L’Wren Hawk and the Doves by D.K. Ffrench

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Captain Saker Hawkings and First Mate L’Wren James agree to keep the

mission and passion separate, but with two beautiful alien empaths onboard, it’s not

only planetary peace negotiations that are in danger of breaking down.

L’Wren James and Saker Hawkings know that there’s no room on a starship

for a captain and first mate to indulge their passion during a dangerous peace mission.

The fragility of the cease-fire in the gender war on the divided planet Ourania

threatens the stability of subspace shipping lanes, and the starship Sulaco’s mission is

to get the negotiating team there and deliver them safely back.

When they take onboard Anchises and Cytheria, mysterious empath

negotiators from the secretive world of Turaceona, they find their commitment to duty

and to each other a struggle to maintain in the sexually heightened and emotionally

charged atmosphere.

But Anchises’s and Cytheria’s struggle to keep their secret and the loss they

cannot speak of hidden leaves one dangerously injured and the other missing in

action. Only the truth about the man he is and the woman she is can save them.

Can Hawk and L’Wren face up to the challenges of duty, passion, and

sexuality and still save not only their relationship but the peace process itself?

The silence of the inner tent greeted her ears as her eyes grew accustomed to

the subdued lighting, again from candles and lamps but in here even softer. The air

was suffused with a heady mix of fragrances from discrete oil burners—jasmine, an

undertone of a muskier, more sensual smell, akin to sandalwood, and a hint of being

in a deep forest, of leaves and mosses.

“Cytheria of Turacoena, welcome. I am Sarkare Khanome.” From the

shadows, a woman, not so tall as the guards but matching Cytheria in height,

emerged. Her silver-white hair flowed free over her shoulders. Her eyes were a

striking blue, as bright as a sunlit, clear summer sky. She was older than the guards,

but her body was young and fit with lean, taut muscles. Only the lines around her

eyes spoke of anything other than youth and power. Her long, softly flowing robe in a

myriad shades of blue celebrated the same figures and scenes from the tunnel friezes

and the outer tent. Her confidence hit Cytheria like a wave crashing on the shore

but one that broke over her rather than crushing her. It was followed by a depth of

compassion and caring that almost brought tears to Cytheria’s eyes. There was fear as

well, but not borne of doubt. A fear that was aware of itself and knew its boundaries.

Then it hit her—the intense depth and power of sexual allure and hunger that

all but defeated Cytheria’s self-control. Her pussy reacted suddenly, getting wet and

even hotter. Her clit almost throbbed with an ache to be touched. Her breath was

suddenly rapid and shallow. She’d learned that this might happen from the briefing on

Halo Five and from her extensive reading of Ouranian culture. The Naranari bonded

and shared sexually as a way of formalizing their status. She had to play this situation

correctly or her credibility, and hence her bargaining position in the peace talks,

would suffer, or worse, be blown out of the water altogether.

“I greet you, Sarkare Khanome, from my mother to your mother, sister to

sister,” she managed to get out.

Sarkare Khanome smiled and nodded. She walked around Cytheria and looked

her up and down. She came back to face Cytheria and stroked her hands over her hair

then held her chin in her long, slim fingers. Cytheria knew, like a physical presence,

that this woman was sexually in charge and was used to being in total control of those

around her.

I am Cytheria.

“And you are here to help us, sister, to aid our struggle against


It wasn’t a question. Cytheria’s pussy was wet and clenching, her clit almost

buzzing. If she could just touch it, she’d come in a second.

I am not you.

Lost in space, yet still boldly going, D.K. ffrench returned from the forbidden

planet a long, long time ago to live a quiet life in a small town called London.

The minimal research he’d done lead him to the conclusion that his identity

would best be protected if he masqueraded as a business analyst by day and a writer

and musician by night and at weekends.

Available for musical soirees at the drop of a hat, he writes steamy SF

romances on a MacBook Air and plays a Gibson Les Paul too loudly while he waits

for a set of replacement dilythium crystals for the broken warp core on his ship.


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