Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  CRAVED by an ALIEN

  by Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2018 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BEFORE YOU BEGIN

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  BONUS CONTENT UNLOCKED: LEVEL AKITA

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  Craving Popcorn Yet? ;)

  The *SERIOUSLY: THANKS* Page

  About the Author

  CAST LIST RECAP

  Book Linkage!

  To R: Was that a hard no on the otters?

  BEFORE YOU BEGIN

  HI GUYS! =D

  When I open up a book and there’s this massive breakdown of characters, I think “Yeeep! Too much memorization (and at my office job, only ten minutes of break time)—I just want to READ please,” and I’ll swipe over it until I get to STORY.

  If you’re like me—you fellow BookRebel you—then swipe on!

  If you want to reacquaint yourself (Welcome back!!) (or just plain acquaint yourself if you’re new! Hi there!) because being lost in the middle of a series with no series map doesn’t sound like fun to you, I don’t blame you! Make yourself comfy and get ready to tap your finger on the words Cast List Recap!

  (Note: There’s a link at the very end of the recap that will take you to Chapter 1.)

  CHAPTER 1

  Prologue

  GRACIE

  I check to make sure I’m not drooling as I enjoy the view. Dohrein might be an alien, but he’s a seriously fuckhot alien.

  He’s got sexy-stern no-nonsense short cropped hair, deep set, swoony eyes—and he’s using them on me.

  It’s a smolder.

  He’s doing the damn smolder. An alien. And he’s doing it reeeeally well. That forehead-forward staring under sexy-broody brow bones? Paired with that chiseled jaw, that ridiculously hotly-squared chin I want to lick, and his broody sexy expression says I’m lonely, dark, and grumpy: ride me.

  I like that he’s not a simpering twit like some of these other guys. Hobs, is what they’re called.

  Not that I’m complaining about guys who bow to me. I’m not complaining about that part at all. It’s like, about damn time, you know?

  But Dohrein’s got a nice ‘like me or fuck it’ attitude that feels honest.

  I tilt my head, giving him an objective once-over. Bah—fifteen-times-over, more like.

  The wings are cool. His pattern is striking: electric blue bolts of color that spill and marble over a background of inky jet-black.

  They’re leathery but as sparkly as micah powder and apparently, the dust is a lot like eyeshadow; it clings to your skin, keeping the shape, boldly identifying the hob that marked you—and something in the powder makes you uncontrollably randy.

  Yeah, okay: so not like eyeshadow at all.

  His wings are huge, each one as long as he is tall—I saw them when he opened them around Angie.

  She shot him down, and that was that.

  I can’t get over how impressed I am at how well he took it.

  He didn’t get mad, or mean, or more asshole-ish than he already is. He didn’t stop helping her—didn’t stop helping all of us. And it hasn’t been easy. He’s kept us together and kept the other hobs from pawing at us. Every one of us on this ship got picked up and separated from the male aliens who brought us to this planet when they were (mostly due to a tiny misunderstanding) wrongfully arrested. Dohrein promised he’d try to get the males set free, so although Angie’s refusal didn’t seem to bother him at all, for her to turn him down was a pretty bold risk. She must have sensed he wasn’t offering his help for a trade: only extending a friendly invitation.

  I glance at her. She doesn’t look like she’s into him. She’s got a scaly alien she’s hung up on, and if she doesn’t want this guy, I think she’s crazy, but? Works for me. I look at Dohrein again—but this time, he’s staring at me.

  I fold my arms over my chest in a little nonverbal challenge.

  He cocks a sexy eyebrow in reaction.

  Niiiice. The more I think about it, the more I decide I’m hungry for something just like him.

  He leans his shoulders against his wings, which rest against the wall, easing his weight back in stereotypical hotguy pose.

  I don’t even bother being discreet. I check out his arms again.

  I’d so ride this.

  As if he can hear me, his eyes go hooded.

  Woo, this does good things for him. I started off life in Britain before I bounced countries, and now: planets. From London to here, I’ve seen a lot. But I’ve never seen a man as ruggedly beautiful as this one. His face is unreal—that pretty-handsome look that would land him a modeling or movie career if he wasn’t an alien.

  I eye him again. Hell. Alien or not, he could drop to Earth right now and become a very rich career man, with a freaking harem of besotted women.

  Is Angie sure she doesn’t want this? Girl Code compels me to ask her if the land wants this lay. “Hey, Ang,” I call out.

  “Yeah?”

  “You got dibs on D?”

  Her distracted look is all I need in answer, but she assures me, “No. He’s a free agent.” I expect her to say more, but she goes back to pacing instead.

  She’s worried about her scaly bloke, one of the big males who these hobs gave a serious beatdown to yesterday, before they locked him up and declared they’re chopping his head off this morning.

