The memory of his hands gripping and positioning my hips encroached upon my mind as my fingertips clacked noisily against the keyboard. The words on the screen in front of me blurred, and I yet again lost focus on the article I was writing as I recalled the way he’d slowly rocked his impossible girth into me from behind, how his tongue had licked between my shoulder blades and his teeth had teased my earlobe, his fingers circling maddeningly, teasing my drenched clit until I’d—

Fuck.

It had been happening all day. One minute, I would be on my virtual soapbox espousing the benefits of eating bone broth and bacon, citing Paleo diet research and case studies, and the next, I’d be in a near frenzy—skin flushed, thighs rhythmically clenching beneath my desk as I remembered the inconceivably rapturous sensation of having him inside me.

God, it had been like nothing I’d ever felt before.

Or would again.

Because I’d fucked an alien.

It was a hard fact that played on a loop inside my head throughout the day.

Every day.

All day.

In the morning as I ate my breakfast, while I sat in meetings at work, when I rode the subway, as I was washing my hair in the shower—particularly while in the shower. Even in sleep I would dream about him.

It had been a month. Four weeks, two days, and thirteen hours since I’d ventured into an alien sex club in the Meatpacking District of New York City.

The gravity of what I’d done that night confounded me daily still, but it was the magnitude of the situation I had since trapped myself in that was becoming more suffocating by the hour.

I couldn’t forget about it for a moment, and the knowledge that my present predicament was entirely my fault didn’t help.

Because the truth was, I could’ve walked away. Twice. Before I’d slept with the gorgeous x-club owner, and then afterward.

I could’ve locked that absolutely mind-blowing experience away, never letting a soul other than my coworker and partner in alien-sex-clubbing, Jay, know about anything that had happened.

But instead, I did what any ambitious twenty-four-year-old with a mountain of student loan debt would’ve done.

I’d penned an alien sex tell-all article for The New York Herald.

Only… I hadn’t exactly told all. I’d done what good journalists are supposed to do. I’d removed myself personally from all events revealed in my alien sexposé and reported that it was based off of my interviews with other undisclosed humans.

And I’d gotten away with it. So far. Which was what confused and concerned me most, feeding my paranoia and driving my fear of imminent alien retaliation to new heights with each passing day.

My computer pinged, and a small email alert popped up in the lower right-hand corner of my left screen. Noting the sender, I clicked the “x” button at the corner of the pop-up to dismiss it. I had a deadline to meet and couldn’t afford to be by ridiculous emails from my mom tonight—any more distracted than I already was, that is.

Another ping sounded, followed by another pop-up alert. I sighed and waited it out as eight more pings and pop-ups appeared. She was on a roll for a Friday night. After the eleventh pop-up, I went to my browser and logged out of my personal Outlook account.

My mother had been a “sky is falling” Chicken Little type long before the Krinar had actually fallen from the sky two years ago to take control of Earth. Her initial “told you so” victory dance amid the early invasion panic had been quickly followed by daily email forwards from random online “news” sources predicting all of the horrible ways humans were bound to be mistreated and ultimately killed by the Ks.

My mother’s propensity for readily embracing irrational and absurd media sources might have played a small role in influencing my desire to seek and report the facts above all else in my career as a journalist.

Unfortunately, facts were often slanted by other factors. And truth came in shades beyond black and white.

As “accurate” as my alien sexposé had been, it hadn’t exactly been impartial.

Not only had my acclaimed article omitted all culpability on my part as a willing participant in the best sexual experience of my life, but it had also painted the Ks in a rather negative light, showcasing them as sexual predators whose blood-drawing had an Ecstasy-like, aphrodisiac effect upon humans.

In quieter moments, I could admit that perhaps that specific slant was driven by my own ego’s need to rationalize my embarrassing response to Vair that night.

Throughout my college years, I’d always been so careful, so cautious about the few men I’d dated. I’d become friends with all of my boyfriends first, getting to know them well before things had become sexual. I’d never even come close to having a one-night stand.

And then, a month ago, the very first time I’d let loose and allowed passion to dictate my actions, I’d gone and had a one-night stand with a deadly, vampiric extraterrestrial who’d sucked my blood and fucked me until I’d literally collapsed unconscious from sexual exhaustion.

My phone buzzed to life on my desk, startling me. My mother’s number lit up the screen.

Oh, what the hell. Not like I was getting work done anyway. Talking to my mom would be the fastest, surest way to get my errant mind off sex.

I hit the speaker button. “Hey, Ma.”

“Did you read my email?”

“You mean the dozen emails you sent me ten seconds ago?”

“Yeah.” She said this with zero hesitation or apology.

I bit the smile forming on my lips and shook my head at the ceiling. “Nope. Still at work. Got an article deadline.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, followed by a clattering noise and then muffled shouting for my dad to come quickly.

“You’re not still working there, are you?” She sounded out of breath now. “I thought you decided last week you were going to quit The Herald and go into hiding?”

“No. You decided I should quit and go into hiding.” I lowered the speaker volume. I was pretty sure I was the only one still working on my side of the floor, but just in case.

“You’re not writing another E.T. article, I hope?”

