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  ABDUCTED BY THE ALIEN HOTTIE

  A flirty, dirty, shorty romcom

  The Warriors of Crasasi, Episode One

  by

  Laney Kaye

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of artist and song titles, locations, and products throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Copyright © Laney Kaye 2019

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ASIN: B07XDSXTGX

  BOOKS BY LANEY KAYE

  THE SPIRIT OF OHANA CRUISE SHIP SERIES

  Hawaiian Hurricane

  Hawaiian Taboo

  BENT, NOT BROKEN SERIES

  Malicious Desire

  THE LURE OF THE MER SERIES

  Hook

  Line

  Amazon

  The Wild Rose Press

  FLIRTY, DIRTY, SHORTY ALIEN ROMCOM SERIES

  Abducted by the Alien Hottie

  Knocked up by the Alien Hottie

  Adored by the Alien Hottie

  CAT SHIFTERS OF AAIDAR SERIES

  Escape

  Engage

  Ensnare

  Endings

  FRACTURED FAIRYTALES & MANGLED MYTHS:

  ALIEN ABDUCTION SERIES

  Beast's Beauty

  Minotaur's Mate

  BENT, NOT BROKEN SERIES

  Malicious Desire

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  Abducted by the Alien Hottie: A flirty, dirty, shorty romcom

  The Warriors of Crasasi: Episode One

  Tennn (yes, that is his real name, and he is all that — plus about two inches more).

  Anyway, Tennn abducted me — no, wait, rewind.

  Can I call it abduction, when I was basically screaming ‘take me’?

  Anyway, Tennn has a job to do: deliver me to the flesh-traders at Daorheris.

  But stuff’s about to get complicated.

  Because he’s had a taste of me, and I sure as heck made sure to have a taste of him, as unfamiliar with that notion though he was.

  And it seems neither of us is quite done with our meal yet…

  Chapter One

  Stella

  Okay, I admit it: I was totally hoping to find a knight-in-shining-armor when I took the job here.

  Well, maybe not so much armor, given that daytime temperatures soared to more than forty-eight degrees — or one-hundred-and-twenty Fahrenheit in the New World measurements we adopted five years ago. But a drop-dead-gorgeous, muscular station owner falling crazy in love with my lush —curvy?— okay, my ample charms would have done the trick.

  Sadly, even after purchasing an expensive — and by that, I mean a fortnight’s wages when I included the light plane flight from the station’s airstrip to the tiny dustbowl of a town a few hundred kilometers away, one single decent (or indecent, depending on your point of view) outfit, and a pair of cute cowboy boots that were apparently out to exact revenge on my feet for every cow ever killed in the history of shoe-making — ticket to the annual Bachelor’s and Spinster’s Ball, there were no knights in sight. Or even any decent-looking farmers. To the parched despair of my lady regions, I discovered that the guys who turned up at the B&S were either underage — sure, they had identity cards, but the pimples and barely-there facial hair yelled fake — or over-age. Like, of an age that I doubted sex would even be possible for their arthritic bones. And my thirty-three-year-old bones had no interest in jumping theirs.

  I slammed the rusty old pickup into a lower gear and topped another barren sand dune, barreling down the far side in a fountain of rust-colored sand. The vibration of the poorly-sprung vinyl seat under my thighs definitely provided the biggest thrill I’d had for the longest time. A vast red expanse rolled before me, an endless sea of dunes undulating across the landscape to meet the aching blue of the horizon. The occasional straggly, almost-dead tree thrust from the parched earth like a branch of fossilized coral.

  At some point, I’d have to pull over. No matter how far I drove, nothing changed. But there was a mind-numbing balm to simply allowing the kilometers to churn beneath my tires. I could let my mind roam without focus.

  Though lately, it tended to roam in only one direction; my mate-less state.

  Of course, logistically, there had been a few single guys at the B&S whose age fell somewhere between juvenile and decrepit. Unfortunately, they were the ones who thought flip-flops, shorts, and a terry-toweling hat could be dressed up by whacking an elasticized tie around their neck and shoving their can of beer into a cooler sleeve. Worse, in retrospect, I’d realized that the cooler was most likely for the heat, not a nod to my genteel sensitivities.

  Anyway, no way was any of them getting to insert their…beer…into my cooler. Uh-uh. Nope. Not happening. I’d rather die a nun. Well, a revirginated-virgin, anyway.

  I’d read a book about that, recently. Revirgination, I mean. It was supposed to be funny read set on a cruise liner in Hawaii. I darn near cried. The concept just wasn’t that humorous when you were the one who hadn’t been getting any.

  For four years.

  The problem wasn’t solely me. With a high male mortality rate as a result of a virus that had swept the world, the entire population had declined over the last few decades. Last year’s gender split ratio in Australia had come within a mosquito’s fart of eighty-to-twenty. And I was not talking in my favor. Even the nubile, whippet-thin, cutesy blonde girls were finding it hard to get a bit. And I definitely didn’t tick a single one of those boxes.

