Contracted Marriage With The Alpha Prince

So there I was, standing in the middle of a chaotic scene that felt like it had been ripped straight out of a telenovela. I rubbed my face, which was now emitting more heat than a jalapeño on a summer day. Why? Oh, just because someone decided to give me a warm welcome in the form of a well-executed slap. You know, just another day in the glamorous life of Melissa, the slap magnet.

I took a step back, assessing the situation with the grace of a clumsy cat on roller skates. The woman in front of me, Denise Parker, stared back with a mixture of triumph and fury. I resisted the urge to unleash my inner Shakespeare and give her a piece of my mind. Instead, I held back, channeling my inner zen master.

Do not cry, Lane. Don't let that bitch see it.

I looked around the room, searching for a sign that said, "Congratulations! You've just entered the Twilight Zone." No luck. It seemed I was stuck in this bizarre reality where slaps were the new handshake. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that they were paying me a fortune for this gig.

As I tried to regain my composure, the woman smirked, clearly pleased with her slapathon performance. "Did that hurt, darling?" she purred, the corners of her lips dancing like they had just won a salsa competition.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Hurt? Nah, it felt like a gentle butterfly kiss from a disgruntled butterfly. But hey, thanks for the free facial treatment?"

She frowned, clearly not expecting my sarcastic gratitude. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

"Sweetheart, I don't think. I know. My mom always said I missed my true calling as a stand-up comedian, but here I am, getting slapped for a living. Dreams do come true."

The tension in the room thickened like day-old oatmeal as she glared at me. I could almost hear the imaginary drumroll.

"Consider it hazard pay," she said with a sly grin.

"Hazard pay?"

She leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Use your imagination."

She produced a wad of cash from her pocket, like a magician revealing the final act. "Consider this your bonus round," she sneered, slapping a handful of bills onto my face. Money-my newfound defense against face assaults.

As if that wasn't enough, she proceeded to shower the rest of the cash onto the floor like confetti at a budget party. My eyes widened as the bills fluttered down, forming a bizarre carpet of currency.

"You know," she grinned, "I'm paying extra for these slaps. Just to see if you're as spineless as you look. Pick up the money, darling. Let's test your dignity."

I blinked, a little dumbfounded. "So, I'm getting paid to get slapped, and now I'm getting paid extra to pick up money from the floor? I love this!"

She chuckled, a sound that could make a hyena reconsider its life choices. "Quit stalling and grab the money. Let's see if you have at least that much self-respect left."

With all the grace of a penguin on rollerblades, I sat down amidst the scattered bills. The other people in the room watched with a mix of confusion and mild amusement. I picked up the money one bill at a time, like a diligent janitor cleaning up after a chaotic parade.

The slap-happy benefactor sneered, "Look at you, crawling on the floor for a few bucks. No spine, no pride. You're a real piece of work, Melissa."

I shot her a sideways glance. "Well, if having a spine means not getting paid for slaps, then call me the spineless wonder. Do I get a cape?"

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by my attempt at humor. "You're a disgrace."

I shrugged, continuing my money-picking mission. "Disgrace is a strong word. I prefer 'unconventional income enthusiast.'"

As I reached for the last bill, she leaned in, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're nothing. No dignity, no self-respect. You're just a puppet dancing for a paycheck."

Dragging myself back to the hotel felt like attempting an Olympic marathon after a particularly intense yoga session – you know, the one where you question your life choices. The film crew had kindly bestowed upon me a room that could be generously described as 'cozy,' but I was too tired to protest. I opened the door, my weariness setting in like an unwelcome roommate.

The room greeted me with the warmth of a popsicle in a freezer. Note to self: request an upgrade to at least 'mildly heated' for the next shoot. I stumbled in, each step like I was wading through a sea of metaphorical molasses.

My tiny haven for the night resembled a matchbox with delusions of grandeur. The bed looked like it had hosted a wrestling match between insomniacs, and the lone window had aspirations of starring in a minimalist art installation. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, and I was too tired to beg.

With the grace of a sleep-deprived sloth, I made my way to the bathroom. Ah, the bathroom – the unsung hero of every travel escapade. A place where one could contemplate life, practice Oscar-worthy acceptance speeches, and, of course, engage in silent battles with stubborn zippers.

