No Rules

Also by Jenna McCormick

 

 

 

“Project Seduction” in
THE PLEASURE PROJECT

JENNA McCORMICK

no rules

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Going from a wisp of an idea to a finished book is not an individual task. Many people helped keep me on track, at times pressing my nose to the grindstone. Thanks to my magnificent critique partner, Saranna DeWylde, who listens to the madness of ideas flowing through me, makes a little bit of sense out of it, and keeps telling me it's not as awful as I think it is. This time you get to be right!

Thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, and the staff at Bookends for keeping the communication going even when I can barely string a sentence together.

Of course to everyone at Kensington, especially my editor, Audrey LaFehr, and Martin Biro, who help make the magic happen.

To Candi Wall for beta reading and pimping this book like a two-dollar manwhore online. Hugs, babe!

Much love and gratitude to my family, especially my dear husband, for reminding me that writing on a deadline and having a life outside of whatever universe I'm mucking around with are not mutually exclusive propositions.

And to you, the readers: Thanks so much for willingly strapping in for another wild ride with me. I couldn't do it without you.

1

A
lison Cartwright missed many things about her life as an Illustra executive. Her personal vehicle—a Pegasus EXC that could break the sound barrier and came in a sexy cherry red with buttersoft leather seats. The apartment overlooking New Central Park and the self-sustaining smart house on Martha's Vineyard she'd purchased when she'd been promoted from pleasure companion to management. She longed for her wardrobe containing designer suits, cocktail dresses, and hand-painted undergarments for every occasion from demure to dominatrix. And her shoes—all the latest styles in every color of the rainbow—some she'd never even worn.

But more than anything else, Alison missed her perfect body. Staring at her reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror, she assessed the changes. Her lip curled when she saw that not only was the cellulite back on her stomach, hips, ass, and thighs, it'd brought friends and was having a kegger. The carefully sculpted six-pack was long gone, as was the glorious definition in her shoulders, biceps, and calf muscles that she'd paid contouring surgeons a pretty penny for every three months like clockwork.

The damage wasn't just to her body either. Her face showed lines of strain and anxiety, her lighter blond highlights had completely faded, and her hair had returned to its original dirty dishwater color, stuck in some gawd-awful limbo between blond and brown. She hadn't had a decent cut in months and the layers had grown in raggedy. Picking up a strand, she couldn't suppress a grimace at the texture. Limper than a whisky dick at last call.

She'd gone from a high-maintenance demigoddess to stressed-out soccer mom, complete with lumpy, dumpy tennis ball butt. The only things missing were the hole-riddled sweats and the minivan full of urchins.

How the hell was she supposed to seduce a wealthy man looking like something the cat dragged in, shat upon, and then abandoned? Assuming a decent man ever
came
to this armpit of the universe. She'd been stuck on Pental for over a month and hadn't seen one yet.

The johns who blew through here, hoping to score at the
demjong
tables, were usually one-shot wonders, with no money for much more than a consolation quickie. She'd lost count of how many hand jobs she'd given while sweaty, grimy men with eighty-proof breath pawed her. No one had purchased her services for the entire night in weeks. It was one thing to be a whore, another entirely to feel like a desperate one.

In her darker moments, she wished Illustra's assassin would hurry up and put her out of her misery.

She shivered as she recalled her last encounter with the assassin. He hadn't physically touched her, but icy tentacles had wrapped around her major organs and squeezed, giving her a taste of his power. It was a dish she never wanted to sample again, no matter how ugly she became or how many losers she had to jack off.

Using the bucket of tepid water she'd dragged up to her one-room rental, she washed herself as best she could and tried not to think about the clean efficiency of a sonic shower back on Earth. She was never able to completely remove the slick oil Madam Brizella had given her. Some of it saturated her hair until it clung to her shoulders. She left it there. With nothing to secure it back it would only stick again every time she moved.

The collar went around her throat next, the mark of a woman for sale. The corner of her shirt—or at least what passed for a shirt—was secured to the collar right at the hollow of her throat. From there the shiny fabric skimmed over her breasts and abdomen until another corner tucked into her utility belt, containing the tricks of her trade. She secured the other corners at her sides with some glue-like substance, which she would have to reapply after every tumble, at least if her patron paid to see her breasts.

