Traded to the Alien Prince

Chapter One: Missed Opportunity

WARNING: This story contains strong language, explicit sexual content, and depictions of war and conquest, fertility issues, pregnancies, adult kidnapping, gaslighting, and graphic depictions of death that may not be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

MIRANDA

"Are you close?"

His question drags me out of fantasyland, and my eyes pop open, slamming me back into reality. It's not George Clooney with his face between my legs, but Dr. Mark Mitchell, my boss.

His freshly shaved face shines with my juices as he licks his lips. He reminds me of a cat that's just finished cleaning his coat.

Except the only thing that hasn't finished is me.

While he looks bored, ready for the next place to take a nap, I'm like a dog in heat, panting, ready to go.

"Almost."

He gives me a dramatic eye roll and sighs, his breath tickling my clit.

I almost scoff—almost being the key word. If I express any form of frustration, it'll give him a reason to stop.

That's what happened the last time I bitched about not getting an orgasm. I could suck his dick for twenty minutes, my TMJ flaring up, jaw clicking—and he won't even attempt to return the favor.

Finally, after releasing his load, he offered to go downtown—and three minutes in, he's over it.

He taps my thigh like a coach giving their player encouragement. "Okay, well focus, because I have a meeting in twenty."

Dick. For the sake of my own carnal pleasure, I stifle the urge to argue. "Okay."

He ducks back down, and I reorient myself and lean back, staring up at the glass ceiling. It's three in the afternoon and stars twinkle against the blackness of space, the darkness disorienting my sense of day and night.

The space station is mid orbit, the edge of Earth just visible in the distance. I focus on the blue ball of my previous home. What is George Clooney doing right now?

Mitchell attempts to flick my clit with his tongue. Not only can't he find it, but just like a cat, his tongue feels like sandpaper.

George Clooney is probably better at eating pussy. That's a fact.

How the hell am I going to come in twenty minutes? At this rate I'll need an hour. Oh God, am I going to have to fake this again?

It's a Catch-22.

If I don't come, Mitchell's ego will take the brunt of it, and he'll refuse to get me off in the future. He'll probably blame my inability to focus and diagnose me with ADHD.

It could ruin the chance of actually coming in the future.

George Clooney appears in my mind again, but instead of his moist, luscious tongue gliding down toward my ass, he's cocking his head and whispering a question in my ear: You're supposed to be at that meeting.

My eyes pop open again and I stare at Earth. Thanks Clooney, you glorious God, you.

"Is this the meeting about the treaty with the Schovalis?"

Mitchell groans. This time he goes beyond just lifting up his head. He stands up and yanks on his boxers. "Seriously, Miranda, you are something else."

Oh, he's on the defense already? Well, then. "It is the meeting, isn't it?"

His jaw drops. "Here I am, trying to make you feel good, and you're bringing up work?"

I sit up. "The meeting is supposed to be tomorrow. Why didn't I get the message about it being moved up?"