisper, a hint of a caress, a delicious itch that she couldn’t scratch.

  He stroked her inner thigh, just infuriatingly short of her aching need. She moved her hips, anxious for him to relieve her, but his hand slid away. As she moaned, he smiled against her lips.

  His fingers walked up her thigh to finally cup her mound; his thumb lightly stroked against her curls. Despite herself, Sam trembled. Immediately his finger stalled.

  “You’re not scared of me, are you?” he asked, drawing back to study her.

  “Not exactly.”

  “How…not exactly?”

  “John, for over five years I haven’t been with a man. I’m out of practice. I… never… Oooh!”

  She forgot what she was going to say as two of his fingers parted her folds, rubbing down to her nub. A fingernail grazed gently over it. She gasped. He continued his assault and she clung to him as her world was suddenly turned topsy-turvy by his delicious torment. Her pussy ached.

  He purred deep in his throat. “I never use that word.”

  “What word?”

  “Pussy.”

  She gaped. “You are telepathic.”

  “I’m what I am, Samantha. A sensualator.”

  “A very good one.”