Most didn't want to cough up for that pleasure, were content to grope her through the fabric. She tried not to take it personally, but the girls
were
hanging lower than they had even a year ago. Wishing she'd invested in an augmentation to perk them up now was a waste of time. She needed to focus on the positive.

She was still alive. Had money for a little food and a safe, warm place to sleep. She was surviving, if not really living.

Ignoring the wild bush at the juncture of her thighs, she fastened the metal panels to her waistband. Luckily she'd had the hair on her underarms and legs genetically demolished so those areas were smooth, but she couldn't get past the idea of having a highly concentrated genetic beam zapping away anywhere near her pussy. The hair was there to stay. Though the panels reached down to her ankles, the way they shifted as she moved exposed her every imperfection.

Once dressed, she started smoothing the oil over her exposed skin. One of the other working girls would coat her bare back before she hit the floor, but she wouldn't seek them out until the last second. Despite her constant loneliness, Alison avoided spending time with the other ladies of the night. They were nosy, asked too many questions, and she had too many secrets to hide. Better they think her a stuck-up bitch than for one of the working girls to whisper her name in the wrong ear.

Leaning close to the mirror, she studied her face again. Her meager makeup box wasn't designed to fix damage of this nature. She had nothing to adequately cover the age spot beneath her right eye or smooth the fine lines at the corners of her mouth. In this part of the galaxy, whores had no power, no money, and very little hope.

An aging whore was just plain screwed.

“Think positive. Visualize a rich man taking me away from all this,” she instructed her haggard reflection. It didn't seem impressed so she turned and headed down the rickety staircase to the ground floor of the brothel, the panels of her skirt clinking with every step.

“Alien girl, come here!” Brizella, the proprietor of the gaming hell, beckoned her over with a frantic wave of her bejeweled sausage fingers. Brizella's translator chip was faulty at best, definitely an older model, but Alison had learned to catch the gist of what she said.

She wasn't sure exactly what species the madam was, her purple-tinted skin was unique and she resembled a toad more than a person. “I have special man for you tonight.”

Brizella's definition of “special” resided on the opposite end of the spectrum from Alison's. Most of the gamblers were humanoid, even if certain parts were relocated. “Missing limb? Testicles on his chin?” she guessed as the madam dragged her down the pokey hallway behind the casino. Sounds of talk and masculine laughter filled the air, and Brizella pulled back a shimmering tapestry to reveal the low lights of the main room.

“There!” Brizella pointed at the closest
demjong
table. “He is most famous patron; family owns half of the Tibiath System. He likes the exotic girls, like you.”

Alison had no idea where the Tibiath System was located and honestly didn't care as long as it was a
long
way from Pental. She'd remained here too long already. Following the madam's bulky digit to the source of her excitement, she studied the players, hunkered down over their cards. Unlike
yugnie
,
demjong
was a game of skill, not chance. Alison had picked up enough to know it was some complex form of poker, though the images on the cards made no sense to her, as they held no numerical value.

Though the table was crowded, she caught a glimpse of a dark head bent low over his cards. His profile was hard, as though carved from the dead surface of the moon they occupied, and though his shoulders were rounded, she got the impression he was only feigning relaxation. A predator lying in wait for the perfect moment to pounce.

The man to his right said something and he turned toward her.

Alison took an instinctive step back as a pair of icy blue eyes swung her direction.
Bam!
She couldn't remember the last time she'd experienced such an instant attraction. Desire pooled low in her belly as he held her gaze with his. The feeling was so foreign, she almost didn't recognize it.

He was horrifically scarred. A nasty jagged line ran along the left side of his face, giving him an almost sinister look. But the truly frightening thing about him was his unwavering focus on her, a cold precision so intense it practically burned her with frost, even as her body warmed from the inside out.

He eyed her up and down, his attention lingering on her lips, her breasts, and the skin exposed between the metal panels. He hid it well, but she saw his flare of interest, as molten and unstable as her own. This powerful and alluring man wanted her imperfect body, the same way she wanted his.

Abruptly, he turned back to his cards and she started as she realized he was shielding his ruined face from her gaze. Feminine power jolted her, another long-forgotten friend she greeted eagerly. The feeling was why she'd become a pleasure companion in the first place, to experience such a strong desire focused on her and her alone. The blue-eyed stranger was a far cry from the dregs she'd been servicing to survive. Hell, he was more appealing than most of her regulars back on Earth.

