Novels by MIRA

The accidental brush of a hand. A knowing look across a room. The tilt of a head toward the door. Signals shared between spouses at a party? I suppose. In this case, they were signals shared between lovers whose spouses were oblivious. William was drunk. It wasn’t apparent in his demeanor, but I knew the signs. He brushed by me on his way through the kitchen and his hand touched my ass. Lingered there for a good minute as he blocked the path of two other guests trying to get by. I glared at him, knowing it didn’t matter. “Had too much to drink?” “Not too much. Enough to know what I want,” he said. He leaned close, stirring the hair on my neck as he whispered, “We’re leaving soon. Meet me.” I didn’t have a chance to say no or, rather, ask where and when, because my husband came toward us. As if sensing that his territory had been encroached upon, he wrapped his hand around my waist and gave me a little squeeze. William’s hand moved from my ass at about the same moment and I wondered i

The choices were chicken breast or a T-bone steak. Everyone had a plate but me. Finally, a lone dish came trailing out. It was cold pasta with sun-dried tomatoes. Lisa had remembered my fear of bones. I hadn’t eaten meat since I cut the top of my middle finger off when I was twelve. Now every time I saw a bone I felt sick. If the pasta had been served when it was made a week ago, I might have managed to choke it down, but it was inedible. I arranged my tomatoes in the middle with the dry lifeless noodles around them. A waiter stopped in front of me to take my plate. He saw what I’d done. “I’m artistic,” I said. He whisked it away. I was starving, and I was buzzed from the second glass of champagne. A little thought danced in the back of my head. What had Lisa said about a dessert? She had chosen a lovely mousse. Of course, it had to be chocolate. They brought it out. Why was my chocolate mousse pink? It was strawberry. It was like ordering a diet cola and getting a fully leaded one.

I hated weddings. Nothing good for me has ever come of them. For example, the last wedding I went to, I ended up alone at a table with my great-aunt while all the couples swooned about on the dance floor. Their closely pressed bodies seemed to be saying aren’t we the lucky ones as the white paper streamers delicately fluttered on the ceiling. Meanwhile, my great-aunt was going on about some freaking tea party she claimed she had for me in Florida when I was four years old. I don’t remember Florida. I don’t remember her, except for meeting her in the receiving line two hours ago. What did I get from attending this blissful event? A paper cut from my place card, a cranky buzz from cheap champagne and a regretful comment I slurred to my great-aunt at the end of the night. “I won’t be you,” I called out in her direction. I didn’t know what that meant, because I hardly knew her. I think it was directed more at what she represented, an old crone sitting alone at a wedding banquet table wit

I went up north, ready to scour all the ports on the Baltic. I ended up in Hamburg. In the evening, I wandered in Sankt Pauli. Girls in their windows, boxed in tackiness, with an air of decent housewives displaying their asses. Not one worth fucking, but men were there, strolling about, eyeing them. My God, they looked like first communicants walking slowly to the altar to receive the host! Monumental hard-ons because that one shakes her tits under their noses and they imagine themselves stuffing their pricks in the holy of holies! You bet they haven’t grown one inch since the time when, as adolescents, they shut themselves in the toilet to jerk off out of sight of their mommy’s eyes! Men’s desire disgusts me. It was certainly not in those alleyways with no dark corners, where the gaudy pink neons filter, that I was going to meet the man from Albuquerque. It was down to the wharves I had to go . . . I hung about between the angular shadows of the container stacks waiting to be loaded

I was half-drunk with lack of sleep, standing in the hot white buzz of Central Station while hordes of commuters bumped past me with their sharp suits and shoulder pads and brief cases. I stood there blinking and yawning. What the hell was I doing up at this hour? The answer, of course, was Sam. I growled at the thought of his stubbornness, at the selfish way he’d announced he was leaving to make his fortune. Hotfooting it to London like a carefree bird. Not for a second had he stopped to think of how it would screw up our relationship – four hundred miles between us was a serious blow. The salvation of our bickering, up-and-down love affair was the Olympic sex we indulged in most mornings, afternoons and evenings. We could hammer away for hours, and he took me places I’d never thought possible, body twisted into breathtaking positions, him so deep inside me it felt like blasphemy. After he left, my sex life became a sudden blank. I was left gasping with shock, reeling from the terri

She wanted to be wanted by her It almost made her cry. It was something she thought she’d left when Wendy had left to find someone even more subservient. Having it back was almost too much for her to handle: the fear that it could go again. Slowly, June had stood up on the lumpy futon, unbuttoned her jeans, and then, teasingly, dropped her panties. She did it slowly because while it seemed that all she and Betty did was fuck, the magic of their bodies hadn’t rubbed off yet. She had loved to get naked in front of Betty, watching her eyes dance and hunger for her. It was a little chilly in the apartment, so June left her T-shirt on. “Make like a doggie, love,” Betty had said, “It’s easier that way.” Slowly, kind of scared, June had: she got down on the futon, first on her hands and knees and then – ’cause her arms started to ache – leaning down on a pillow. “So pretty,” Betty said from behind her. The kiss was kind of a shock. June had been so psyched to receive the brilliantly blue sil

