Pheromone, page 1
part #1 of For the Love of Aliens Series
Humans … pets, meat, or mates.
That’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes, that damn sign.
Don’t fancy myself being sold for any of the above reasons, so I’m relieved when my buyer is killed by an …
Um.
Hot venom and horns and a violent grin.
What the actual fuck is that?! Or should I say who the actual fuck is he?
Because he’s definitely male. Definitely big. Definitely exuding pheromones that turn me into a much less rational human being.
Hi, I’m Eve Wakefield, twenty-five years old, professional caterer, recently abducted by aliens alongside my best friend. I’m also completely and utterly screwed. Lost on a jungle planet. Rooming in a downed spaceship with a dragon dude. Being hunted by a moth man with demon eyes and vampire teeth. Begging for help from a tentacle-tailed fox man who also happens to be … a space cowboy?
Here’s the thing: I desperately want to go back to Earth.
But I am not leaving this place without my bestie, Jane Baker.
And I can’t find her or get us home without the help of three males who just so happen to be ideal romantic matches for yours truly.
Yay.
Three very different men. Three very different lives for me to try out. Three very powerful romances.
And only one thing matters: finding Jane.
Then … then I’ll worry about the messy complications of finding myself perma-mated to aliens.
Yeah, it’s a whole thing.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Signup for my Newsletter
Author's Note
Start
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
Alien Art Link
Seminal Cover
A Bride for Beasts Cover
The Family Spells Cover
Pack Ebon Red Cover
Devils Day Party Cover
Keep Up With The Fun
More Books By C.M. Stunich
About the Author
Pheromone
Pheromone © C.M. Stunich 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.cmstunich.com
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
No AI was used in the creation of any part of this book
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to freedom of speech.
I am ever so grateful for the ability to write and publish alien porn romance.
much love to tentacles, tails, and coremata.
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Author’s Note (Contains Minor Spoilers):
Welcome to my universe.
We call it the Noctuida (Nock-too-wee-duh), but that doesn’t do this plot-meets-alien-smut-romance-novel justice. Our main female character is going to meet three strange but beautiful male love interests. This story takes us from an alien forest to a sentient spaceship to a cosmic star chapel to a distant water-logged planet. What I’m trying to say is: don’t get too comfortable with your surroundings.
This book is what I like to call a fast-burn/slow-build reverse harem romance.
Here’s what that means for you, dear reader: our main character will end up with three love interests at the end of the story. She is not going to choose just one. Fast-burn means we’ll have plenty of sex and romance, but slow-build means it’ll take some time to build up all of our main character’s lovers.
This story—this universe—is a huge passion project for me. I hope you enjoy the wild ride, and I’ll see you again once it’s all over.
Love you fierce, C.M. Stunich
This book is 100% human written (all of my books are); it contains *NO* AI written material, ideas, or inspiration. No ghostwriting was used in the creation of this book.
pheromone - noun
a scented chemical substance created by an animal (or alien) that acts as a stimulus to other creatures for varied behavioral responses (to induce and encourage mating, for example)
especially that.
Humans … pets, meat, or mates.
I’m almost certain that’s what the sign above my head reads. With a groan of pain, I roll onto my side, coughing and curling up into a ball. My head is ringing, and I’m seeing double, so maybe I just imagined it. What a weird thing for a sign to say, right?
I must’ve fallen and conked my head. That’s all I can think to explain both the confusion and the pain; my leg is killing me. That, and I’m not sure if I’m too hot or too cold. Is it possible to be both things at once?
“Roll her over.” A female voice relays the command in a tone that’s calm enough, but edged with a nervous energy that makes me feel twitchy. Roll who over? I wonder, just before tight fingers curl around my arms and legs. I’m forced onto my back with no energy to fight off the change in position.
The world spins around me like I’m on a carousel, and then I’m staring at that damn sign again.
Humans … pets, meat, or mates.
That’s definitely what it says. There are other languages written above and below it, but I don’t recognize a single one of them. Halloween prank? No, it’s July. Premature October decor it may be, but the sign wasn’t hanging at the Princess of Pop’s fundraiser, the one she was hosting at her fancy-pants apartment building. That’s the last thing I remember, standing on the roof of that high-rise with my best friend, a pair of paramedics, a lawyer, and an angry pop star.
Oh, and a possum. Can’t forget the possum.
“She’s bleeding.” A male voice this time, grim, tight-lipped. I can’t exactly see him, but the way his words come out, clipped and perfunctory, it’s obvious that he doesn’t like what he sees. “There’s a piece of shrapnel embedded in her thigh.” There’s a heavy pause between that sentence and the next, but as much as I try to squint and focus on the man’s face, all I can seem to look at is that stupid sign. “If we try to remove it, she might bleed out.”