  Ten years back, the government decided the issue was so serious, they ruled pornography and all associated paraphernalia illegal. Apparently, research tabled in Parliament theorized that guys wasting good sperm on tossing off contributed to the decimation of our population. The old ‘Populate or Perish’ rallying cry from the Second World War, almost a hundred years ago, became ‘Spunk to Survive’. Wanking itself wasn’t made illegal — not that it had ever been publicly encouraged — but posters and media announcements exhorted men to carefully choose where they made their deposits.

  Personally, I figured it was the fluoride in the water that had resulted in the majority of viable pregnancies over the last forty years resulting in female babies. But then, I was a conspiracy theorist, not a research biologist.

  With no resulting increase in male birthrates, all that came out of the Porn Policy was that a girl could no longer buy a vibrator. It would have been nice if there had been a pre-emptive warning period on the ban, kind of a reverse sunset clause. At that stage, I was still young enough to believe in the fairytale that, somewhere, I’d find the man of my dreams. So I didn’t own a vibrator when the law dropped like a chastity belt on a castle floor. I guess toys of various descriptions were available on the black market for a while, but I didn’t have those kinds of contacts.

  Of course, the government couldn’t ban our fingers; but a little variety would be nice. I assumed. I wouldn’t actually know.

  I rolled the window up and then thumbed the air conditioner again, but it was still deader than a dodo. I was
kind of hoping all the bumping and bouncing would give a bit of a phoenix vibe, fire it back to life. I cranked the window back down, breaking into a sweat with the unfamiliar exertion. At least the hot breeze momentarily cooled the slick skin on my forearms, though my back slimed across the seat, and there was a veritable well between my thighs. I loathed manual gear shifts. In an automatic, I could spread my legs a bit farther apart, pretend thigh-gap was an actual thing in my world. And reduce the heat and chafing.

  As I allowed the steering wheel to play loosely through my grip, my eyes locked to the back of my hand. Holy crap, was that an age spot? No! Really? I squinted. Surely it was a freckle. Please let it be a freckle.

  I accidentally slapped my own face as I yanked my hand back to give it an experimental lick. Because, yeah, saliva was totally the new way to eradicate freckles and moles.

  Maybe not, but it did work on melted chocolate. My mutter of relief echoed in the cab, and I gave an extra lick, just in case I found another smear.

  Usually, I was smart enough not to haul chocolate around with me in the middle of the Australian Outback — but sometimes a girl just needed a block of Cadbury’s. That second week of my cycle, when I was supposedly oh-so-fertile, only served to remind me that there was no point being flipping fertile when there were no men.

  Anyway, I figured I’d eat the entire block during the first hour into my camping trip, thereby negating any risk of melting confectionary.

  Sad, because it was now hour four of the trek, and my eggs required chocolate coating. Like Easter eggs.

  I scowled at the back of my hand, and then glanced at my cargo short clad thighs, hoping to find more escaped crumbs. Nope. Just the somewhat pudgy and dimpled evidence of my self-pity eating being a far too regular indulgence. But what else was there to life?

  A thought tightened my knuckles into tiny white mountains on the flecked and faded steering wheel; if I was dropping eggs like a battery hen, maybe my concern should be more about menopause, than revirgination? I mean, exactly how early could that happen? Even without avian bird flu, which regularly swept the country, egg supply was limited. Plus, I had a totally non-scientifically based fear that lack of sex pheromones and hormones — I never did work out the difference, just that I was denied either — coursing through my body could bring on that horror. And that sucked balls.

  Well, at least something got to do that, I guess. Not that I ever had. My sexual conquest experience was limited to a handful of furtive hookups with guys who were definitely more of the Mr-Right-Now than the Mr-Right caliber. Strictly missionary, strictly no social media contact details exchanged, strictly no-sperm donation. Really, hiring a gigolo — despite being illegal, with none of that wasted-wrigglers stuff allowed — would have been a better plan in every single instance. At least that way, as a paying customer, I could have demanded what I wanted instead of feeling like I was on the receiving end of a pity screw.

  I huffed out a heavy sigh. Sad. The whole thing was just sad. My arms longed to hold a baby, the urge creating a hollow ache within my chest. I was one of those women who even liked other people’s children.

  At least, through a decade of working as a teacher, I had. Until I’d been hired to tutor the twins — girls, of course — on this vast, remote cattle station. I mean, obviously I couldn’t say a bad thing about them; they were just children. That said, there was no denying that they were determined, in that particularly nasty teenage girl fashion, to make their parents suffer for every imagined slight and injustice.

  Statement of fact, not saying a bad thing.

  For the last five years, they’d enjoyed the privileges of a prestigious boarding school which, despite my degree, probably left them better educated than me. Now they were less-than-impressed — and made certain their entire world knew it — with the financial hardship that saw their parents drag them back to the family property while they struggled to survive the drought that crippled the country.

  Initially, I believed I was hired to teach them. But it quickly became apparent that I had three functions.

  One: to keep the girls off social media and make them connect to The School of the Air on time for their lessons.