She wondered if he was any good in bed. Handsome men rarely were, too used to being fawned over to bother learning how to please a woman. And this one had money as well as his striking looks. No doubt she'd have to do all the work, but it might just be worth it to spend one night feeling the way she used to feel.

Desired.

“You go to him now,” Brizella urged, slathering the noxiously sweet oil across her back so her skin would glisten under the low lights.

Alison moved forward, then paused. “What's his name?”

“Larshe,” the madam warbled. “Mig Larshe.”

Alison practiced saying it back a few times, to ensure she had the sound correct before moving forward. Her knees actually shook as she approached the table, the man. Perhaps her luck was changing.

He didn't turn when she reached his side so she said, “Mig Larshe?”

“That's me, beauty.”

She turned and faced the speaker, the man seated to the right of her scarred heartthrob. Pushing his chair back quickly he stood, only attaining eye level with her breasts. She fought to hide her disappointment. The scarred man wasn't her target, this orange midget was. He was as wide as he was tall, bul-bously round like one of those dolls that got knocked down and bounced up again. Two tufts of deep green bushy hair stuck out over large ears with thick, hanging lobes. His teeth were sharp, almost like a tiger's, and he eyed her lasciviously.

But he might be her ticket out of here.

Plastering a smile on her face, Alison moved toward him. Well, she'd asked for a wealthy patron and the universe had delivered. She hadn't asked for a pulse-pounding sex god, so she had no right to be disappointed. As she kept reminding herself, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Without looking at the other player—the one she wanted—she bent low and greeted the man she needed. “Welcome to The Nebula. My name is Alison. Let me know if I can do anything to make your stay more pleasurable.”

 

The whore had been crying.

From his seat at the octagonal table, Fenton had an unobstructed view of the clean streak along the side of her face where her tears had washed her makeup away. He shuffled his cards, feigning pondering his next move in the game, when really all he wanted was to figure out why that clean streak captivated him.

Why
she
captivated him.

He'd made her as a working girl the second he'd felt her gaze roving over him. Even without her degrading outfit, she had that lean, hungry look Fenton associated with camp followers and women who sold their flesh to survive. When she'd approached, he'd been tempted to leave this important game to spend a few hours learning every dip and curve of her luscious body.

Then she'd asked for Mig—the little dung heap—and he'd tried to concentrate on the game. Tried to forget about her, which was damn near impossible with her seated on Larshe's lap.

Her pale skin glowed in the low light of the casino floor like moonflowers. Though she was coated in some kind of oil, Fenton imagined her clean, dewy fresh from a bath. He'd seen one of her kind before, knew what planet she hailed from. The question was, what the hell was she doing out here on Pental, millions of light-years away from Earth?

“Get me another drink.” Mig slapped her bare back and she jumped up to refill his glass at the bar. Fenton tried to catch her gaze. He wanted to know more, to find out what she was doing here, so far from home. He wanted to help her.

“Del, my man. You gonna play those cards or just hold 'em all night?” Reed, his second-in-command, slapped the table, pulling his attention away from the whore.

“She's quite the prize.” Mig tugged on one of his ear tufts and looked to where his paid companion had gone. “I was going to keep her all to myself, but what say you we raise the stakes?”

Fenton sat stock-still. He needed to win this game, needed the winnings to buy a new identity out of the Hosta System. And Mig, regardless of his personal flaws, had currency to burn. “What do you propose?”

The Hibariate studied the small fortune on the table in front of him, then Del's meager pile. “You're part of the old regime, are you not?”

“Xander's dead. He no longer rules Hosta.” For which Fenton was eternally glad.

“Yes, yes, but I need someone to take me to the ruling planet, into the main palace.” Mig's beady eyes gleamed. The whore returned with his drink, and he bade her stand beside him. “I'll bet you the girl for a guided tour.”

She gasped and her gaze flew to Fenton's. Her lips, colored unnaturally red, parted but she was well trained in her trade and knew better than to interrupt. Fenton forced himself not to react. Despite his wealth, Mig didn't have enough money to force Fenton to return to the crown planet. No power in the galaxy would do that. So why was he considering making the bet?