“If we don’t remove it, who will?” the woman asks, her voice as grim as the man’s. “I worked as a remote medic for years; I can do this.”
“Shit.” The man curses and then exhales, like he’s bracing himself for an unpleasant task.
“Eve?” I recognize that voice: Jane Baker and I have been best friends since junior high. Well, she kicked me in the crotch and stole my boyfriend in junior high, but I forgave her a year later and we’ve been close ever since. “Oh my God, Eve. You’re bleeding everywhere …” Her voice trails off with a hiccup as I blink through the static and try to find her in a sea of blurry faces. “Is she going to be okay?”
In the twelve years since I’ve known Jane, I have never heard her so afraid.
“I have no fucking clue.” The female voice—the one who claimed to have been a remote medic—grinds those words out just before she tears my pants open. “The more humans we have to fight these things, the better.”
Um. Excuse me. What things are we talking about exactly?
I feel cool air on my legs, the brush of warm fingers, and then … nothing.
Whether I’m dreaming or dead, I have no idea.
But between one minute and the next, I’m lying on my back staring at that strange sign and then, I’m in my own bed and groaning at the sound of an incoming call.
“It’s not okay to be awake this early on my day off!” I shout out, aware that this entire scenario isn’t real. Or, if it is, I’ve lost my mind. This is exactly what happened this morning, before the sign and the bleeding and Jane asking if I’m going to be okay.
I’m twenty-five years old; I know a dream when I see it.
My bedroom door opens, and there’s my mother, standing stiffly in an apron with a mixing bowl clutched in one arm. She’s frowning at me as the ringing stops and then promptly picks up again. Based on the ringtone—some horrid pop song by Jane’s star client—I know exactly who it is that’s on the line. It’s her, my future ex-bestie.
“Can you please answer your phone? Jane’s called the house a half-dozen times already.” Mom slams the door—that’s her prerogative since I live with her well into adulthood—but I grit my teeth anyway, snatching my phone up and slapping it against my ear as I answer it.
“You called the house?” I accuse, because although my parents have a landline like it’s 1996, that doesn’t mean anyone calls it other than Jane Baker. “Remind me again why I moved back in with my family. I’m practically thirty years old.”
“Because you need to save up for a house, and I convinced you it was a smart idea? Also, you’re only practically twenty-six,” Jane replies, but then she goes dead silent, and I know this is going to be bad. Jane is never silent unless she wants something, but knows she’s likely to be told no. The silence is only there to buy her some time to figure out how to manipulate the other party involved. Usually, said other party is yours truly. “Can you do me a huge favor?” she asks, and I hang up.
Because I know what that favor is going to be.
If it weren’t for Jane, I wouldn’t own a successful catering business or be making good money. It’s because of a favor for Jane that I got the opportunity in the first place. But I just got off a ten-day stretch of working one gig after another, and I am not cobbling together some half-assed affair on my one day off. Jane calls back, and I sit up before I answer, frowning at my bed-mussed hair in the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room from me. Sharp green eyes glare back. I am not a morning person.
Or … I draw the phone away from my ear to check the time. Apparently I’m not a twelve-thirty in the afternoon person either.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask when I answer, and Jane sighs in relief.
“The first guests are expected to arrive around six, but Tabbi won’t be making an entrance until around seven-thirty.”
Of course not. Why should the party’s hostess arrive at her own fundraiser on time?
With my free hand, I reach up to untangle my hair. At this point, I’ve forgotten all about the Humans … pets, meat, or mates sign, and I’m fully embroiled in my memory of this morning. I’m picking at rat nests in my auburn waves and yawning like it’s any other day.
“Tabbi,” I huff, gaze shifting to the tabby cat sprawled across the end of my bed. I’m mildly allergic to cats, so I get hives whenever I pet her, but eh. It’s worth the pain. I smile and wiggle my fingers to entice the cat—her name is Annabelle—but she ignores me, licking her shoulder in disdain. The ‘Tabbi Kat’ I’m referring to (pronounced just like tabby cat) is a famous pop star and Jane’s spoiled, pretentious hellion of a client. Tonight, Tabbi is hosting a fundraiser in her penthouse apartment, smack-dab in the center of the city.
I forced Jane to hire another caterer; I worked with Tabbi once and swore never to do it again.
But alas, there’s nobody in this city who’s as hardworking or reliable as I am (much to my own detriment).
“I told you that you should’ve let me hire you in the first place,” Jane whines as I swing my legs out of bed and yawn for the hundredth time. Four hours of sleep is just not enough, especially not after having slept two-to-three hours a night for the past week and a half. I feel like I’m dying. No, at least if I were dying, I could sleep.
And maybe I am? Seeing as I’m reliving a day that already happened.
