May 4, 2010
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Wasteland: The Wanderer
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Love is the most dangerous experiment of all.
There is only one rule in the Wasteland: survive.
The few remaining women are as reviled as they are worshipped, a commodity any man must pay to touch. And to touch a Wanderer, he may pay with his life.
For Ezra, the risk is worth the reward. People speak his name with the same reverent terror reserved for ancient wrathful gods, but he must always be ready to fend off those who would take what’s his. And what he wants to be his is Kadira.
Kadira, adopted after she witnessed the slaughter of her devoted parents, has vowed never to love or need anyone. It seems only fitting that she, an outsider, accept Ezra’s demand in trade for the fuel technology her clan needs—but her deep, unexpected need for him is the torture she’s fought all her life to avoid. Worse, the greater her wrath, the more he seems to like it.
Ezra’s mercenary half delights at having the warrior woman in his arms. His scientist half can’t resist the urge to see what makes her react—and what makes her explode.
The real experiment: if the bond they forge is strong enough to make her want to stay.
Warning: Threesomes, foursomes, boy on boy, girl on girl, boy on boy on girl, voyeurism, exhibitionism, sex at knifepoint, anal sex, ritual orgies, and, well…it’s just a really dirty book.
Read an Excerpt
This is an unedited excerpt, it may differ slightly from the final version.
He loved watching her work.
On the battlefield, with a sword in her hand, she was intense, fierce. A dangerous adversary that kept her skills sharpened to a fine edge. Many liked to test their strength against hers, and more often than not, they fell before her. At the Rites, it was for practice, as the feuds would resume once the month had passed. No one wanted to let his or her swordsmanship slip. To do so could mean disaster for a clan. Kadira pushed herself harder than most, and Ezra loved the way her slender body moved, as graceful as any dance, and twice as deadly.
But now, when she set aside her blade and plied her other trade, he could gaze on her with the unguarded zeal of everyone else who gather about the large, woven mat upon which a young woman lay, receiving her mark of adulthood that would allow her to participate in the Rites.
It wasn’t the girl that interested him. It was Kadira. Always Kadira.
The crescent moon engraved between the dark wings of her eyebrows marked her as a kabu shaman, a master in the sacred art of tattooing. Unusual for a woman to choose to train as a shaman–but, then, women were unusual, outnumbered five to one, even among the Wanderers, and it was worse in the cities. Kadira leaned closer to the girl’s arm. Ezra had never seen her face so unguarded, so serene. She’d lost herself in the kabu ritual, the god and goddess moving through her and her tools to shape the designs she carved into the flesh. It was beautiful to watch. She was beautiful to watch.
Her waist-length ebony hair was separated into dozens of slender braids, the top half pulled away from her face so she could work for hours without the desert wind blowing the plaits in her eyes. Amulets and beads hung from her neck, etched with blessed symbols. A black leather band covered her breasts and a loincloth stretched around her narrow hips. Rich white pelts dangled from her belt, concealing pouches that held her shamanic tools. Her legs were bare to the knee, where boots encased them like a second skin.
He’d wanted those long legs wrapped around his waist for years now.
An apprentice held the skin taut while Kadira dipped a serrated chisel attached to the end of a stick into a jar of black ink. She pressed the blade to the girl’s skin and used another stick to tap the chisel and ink into the flesh. The rapid sound of wood smacking against wood was hypnotic, and more Wanderers gathered, entranced, to observe the kabu ritual performed.
Kadira pulled in a deep breath, her breasts threatening to spill from the leather containing them. Biting back a groan, Ezra was unsurprised by his body’s reaction, his cock hardening to a painful degree. Always it was so with her, but she had never allowed him to touch her, even in the orgiastic indulgence of Spring and Fall Rites. Not once. It made him burn with frustration. He knew she was aware of him, had seen the keenness of her interest the night before. The lust shimmering in those midnight eyes had nearly driven him passed his endurance. He’d beckoned to her before he’d recalled her vows required a time of sexual purification. Only that recollection had kept him away from her. He wanted to take, to claim.
This Rite, he would have her. In any way he could. She would be his and his alone. A shudder rippled through him as the thought made his cock throb. Yes. He refused to hold back any longer, refused to wait. Why he’d delayed this long, he didn’t know, but the time had come for action.
Soon he would have that graceful body beneath him. Soon he’d sheath his cock in her tight, wet pussy. Soon he’d taste the sweetness of her juices, hear her scream his name as he made her come for him. Soon he’d have all that wildness in his arms.