I closed the bathroom door behind me, my body sagging against it like a deflating balloon. The harsh overhead light flickered to life, casting a spotlight on a tired reflection that could rival a raccoon's after a particularly wild night.

"So, Melissa," I mumbled to myself, "how's life treating you today? Oh, you know, just got slapped for a living. The usual."

I splashed water on my face, hoping to wash away the day's chaos along with any remnants of on-set makeup that clung to my skin like a desperate ex. The cold water stung, but it was a welcome wake-up call – a splash of reality in a world where slaps came with bonus paychecks.

So, there I was, attempting to adult like a pro. I mean, how hard could it be to transfer money and send a thoughtful, adult-like message to my dear mother?

I grabbed my phone, my fingers dancing across the screen like caffeinated spiders. "Alright, money transfer time. I got this," I whispered to myself, channeling my inner financial wizard.

After successfully navigating the labyrinthine maze that was my banking app, I transferred a chunk of my hard-earned cash to my mother's account. Ah, the joys of adulting – robbing Peter to pay Paul, or in this case, robbing Melissa to pay Mama.

With the financial sacrifice completed, I decided to add a touch of sentimentality to the occasion. I opened the messaging app and began crafting a message that would make even Shakespeare nod approvingly from his literary grave.

"Dear Mother, I hope this message finds you well. I have, in my infinite wisdom, decided to part ways with a significant portion of my riches to aid you in your quest to conquer the debt dragon. Consider it a gesture of unparalleled filial devotion. With love, Melissa – your benevolent offspring."

I grinned, proud of my linguistic prowess. This was no ordinary message; this was a masterpiece, a poetic symphony of love and financial responsibility. But just as I was about to hit send and bask in the glory of my adulting achievements, a notification popped up.

"Insufficient funds," it declared, mocking me like a technological deity with a twisted sense of humor.

"Oh, come on!" I muttered, my dreams of filial devotion shattered by the cold reality of my bank account. With a heavy sigh, I revised my message.

"Hey, Mom, sent you some money. Pay the debts. Love, Melissa – the broke but well-intentioned child."

The day had been a rollercoaster of absurdity, from financial acrobatics to banter with friends about my newfound benevolence. As I lounged on the couch, contemplating life through the remnants of a potato chip bag, fate decided to toss another curveball my way. The door creaked open, a stark reminder that I had forgotten the sacred ritual of locking it earlier. Damn it, Melissa, you had one job.

The lights were dim, casting a cinematic glow that turned my humble abode into the set of a B-movie thriller. And then, in walked a vision straight out of my most bizarre dreams – a tall, muscular man, wearing nothing but shorts. His abs were like a Picasso painting, a blur of perfection illuminated by the soft glow of the night light.

He strolled in with the grace of a sloth trying to breakdance, his gait swaying as if the ground beneath him was participating in an impromptu salsa. His face was a shade of red that hinted at either a vigorous workout or a disagreement with a bottle of questionable spirits.

I blinked, processing the unexpected intrusion. "Well, hello there, Mr. Shirtless Wonder. Welcome to my humble abode. Do you come bearing gifts, or is this an avant-garde interpretation of 'Nightly Abs Unleashed'?"

He squinted at me, his eyes struggling to focus on my existence. "This isn't... my place."

A stranger with ash-colored pupils that seemed to glow in the low light. He declared, with the theatrical flair of a Shakespearean actor, "I'm very thirsty."

Okay, weird entrance, but hey, maybe he was just a lost poet looking for a metaphorical drink in the desert of life. His eyes locked onto mine, and he started advancing toward me, step by step. And that's when it hit me – the feeling in the pit of my stomach that screamed, "Abort mission, Melissa, this is not a poetry reading; this is the eyes of a predator looking at its prey!"

I took a step back, trying to maintain an air of casual nonchalance. "Thirsty, huh? Well, you know, tap water is free, and I've got a budget to maintain."

He continued his slow advance, his gaze never leaving mine. "Not for water. I'm thirsty for something else."

He reached me, and the suspense thickened like a poorly mixed smoothie. "Thirsty for something else," he repeated, his voice a low murmur that danced on the edge of ominous.

Dominique, my inner wolf, piped up in my mind. "He's the alpha, Melissa. Submit to the pull."