“Did the original caterers give you a reason for canceling?” I ask, and then Jane goes silent again. See what I mean? She’s trying to find a way to convince me that this isn’t her fault. Or rather, that it isn’t Tabbi’s fault.
“Tabbi fired them this morning …” Jane hedges, and I hang up again. She promptly texts me the address and the specifics as I drag my tired body to the shower. Of course Tabbi Kat fired her caterers the morning of a big event. Nothing else would make a lick of sense.
I shower and then make phone calls in various states of undress. One phone call in my panties, another after putting on my bra, a third after yanking on my black slacks. Once I’ve got a crew together, I head out and down the stairs.
“Are you working again today?” Mom calls out, but I only offer up a wave of acknowledgement. I don’t have time to argue with her right now. She thinks I work too much, that I need some time off … and she’s right. I just can’t agree with her on that until tomorrow.
“Eve?” Dad asks as I sweep past him and toward my van—the homeowners’ association has been all over my parents’ ass about having me park it elsewhere—hopping in as he approaches the passenger side window. I roll it down and give him a look. “Where are you going? I thought we were playing golf today.”
I’m not a big fan of golf, but I play with my dad on the weekends just so we can spend time together. Regretfully, I’ll have to cancel today.
“Where else? I’m off to save Jane’s ass from an evil pussy.” I offer up a tight smile as Dad frowns and steps back, so I can pull out of the driveway.
“Work on cleaning up your language while you’re at it. You’re practically thirty years old.” My father goes back to washing his car as I catch sight of my younger brother standing on the porch. Shit. I promised to let him borrow my car for his date tonight.
I stop in the middle of the street, reverse back toward the driveway, and roll my window down.
I toss the key fob onto the grass as Nate gapes at me, and then off I go.
“I knew you could do it.” Jane is beaming at the sea of aristocrats, musicians, and politicians that are milling around Tabbi’s penthouse apartment, chowing down on onion-mushroom sliders and bruschetta topped with tomatoes and basil. Since the Princess of Pop is a proud vegan, there’s no meat to be seen. “Everyone seems to be enjoying the food.”
I’m sweating profusely in my long-sleeved white button-down and black slacks, but I make myself smile anyway. Who knows what sorts of clients I might pick up from this event?
“Only by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin,” I reply, still smiling and nodding at passersby. My gaze shifts over to Tabbi Kat, dressed in a sparkly pink bikini top with an oversized cardigan in the same color. She’s got on baggy, acid-wash jeans and clunky sneakers. Also, she’s holding a pet opossum—you know, the only North American marsupial with the hairless tail—which is sort of her trademark thing. I don’t agree with it, but what can I do? The girl is a multi-platinum bestselling diva with a temper.
The possum climbs onto her shoulder and crouches there, hissing at people as they pass by, and I give Jane a look.
“It’s only going to take one person, one bite, and it’s curtains for the poor guy.”
“This possum is a girl,” Jane whispers, leaning in close to me. “The other one passed away from old age just a few months back. Apparently, they only live for about four years.”
I feel the edge of my lip curl up in disgust; there’s nothing about Tabbi that I like.
As if she can sense that we’re talking about her, she turns and saunters over to us.
“I’m done with the party now. Can we ask everyone to leave?” she whispers, as if Jane is her personal assistant as well as her manager. Over the last two years, I’ve also seen Jane act as Tabbi’s mother (they’re only five years apart in age), her therapist, her personal shopper, her maid, and one time, her bodyguard. Jane literally took a bullet for Tabbi. Well, so it was a rock fired from a slingshot, but it still left the nastiest purple-blue bruise on Jane’s rib cage.
“We can’t ask them to leave just yet.” Jane puts on her prettiest smile as Tabbi tosses pink-tipped blond hair over her shoulder and scowls at the gathered crowd of millionaires like they’re so much trash. “Why don’t you have another drink and—”
“Oh, what a beautiful animal!” a man exclaims, stepping forward and reaching out to pet the possum without bothering to ask permission. As wild animals are wont to do, the creature bites down hard on the man’s hand, and he howls in pain. Apparently, possums have extremely sharp teeth.
That’s how we end up on the roof of the apartment building: me, Jane, two paramedics, a pop star, and a lawyer.
“I’m going to have that rat removed and euthanized,” the man hisses. The possum—I’ve been told her name is Madonna, after the Virgin Mary and not the singer—hisses right back at him, and he balks. “How dare you cart around such a dangerous beast.”
“Go ahead and call animal control!” Tabbi is screaming, just barely held back from physical violence by Jane’s surprisingly strong grip. That girl can bench press a hundred-and-fifty pounds, believe it or not. How I’m involved in this mess, I’m not sure, but I guess I’m just up here for moral support. “Call them and see what happens! I will ruin you.”