“Yep. That’s sort of my thing now, Ma. I get all the Krinar stories.”

Another sharp inhale, followed by a wheezing sound. “Have more victimized xenophiles come forward with their sex-clubbing stories?”

I winced. Xenophiles—or xenos for short—was the derogatory term for humans who lusted after Ks and sought out sexual relations with them. “K addicts” was another, more neutral name for them. It was that disturbing phenomenon that had spawned the xeno clubs—a.k.a. x-clubs—that I’d reported on in my article.

“No.” I cleared my throat. “This one’s about their forced vegan lifestyle and how it’s not only robbing humans of our free will but potentially damaging our health and the health of future generations, simply for the sake of satisfying their preferences.”

Two years ago, when the Krinar species had invaded and assumed control of Earth, they’d inserted themselves into all aspects of our world—down to the foods readily available for consumption. They had immediately shut down our industrial farming industry and forced meat and dairy producers to grow fruits and vegetables instead. Nowadays, any meat or dairy products to be found were sold at an outrageous premium.

The Ks claimed to have done this for our own benefit, to prevent us from further destroying our already weakened, sickly bodies and our even sicklier planet with our overproduction and overconsumption of meat and dairy.

And this had pretty well set the tone for how we could expect to be viewed by our new overlords—as a lower life form not intelligent enough to make even the most basic daily choices about the foods we put into our bodies.

“But you’ve been a vegan for eight years.” My dad’s voice sounded confused.

“Oh, hey, Dad. Yeah, that’s true. But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s our right to—”

“The point is, why should we have to give up pork fat when they’re eating humans at dance clubs,” my mother cut in with exasperation.

Oh, Jesus. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll call you guys on Sunday, all right?”

“Amy.” My dad’s voice was calm but weighted with concern. “We think you need to stop antagonizing the Ks with these articles. From what little we know of them, they’re a violent, dangerous species… capable of anything. It isn’t wise to risk—”

“You have to stop!” My mother’s frantic pitch was approaching E-flat range. “Your dad and I are worried sick that those E.T.s are going to come to kill you and eat your brain any minute now.”

I knew I shouldn’t have picked up her call. “It’s blood they like, Ma. Not brains.”

“They eat brains too,” she insisted. “I sent you a YouTube interview on it.”

Here we go. “Okay, remember when we discussed YouTube not being the most reliable—”

“The YouTube video of those Saudi resistors being massacred by Ks was confirmed to be legit,” my dad reminded me. “No one thought that footage could possibly be real at first either.”

He had a point, although I wouldn’t concede to it just now. “That was different, Dad.”

The memory of that early video footage of the Ks never failed to induce an internal shudder. During the first few weeks of the Krinar invasion, guerrilla fighters in the Middle East had ambushed a small group of unarmed Ks. The gruesome event that ensued had been captured via iPhone, showing the whole world exactly what kind of genetically advanced—and positively ruthless—species had taken over planet Earth. Thirty-some Saudis armed with grenades and automatic assault weapons had been no match for six unarmed Ks capable of moving at inhuman speed and strong enough to literally tear their human attackers apart with bare hands—and throw them as far as sixty feet with minimal effort.

“Sources say they’re constructing human labor camps in Costa Rica,” my dad continued.

I sighed and let my eyes roll. “Sources” indeed.

“They’re developing torture and execution facilities for miscreant humans,” my mother interjected.

This was too much. I needed to get back to work.

“Your mother read that they publicly behead criminals on their home planet of Krina.”

“And then they have a feast where they drink their blood and eat their brains and other organs,” she chimed in.

Ugh. My empty stomach churned in revolt. “Guys, I really have to go now; my boss just emailed me for an update.”

“All right, honey, but your mother and I are very worried. We respect what you’re trying to do for the good of the public, but we think it’d be better if you went into hiding and wrote for one of the underground news sources we subscribe to.”

Of course they did. “Thanks, Dad. But you don’t have to worry about me. Everything’s fine. Believe me, if the Ks had been upset over my x-club story, they would’ve pulled it from circulation as soon as it was released. They never would’ve let it get so much press and media attention.” At least I hoped so. I had been banking on that theory. “It’s not like The New York Herald is beyond their reach or influence. It’s been pretty well confirmed that Ks monitor and control the world media at this point.”

“You say that now, but what happens when they come after you and cart you off to a K torture camp”—my mom’s voice cracked on an exaggerated, hysterical sob—“and we’re left wondering how many aliens ate our little girl’s brains for supper?”

With a poorly muffled wail of distress, she sobbed out a melodramatic goodbye and audibly stomped off.

That was my mother. If there was one thing she could always be counted on for, it was her penchant for high doomsday drama and her knack for saying the most unhelpful, inappropriate, and terrifying things at inopportune moments.

A long, awkward pause on the line followed. Twenty-seven years of marriage and my dad had never quite learned how to react to my mom’s special brand of crazy. It was an odd thing between the two of them that had grated on me immensely growing up.

Eventually, he said, “I should probably let you go now.”

“’Kay, Dad. Call you on Sunday.”

“Talk to you then. Be careful, Amy.”