  Been kind of a downer.

  Weepy is the one I’m worried about though. Before she was rescued, a camp of venomous snake-aliens was using her for free rides. I sidle a step closer in her direction, intent on checking in with her. Fast movements are a no-no. This little thing is not doing so good.

  I was there when she was auctioned off. I saw what the snake buyers did to her. She deserves some serious peace and quiet, and because my glares have been the only thing keeping the curious bitches from approaching her (most everyone’s decent but some of these girls are worse than old cribbage-playing curtain twitchers), I’m reluctant to leave her side. It’s a slight obstac
le in my plans to feel up Dohrein.

  Turns out, I don’t have to worry. Dohrein swaggers—he’s got swagger—to us, his gaze flicking to me, and there’s a moment of glorious eyefucking.

  It feels so… GOOD.

  It’s not creepy, or cruel, or vacant, like I’m just another hole that he’s paying to bust his nut into. He’s very refreshing.

  His lip tips up just slightly, and I feel like my insides do the swoony-sigh. He dips his head a notch, sending me a polite nod.

  In the next breath, he robs Weepy. Just takes her wristwatch with a clipped—but soft, “I need this.”

  He jogs away from us, wings spreading as he prepares to take off, and I get to admire his fine arse in its form-fitting alien trousers.

  Mmm-mmmm. I need this. I need to fuck out what’s happened to me.

  At my auction, I’d been lucky enough to be added to the employ of the Underwater Pleasure Dome.

  I lock my shoulders against a shiver.

  The things I saw.

  The *things* I did.

  My last client was a creature called the Aneark. Right away, he set himself apart from the usual Dome clientele: he looked more uncomfortable to be in my room than I was. He’d explained he was in his kind’s type of heat, and he needed a female in the worst way.

  He was surprisingly decent. He repeatedly attempted to cuddle up and get me off.

  I declined every round. He smelled like a sea lion and his webbed fingers had a little bit of a gummy slimecoat to them. Him rubbing his gills on my shoulder and his lips on my neck wasn’t getting me anywhere either.

  When his mating frenzy ended, I’d gotten up off the bed to scrub with a sea sponge that smelled like a strong vinegar.

  Anything was better than smelling like the ocean.

  In his broken speech—because his translator and my translator were barely compatible (not uncommon under the Dome, at least not in my limited room of experience; it was like they didn’t care if an employee only operated with the basics of someone else’s language, fancy that), he explained that he knew I was a princess—

  I hate that word.

  Every male who walked, crawled, flopped, or dragged himself into that room called me princess.

  Its applications had all been on the leering, mocking, hateful side: it really didn’t take long before I totally, thoroughly, one hundred and ten percent despised being called by the ‘endearment.’

  This alien didn’t sound like the rest; he didn’t use the term like the rest—but just the word in his mouth had me bristling, a little classical conditioning in action.

  My reaction made him look so fucking flummoxed that it calmed me down enough to hear him out. Enough for me to understand that he was making an offer to break me out of the Pleasure Dome.

  That’s when I found out I’d been in bed with an alien that was capable of frying fish-men alive. He was like a ray or an eel: he had control of a serious inner source of electricity.

  Not gonna lie—that was eye opening. It wasn’t that I’d chalked him up as a pansy, but never once had he hurt me while we were together, and my bed partners of late had taught me that to have strength was to show cruelty.

  This aquatic gentleman john used his super strength to kill anyone who got in our way, and helped me jump ship, so to speak.

  My time in the Dome wasn’t fun, but I’m out. I’m free. I’m alive. I fucking made it.

  And nothing smells like seawater here. That helps tons.

  I grit my teeth against the too, too fresh memories. I could fight the clientele, but I’d been kept in a reverse goldfish bowl: they’d open the hatch and my tank filled up with water as my oxygen escaped in giant bubbles. I got to watch my escaping air race across the ceiling, squeeze out the door, and float to the surface without me. They made it clear: fuck or drown.

  The worst part? Technically, I could leave at any time. Even if no one chased me down, I couldn’t see the surface, and with no promise of a hyperbaric chamber to treat a case of the bends if I even managed to reach the surface on my own lungpower, it was as good a death sentence as drowning in my fishbowl.

  Despite knowing my options were not options at all, it still occasionally tries to mess with me. I’m quick to shut that down. I release an aggravated snarl, and roll my shoulders. Sex is just sex. They used me—so what? Yeah, I feel violated—but I’m not going to waste time on misplaced shame, or guilt. I’m not damaged—I’m pissed. I’ve got a little work cut out for me mitigating the effects of what they did, but I’ll deal and I’ll damn well enjoy every joyride here on out.

  And I believe I’ll start with the sexy winged hob.