Submit? Oh, fantastic. As if I didn't have enough existential crises on my plate. I tried to wriggle free, my awkward struggle punctuating the charged atmosphere. "Submit? Who do you think I am, a contestant on a reality show? 'Survivor: Awkward Encounters Edition'?"

He hovered over me, the scent of him enveloping my senses like a heady perfume. "You're resisting, is that what you wanted, you sly fox? You did this to me!"

My inner wolf groaned, a mix of frustration and amusement. "Would it kill you to go with the flow for once, Melissa? It's not every day you find yourself in the presence of an alpha."

I shot back, my voice a blend of stubbornness and feigned indifference, "Oh, forgive me if I don't have 'submit to alpha' on my to-do list. I was planning to conquer my fear of spiders, but sure, let's spice things up."

He chuckled again, a sound that felt like silk brushing against my skin. "You're playing hard to get. I like that."

I rolled my eyes, the tension blending with a hint of exasperation. "I did not do anything to you. You've confused me for someone else."

His lips quirked in a half-smile, and there it was – that magnetic pull, an invisible force that defied the laws of logic and reason. "You drugged me and fooled me into your room. I know exactly what you want."

Oh, honey, if only he knew the carnival of chaos that paraded through my mind on a daily basis. But I swear on my bank account that I have done no such thing. Drugging him? Oh no, I'd drug people for their money, but not for their dicks. But before I could further explore the intricate dance of sarcasm and innuendo, Dominique chimed in with a revelation.

"It's the tequila, Melissa. The crew's tequila from this afternoon. It's amplifying the connection."

I shot a mental glare at my inner wolf. "Tequila? Of course."

I felt heat rising inside me.

His eyes, those piercing, alpha eyes, held a knowing glint. "You can't fool me."

"Embrace the unexpected," Dominque softly spoke to me. I echoed, my mind swimming in a sea of confusion and newfound desires. "Is this the part where I dramatically throw caution to the wind and surrender to the alpha allure?"

His lips brushed against my neck, a tantalizing whisper that seemed to set my skin ablaze. "Surrender. There's a wild beauty in surrendering to the unknown."

My inner wolf howled in agreement, and I couldn't help but mutter, "Do I have a choice?"

As his lips continued their exploration, the room blurred into a sensual symphony of sensations. The air was charged with an intoxicating blend of desire and uncertainty, a potent cocktail that left me simultaneously exhilarated and apprehensive.

The air crackled with an unexpected tension, and my senses were on high alert. His breath, warm and intimate, got closer, sending a shiver down my spine. Panic clawed at the edges of my consciousness as I realized I couldn't move. My limbs felt heavy, my mind sluggish. Panic turned to terror.

"You drugged me," he said, his voice a low, accusing murmur.

"I did no such thing."

I tried to shake my head, to deny the accusation, but my body felt like it was submerged in molasses. No, this couldn't be happening. I'm not a victim. I'm Melissa – the queen of awkward situations, the mistress of sarcasm. But before I could summon my voice, before I could protest, he kissed me.

His lips were insistent, greedily swallowing mine. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions – fear, confusion, and an unwelcome flicker of something else. My mind screamed at me to push him away, to fight back, but my body refused to cooperate. It was a bizarre dance of desire and defiance, a struggle between the remnants of consciousness and the intoxicating allure of the unknown.

I managed to gasp out a muffled protest against his lips, but he seemed unaffected. His hands explored, tracing lines on my skin like an artist lost in the canvas of a masterpiece. My mind, clouded by the effects of whatever substance had rendered me powerless, fought to break free from the chains of paralysis.

This couldn't be happening. It must be a dream – a nightmare born from the twisted corridors of my subconscious mind. But the weight of his body, the taste of his lips, all felt painfully real. My inner voice, the sarcastic and awkward commentator of my life, was silenced by the overwhelming storm of sensations.

He planted a brief kiss on me again before moving from my lips to my neck. The more experienced spy left a trail of gentle pecks in his wake, pausing briefly to lick, suck, and nibble at my soft flesh. This process repeated as he moved from my neck to my breasts, alternating between kisses and varying degrees of pressure on each nipple. The biting was less frequent and forceful.

While I appreciated these teasing gestures, I was particularly fond of the gentle approach. Even as he moved lower, I deliberately ignored the place he most desired, focusing on kissing my stomach, thighs, and down my legs-everywhere except my intimate area.