With Pia’s bag slung over his shoulder, Brock scrambled from the tree. Pia stood several meters away, ignoring him. His hunger for her had weakened him and caused him to give in to temptation not once, but twice. Fortunately, her innocent observation of his vast knowledge slapped him back to reality. His seeming wealth of information came from his microcomputer’s database. He wasn’t a normal man; he was a cyborg operative who responded to the most dangerous assignments across the galaxy. He had no right to her affection. Pia needed a man who could love her and who could be there for her. A man with guarantees, not a semi-human whose borrowed time could expire on his next assignment. If he could keep Pia angry at him, it might prevent him from committing further rash acts of lust and longing. He had never intended to hurt her. “I’m sorry.” The words were torn from him. She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It was my fault. Apparently, when you were fucking me, and then when I was sucki

He eased a finger into her channel, groaned at the snugness, how her muscles gripped him. Brock added a second digit and fucked her slowly while licking her clit. Pia arched and dug her fingernails into his scalp. Her cry split the night as she came, her hips thrusting against his face. He didn’t stop then, not even when she tried to push him away, but continued to lick and suck, bringing her to the edge of orgasm a second time. Then, he guided his cock to her entrance. Rubbed the head in her wetness. Tested. Prepared. Go slow. He gritted his teeth. She locked her heels around his buttocks. “Hurry,” she gasped. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She was so tight. When she’d grasped his erection, had his size registered with her? With androids, it didn’t matter. They were built to take anything. “You won’t. Fuck me already!” She thumped her heels against his buttocks. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Gathering his self-control into a tight grip, he eased into her. Slick muscled walls closed ar

Brock was acting all tough and macho—no act, he was tough and macho—but she’d seen his back after he’d caught fire. His shirt had melted into his flesh. It astounded her he’d managed to trek through the woods. The man had more fortitude than any human being she’d met in her entire life. She didn’t know what she could do for him, other than pump him full of pain meds, insist he keep the injury covered to minimize infection, and hope against all hope that help arrived as soon as possible. Thank goodness she’d grabbed an emergency light. She’d found it on the floor near the pod, as if the fake captain had chucked it while making his escape. She’d shoved it into the burgeoning bag. If she’d thought to grab her PerComm, they would have been rescued already, and Brock would be in the infirmary being treated by trained medical professionals. Penelope steeled herself for what she would see and clicked on the light. “Great universe!” She nearly dropped the illuminator. “Brock—oh universe!” T

Brock raked his hand through his hair and strove for calm. “I’m sorry I yelled,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” Under the circumstances, she’d done better than he would have predicted. She’d grabbed food, water, a blanket. They’d been in crisis mode, and she couldn’t be expected to think of everything. His back hurt like a motherfucker, and he worried she would insist on trying to help him, but that was no reason to snap at her. He was irritated with himself because he hadn’t been fast enough to keep her from seeing the little that she saw. No way could he allow her to note the extent of the damage because, by morning, he would be good as new, and how would he explain that? He couldn’t reveal that his nanocytes were already debriding the injured flesh in preparation for regenerating muscle, tissue, and skin. He had hoped that, by morning, they’d be on a space station, or at least on a rescue shuttle. With her PerComm, they could have contacted the IFA or the diplomatic corps direct

Brock readied his hand over the keypad. Numbers streamed across his field of vision like vitreous floaters, only fast. He minimized the codes to a corner of his mind and waited for the right one to pop up. Every second mattered. If the captain himself had locked them in, the code would be easier to break than if the lockdown had been activated by the self-destruct sequence. “Don’t just stand there!” Pia hovered at his elbow. “We have to do something!” “I am.” “Let me try.” She nudged him. T9X4558Z. The code popped out of the morass into his consciousness, and he typed it into the keypad. The door slid open. “Detonation in fourteen minutes thirty seconds.” Fuck, it had taken way too long to open the door. Brock shot for the bridge, conscious of Pia running after him. She had to be scared to death. He wished he could comfort her, assure her everything would be fine. But there wasn’t time—his microcomputer estimated their odds of survival at 23.2%, based on the probability of him cracki

Brock snatched the translator and streaked from the cabin so fast he blurred. “What the hell?” Penelope jumped up, but before she could take more than two steps, an aurora of light exploded in space, flashing through the viewing windows into the cabin. She cried out and fell onto the chair, throwing her forearm across her eyes and squeezing them shut. Had the shuttle been attacked? It hadn’t felt like they’d been hit by anything. A hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” Brock asked. She lifted her head. Flashes of red and blue tinted her vision, but she could see. Blinking rapidly, she shifted her gaze from Brock to the window. The illumination wasn’t blinding anymore, but it was still bright, as if they were at the edge of a corona. “I’m fine,” she said. “What happened out there?” “A microexplosive device detonated. An MED-21. The one you carried in your bag.” His mouth was a slash across his face. “That I carried?” Her heart slammed against her ribs. He was speaking clea