  Two: to beg, coerce, and cajole them to complete those lessons. I wasn’t even going to pretend that was so they could learn something, but because compliance was an Education Department requirement, and it would reflect badly on me if they didn’t. Short version; without a positive outcome, I’d be screwed when I tried to get a job back in the city next semester.

  Three: to act as a buffer and verbal punching bag between them and their mother, who worked long hours beside her husband, and whose patience for two spoiled, angsty teens had apparently evaporated along with the water in the dams three years ago.

  Angela and Serena’s — yeah, that particular irony didn’t escape me. I guess their parents must have been hoping for some kind of karmic positive reinforcement when they filled in the names on the birth certificates. Anyway, their behavior, unfortunately, had not been enough to turn off my own biological clock.

  The doomsday ticking of my internal metronome counting down to the final alarm reinforced the fact; I’d always wanted kids. If I was going to psychoanalyze myself — and why wouldn’t I? I’d been driving for four hours, and there wasn’t even a radio station signal out here, though some retro Dolly Parton on my Spotify playlist had kept me good company — I knew my desire for a family probably stemmed from my total lack of one.

  Alongside me, Ol’ Gray Donkey yowled as if to remind me that he was my family. Other story-book characters could have provided inspiration for naming an orange-striped, one-eyed cat, but Ol’ Gray was so very…lugubrious. Even his purrs and cuddles came with an air of melancholy, an attitude of “Well, all we’ve got is each other. May as well make the best of it.” I’d never known a cat more happy to be permanently depressed, quite content in his grumpiness.

  That misery was currently intensified as, since we moved from the city to the precise middle of bumfuck-nowhere, he’d been denied his favorite tinned food. Now he subsisted on biscuits and kangaroo meat. Which he turned his nose up at. Literally. Each mealtime he wrinkled the broad, pink pad, flared his nostrils in an un-catlike way, and gave me the stink-eye. Then he’d stick his tail up in the air, the very tip twitching madly, and stalk off to his blanket beneath the window. Generally, he’d start to wash himself.

  Quite pointless, as I’d never seen a less-groomed looking cat in my life.

  Not that my own grooming was anything to brag about since I moved to the sticks. With no beauty technicians, nail salons — or even a barber, never mind a hairdresser — for hundreds of kilometers, treatments had quickly become a luxury of the past. Six months in the Outback was long enough to reach the point of being able to spend an idle afternoon braiding my leg hair. In an effort to stave-off reports of a geographically-challenged-yeti wandering the station, I’d ordered a ‘pain-free intimate waxing kit’ in the last drop of groceries flown into the station.

  I should have stuck with ordering more chocolate.

  Despite the phenomenal expense, my lady-garden was definitely not getting any topiary work from that molten orange devil’s potion. Ripping an organic part of me out by the roots hurt bad enough on my legs. And as for my pits…they were probably too traumatized to ever sweat again. So, the lady-garden was going back to natural scrub. Virgin bush, so to speak.

  Ugh, I didn’t need to think that V-word again. This solo girl’s trip was supposed to pull me out of the manless funk the B&S ball had plunged me into. I planned to sit back in my stained and saggy camp chair, breathe in the solitude, maybe pen a few lines of poetry and pull out my dog-eared sketch pad.

  “Okay, Ol’ Gray, I declare that far enough.” I crunched through the gears and pulled into the lee of an outcrop of huge boulders, where a puddle of darkness lied about offering reprieve from the heat. “This is our camp spot.”

  Gray looked up at me mistrustfully, but I knew it was a sham.
He’d never stray from my side. He just liked to make a point about how miserable his life was.

  I unlatched the cage I’d carefully put him in, though it was a laughable precaution given that there weren’t any police within four hundred kilometers. Plus, wherever I put him, he’d simply plonk down on his grumpy ass and look balefully at me. I could use him as a dashboard ornament, the ugliest hula doll ever, and he’d just stare me down from that one eye. Yet, even though he was unlikely to ever mellow enough to show affection, I knew he depended on me for companionship. Just like I did him.

  Besides, having him around made me seem a little less crazy, as talking to a cat wasn’t the same as talking to myself.

  Despite the open door, Ol’ Gray remained in his cage, so I hooked a hand beneath him to lever him up. He allowed his body to sag heavily, his weight dragging both forward and backward over my palm, his attitude clearly one of “I really don’t care. Life isn’t worth living.”

  Like I said, he was a lugubrious ass. Hence, the name.

  When I put him on the sand, he lifted one paw, squinted disdainfully, then stalked to the shade of the rock. Where he commenced washing himself.

  The cat had issues.

  Shaking my head, though I was unsure whether it was at the cat, or at my own foolishness in bringing him on my camping trip, I hauled my swag from the back of the pickup.

  I’d never really gotten down with camping in a swag, I always kind of felt like the sausage in a hotdog roll by the time I’d crawled beneath the fly netting and into the sleeping bag. Plus, as we shared the swag among the employees on the station, I was cringingly aware that the previous occupant probably wasn’t practicing awesome hygiene. Not that I was smelling like an almond blossom, myself. But, as the alternative to using the swag was being eaten by every small, bitey thing in the desert, I’d hotdog it.