By the time he finally explored my most sensitive area with his tongue, I was nearly delirious with need. I let out a guttural cry of relief, transforming into a moan of pleasure as he skillfully licked his way up to my clit. The experience was unlike what I was accustomed to.

---

Killian's POV

I undressed her, leaving only her panties and a tee-shirt right there in the hallway. I motioned for her to pause. "Good. Now, kneel."

She complied, eyes fixed on mine, her face flushing with arousal. I took my time opening my fly, feeling the strain against the fabric as I freed myself. Stepping forward, I reached to stroke her head. Her dark hair in the warm hallway light, and her stunning green eye mirrored the tones.

Like she belongs here.

Then, I pressed my erection to her parted lips, guiding its tip inside.

Initially wide-eyed, she closed her lips, her eyes shutting as well. Perfectly arched lashes adorned her face, and she emitted soft noises, clearly reveling in the experience.

Exquisite.

A low growl escaped me as pleasure coursed through. Urgency built inside; I had to claim her. Michael - my inner wolf, screamed for it.

Shoving my pants off, I pulled her up by her thin tee, dragging her to the living room sofa.

No time for waiting. I snarled, pressing her down by her chest with one hand, pulling her panties down with the other. Managing to free one foot, I didn't concern myself with the other.

She struggled, but I had leverage. Forcing her left thigh out to the side with my knee, I mounted her immediately.

Her entrance was tighter than before, sparking a flicker of worry and doubt as I thrust inside.

My growls and thrusts rang in my ears and the walls. I pressed harder, prying her open as her hands flailed, leaving gouges with her perfect nails. And the tears- Wet streaked her face, marking her beautiful cheeks.

Excitement surged as something primal drove every thrust. Her wails and sobs, caught thickly in her throat, accompanied my actions. My perfect tightened around my shaft as her abs flexed beneath me.

Streaked with tears just for me.

Shining pink streaks on her face pushed me over the edge, quicker than expected. My release pulsed inside her, globs of semen expelled.

Continuing to thrust, I mashed the globs against her swollen cervix amidst her sobs. As my body calmed, I withdrew carefully, noticing the blood-a small streak on my shaft. Connecting the dots, guilt flooded me, twisting into anger on my face.

"You were a virgin."

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the unfamiliar room. As I stirred from a somewhat restless sleep, a peculiar soreness in my lower body brought me back to the reality of the night before. I groaned, my inner monologue already preparing a sarcastic commentary on the unexpected turn of events.

"Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed – a souvenier of the night's questionable decisions."

I shifted in the bed, blinking away the remnants of sleep, only to notice that he was no longer beside me. The space next to me was empty, and the rumpled sheets seemed to mock me with their silent testimony to the night's escapades. I sat up, casting a furtive glance around the room as if expecting it to spill the secrets of the night.

The bathroom door was closed, and tendrils of steam curled out from under it, hinting at his presence within. My mind, still foggy from sleep, registered the blurred shape of toned muscles and the echo of movements beyond the frosted glass. A memory, more sensual than I'd anticipated, flashed in my mind, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal.

"Well, well, Melissa. Looks like someone had a workout session last night. But I'm pretty sure my gym doesn't offer that particular class."

I shook my head, attempting to dispel the fog of sleep and the lingering traces of last night's indulgence. It was a whirlwind of sensations and choices I hadn't consciously made. But, as the saying goes, "When life gives you lemons, make awkward lemonade."

I decided it was time to face the aftermath. Gingerly, I began to gather my scattered belongings, my movements slow and cautious, as if afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the room. My clothes, carelessly strewn about, were retrieved one by one and neatly folded. I glanced at the bed, almost expecting it to offer a commentary on the night's events – perhaps a sarcastic remark in the form of a lopsided pillow.

Room service stood innocently by the entrance, trays of culinary delights tempting me with their aromatic allure. My gaze fixated on a glorious creation – a bacon and cheese sandwich, beckoning me like a forbidden treasure.

With a swift, guilt-laden glance around, I made my move. In one smooth motion, I snatched the sandwich from the tray, feeling a mix of victory and mischievous delight. "Sorry, bacon and cheese sandwich. Duty calls."