  CHAPTER 2

  DOHREIN

  “I was propositioning you. You know that, right?”

  I meet Gracie’s disbelieving, bemused expression. “You’re very frank. May I be frank as well?”

  She wrinkles her nose—but her eyes are dancing. “I can say from experience that one frank in the room is enough.”

  My translator feeds me a disturbing set of translation options for frank:

  A formerly common name for a human male.

  A euphemism for the male sexual organ.

  A tubulated, well-ground meat packaged in intestinal casing.

  I can surmise she’s employing the second definition. My wings shuffle slightly, the pebbled flesh making the barest whssssk sound as the thin skin brushes against itself. “I can’t laugh about this. You’re referring to your time under the Dome, aren’t you?”

  She shrugs. “It’s laugh or cry. At least laughing makes me happy.”

  I bob my talons. “Fair point.”

  She stalks around my laboratory table. “So as I was saying. Right after I propositioned you, and you invited me to see your giant microscope? I thought you were offering something else.”

  We’re staring down at my literal, actual microscope—it is giant, for the record—and we’re greatly enjoying the use of it between us.

  “You’re cute when you geek out over stuff smeared on slides,” she remarks.

  Vocal confirmation that she finds me attractive: achieved.

  As of a moment ago, I was peering at a slide containing one of her hairs. “The shaft is different than I expected,” I murmur thoughtfully.

  “I’ll remember that line in case I get to see yours,” she promises.

  “Allow me to adjust my equipment and I’ll be happy to show you mine.”

  She groans. “Sadly, this is not an innuendo.”

  I grin down at her. “It is.”

  She plants her hands on her hips. “You’ve been fucking with me this whole time?” She laughs. “You arse!”

  I begin returning equipment to its proper cabinets and shelves. “About being… frank.” I shake my head at the imagery this word calls to my mind. “I also find you visually attractive—”

  I don’t miss her snort or the way her lips form a wide, wide grin.

  “But I desire more from you than sharing sexual pleasure.”

  Her brow creases. She cups her elbow in one hand, and tugs at her bottom lip with the fingers of her other hand.

  A most strange behavior. I quickly jot myself a notation: it appears to be a contemplative gesture.

  She laughs outright when she sees me taking notes on her posture. Her voice is definitely amused as she shakes her head. “You ‘desire more?’ What else is there?” She visually fondles me. “We both find each other hot. We both want ‘sexual pleasure.’ You want to study humans, and I suddenly have an interest in myology. Hob myology. That’s the study of muscles, right?” She takes a step closer to me and my wings clamp tighter to my back.

  I don’t want her to be under their influence until I have her agreement.

  Her expression turns even more amused when she catches my reaction. She continues her approach, and motions for me to unbutton my shirt.

  Slowly, I do; this slight resistance to the pursuit of a meaningful relationship and this demanding request that I disrobe for her is near
ly textbook Gryfala, not that she could know it.

  There’s interest in her eyes, but just as I’m sure my eyes reflect a great deal of curiosity, so do hers as she watches me undress. There’s also a thick layer of… resolve. If I’d been held against my will in the Underwater Dome, I’m not certain what my next action would be. Would I seek out solace in an alien?

  Would I seek out solace with this alien?

  Yes. I may not know much about her yet, but what I know of her, I like very much.

  When I saw Gracie standing protectively over an injured female by the name of Callie—or Weepy, as Gracie affectionately bestowed her the moniker—Gracie was acting as this woman’s shield against curious onlookers. Immediately, I admired her.

  When I heard Gracie threaten to ‘cunt-punt’ another female who disobeyed her order to stay back, I was smitten.

  Further observation has only strengthened my interest.

  Gracie is volatile, courageous, slightly aggressive: in a word, magnetizing.

  I want her to find comfort with me. I want to be this for her. My race’s reputation with females is above reproach and highly lauded. I’m certain it helps her trust me.

  And she does trust me. She’d never have approached me otherwise.

  I pull free of my sleeves and begin working my wings through. I quickly find myself undressing to the encouraging music of her outrageous clapping.

  “I’ve been making a superhuman effort not to objectify you—you stunning half-man-half-hot-gargoyle you! But seeing you half naked? I can’t be expected to do the impossible: I am only human.” She makes a sharp trilling sound: a whistle, the humans call it.

  Her vocalization makes me feel… pride. Or maybe it’s the look in her eye, admiring more than objectifying no matter what she tries to tease.

  She motions that she’d like to examine my shirt. I hand it to her, and she studies in with a seriousness I didn’t expect. She declares, “Clever design.”

  Thinking she means the slits that allow for my wings to fit through, I say, “Necessary.”

  “No,” she taps a thin, flat human fingernail on the fabric. “The stitching.”