I slipped out of the hotel room with all the finesse of a cat burglar, my bag slung over my shoulder like a secret accomplice in my grand escape plan. The hallway stretched before me, and I tiptoed with exaggerated caution, as if the floor might betray my stealthy departure.

"Mission: The Great Escape," I whispered to myself, my own silent cheerleader in this comedic caper. As I approached the elevator, I couldn't help but feel a mix of triumph and amusement.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in, glancing around to make sure I wasn't under surveillance by the hotel's secret sandwich police. With a sly grin, I pressed the button for the ground floor, my eyes darting between the buttons and the hallway as if plotting an intricate getaway.

As the elevator descended, I rehearsed my excuse in case I ran into anyone. "Oh, this sandwich? It's, uh, a... late-night snack. Very crucial for, um, post-tequila recovery."

The doors opened, and I slipped out, making my way towards the lobby with the agility of a seasoned escape artist. The hotel's ambiance of hushed conversations and ambient music served as my cover, and I sauntered towards the exit, a woman on a mission – a mission for both discretion and a satisfying breakfast.

The hum of the plane's engines served as a background symphony to the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. I gazed out of the tiny window, watching as the world below became a patchwork quilt of colors and shapes. My mind, however, was far from the scenic views.

The flight attendant approached with a practiced smile. "Coffee or tea, ma'am?"

"Coffee, please," I replied, the warmth of the beverage seeming like a comforting ally in the midst of my chaotic thoughts.

My phone vibrated, interrupting my contemplation. A text message from my mother blinked on the screen. "Debt almost paid. Come back, stop chasing money. I miss you." The words hit me with a mix of guilt and longing.

I sighed, typing out a reply with the precision of someone who had mastered the art of masking emotions through a screen. "Mom, I'm okay. Just a bit caught up with work. I'll be back soon. Love you."

The response was almost instant, a barrage of concerned emojis and a virtual hug that seemed to reach through the pixels. I felt a sting in my eyes, the wind from the plane's air conditioning playing the role of an unexpected antagonist.

The plane touched down with a gentle thud, and I was immediately jolted out of my airplane-induced daydreams. The captain's voice crackled over the intercom, welcoming everyone to the new destination with the kind of enthusiasm that would make even the most stoic traveler roll their eyes. I gathered my belongings, a seasoned professional at navigating the chaos of disembarking passengers.

As I stepped into the terminal, my phone buzzed with the tenacity of a persistent bee. My manager's name flashed on the screen – a call from the puppet master of my chaotic life, ready to pull the strings once again.

"Melissa, darling! How was the flight? Did you survive the turbulence or were you ready to audition for a disaster movie?" The voice on the other end was none other than my manager, a force of nature named Sandra.

"The flight was a rollercoaster of emotions, Sandra. I nearly auditioned for an Oscar with my dramatic reactions to the in-flight snacks," I replied, my tone a blend of sarcasm and exhaustion.

Sandra laughed, a sound that could only be described as the cackle of someone who had witnessed the most absurd spectacles life had to offer. "You're a trooper, Melissa. Now, listen carefully. Jenny will pick you up at the airport. Oh, and one more thing – Leonard Johnson is not in a good mood. Brace yourself."

Leonard Johnson – a name that sent shivers down the spine of every actor in the business. "Oh, great. Leonard 'The Taskmaster' Johnson. Is he as terrifying as they say, or does he just have a collection of really good scare tactics?"

Sandra chuckled. "Let's just say he makes drill sergeants look like kindergarten teachers. Do not – I repeat, do not – get too comfortable, and for the love of all things cinematic, control that laughter of yours. He's not a fan of joy on set."

"Got it, Sandra. Keep a straight face, maintain a solemn demeanor, and pretend my funny bone doesn't exist. Should be a piece of cake," I quipped, already envisioning the uphill battle awaiting me in the realm of Leonard's no-nonsense directorial approach.

The call ended, and I found myself weaving through the sea of eager faces at the airport. A familiar figure caught my eye – Jenny, my partner in crime and the designated chauffeur for this leg of the journey.

"Melissa! There you are, darling!" Jenny's voice was a symphony of enthusiasm as she enveloped me in a hug that bordered on the edge of a wrestling match. "How was the flight? Did you get slapped?"