Alpha's Prey: A BBW Bear Shifter Romance Read online

  No one to kill here, fucker. And you’ll hurt the girl if you don’t back the hell down.

  The human still shivers on my couch, teeth chattering. Delicate fucking flower. “Come here,” I say gruffly, grasping her wrists and pulling her to stand. “We have to get your body temperature up. Get in that sleeping bag there.” I point to it and lead her over.

  She moves like an awkward wooden doll, her steps stiff and uncoordinated. She manages to fit herself into the sleeping bag.

  “Take off the panties.”

  Damn. That doesn’t sound good.

  She doesn’t move.

  “They’re wet and cold. Take the damn things off now,” I bark, putting alpha command into my voice. The dog hears it and tucks his tail even more, dropping his head.

  I actually don’t expect her to obey me. She’s not a shifter so she doesn’t respond to alpha command for one thing. For another, she doesn’t know me at all. I’m a complete stranger ordering her to take off her panties. It could definitely be misconstrued.

  After a couple beats, she wriggles around in the sleeping bag, but the movements seem to exhaust her and she falls still, just shivering.

  Shit. I unzip the side of the sleeping bag and grab the sides of her panties. Her eyes fly wide when I pull them down.

  I nearly shift right there. And it’s not to protect her.

  Apparently my bear thinks this curvy human is the next best thing to a sow because my teeth sharpen in my mouth like he wants to give her a mating bite.

  Crazy, crazy bear. I need to get this under control or I could inadvertently hurt this fragile human. I close my eyes and turn my face away in case my irises turned yellow. I fight back a growl from my bear. Fates, having a naked female within kissing distance does all kinds of things to the beast within.

  Go back to sleep, bear.

  Touching her, lying next to her naked body is the last thing I should do considering how little control I have over my animal. But it has to be done. Her life is still in danger.

  I strip off all but my boxers, wedge myself in with her, and zip us in together. Her scent fills my nostrils—sun-warmed strawberries. Vanilla ice cream. Heat explodes down my limbs. I struggle to calm the bear, taking slow, measured breaths, focusing on the chill of her flesh against my burning skin.

  I turn her to face away from me and mold myself to her back. She stiffens but doesn’t protest. I pray my intent is pretty clear—this isn’t a romantic moment, it’s a life-saving event.

  At least I hope to hell it saves her life.

  Her ample ass fills my lap. Her bare lush ass. Nothing between it and my cock but a thin pair of boxers.

  I manage to angle my hips away as my cock lengthens. Prickles of heat run up my spine as the pain of the change comes right on me.

  Fates, at best I’m going to scare the female to death if she feels my manhood moving against her ass. Especially because bear cock… it’s huge. I’m not bragging, just stating fact. At worst, we could have a bear mauling situation.

  No, I wouldn’t hurt her. My bear would never hurt a woman.

  Keep telling yourself that, a voice in the back of my head whispers. You still don’t know for sure.

  It’s hotter than hell in the sleeping bag. I’m sweating like a demon, but I’m relieved to feel her flesh warm against mine. Her teeth stop chattering. The shivering ceases.

  The poor female, probably exhausted from her ordeal, slips into a gentle slumber.

  I whistle softly to her dog, who’s pacing around us, keeping an eye on me, and I pat the spot on the other side of me. The loyal canine probably needs my body heat to warm up, too. He drops to his belly beside me, understanding. I scoot him against the sleeping bag, offering my side for him to mold into.

  Now if I can just figure out how to stuff my bear back down and fall asleep with this king-sized boner.

  Chapter 4

  Miranda

  The first thing I notice is the sound of gentle snoring.

  Right beside my ear.

  Then I realize how crazy-hot I am. Like sweaty-hot. And my slick skin is sliding over someone else’s slick skin.

  Oh God!

  My eyes fly open as the memory of my rescue comes flooding back.

  The beast of a man who threw me over his shoulder and brought me to his cabin is lying on his back beside me. My head rests on his arm, and—oh lordy, one of my legs is tossed over his, as if this is a post-coital snuggle rather than two perfect strangers lying naked in a sleeping bag together.

  It’s dim in the cabin, only the first rays of morning light come through the windows, but a fire still burns in the hearth, illuminating the room with flickering amber light. I lift my head and stare at the stranger. He’s enormous, his muscled chest and arms inked with black tattoos. He has high cheekbones with hollows beneath and sports an unruly dark beard, like some kind of mountain man.

  I don’t know if it’s the wildness about him—the formidable appearance and the gruff manners, the remoteness of his cabin—but a spike of fear suddenly shoots through me.

  What if this is the serial killer? Maybe he kidnaps women and brings them up to this very cabin.

  I need to get out of this sleeping bag. And this cabin.

  Stat.

  Of course the zipper for the sleeping bag is on the other side.

  I ease my leg off the giant of a man and start to slither my way straight up, out of the sleeping bag. And that’s when I see the man’s other arm.

  His tattooed limb—the one not serving as a pillow for my head—is curved protectively around Bear.

  My breath escapes in a relieved puff—almost a laugh.

  The memory of him using a hairdryer on my best friend comes flooding back.

  He can’t be a serial killer. This man saved not only my life, but also Bear’s.

  He probably likes to keep the women alive so he can torture them, the whisper of fear tries to point out. And serial killers can be dog lovers, too.

  The thing is, he’s not a dog lover. I doubt he’s much of a people lover either. He was grim and grudging in his help yesterday. Would a serial killer be grudging if he had me where he wanted me? No, he’d be celebrating.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  None of that can be attributed to my newfound fascination with the man’s burly chest. Or the way I’m suddenly even more intensely aware of my nudity. The slickness between my legs. My body’s reacting to the sight of his sculpted muscle, the nearness of a naked male. Is he naked?

  I peek inside the sleeping bag.

  Boxer shorts.

  And, um, morning wood.

  Holy shit, his cock is huge!

  My nipples tighten, a slow thrum begins between my legs.

  I’m not sure when I’ve been this turned on. Of course it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. A really long time.

  Three years long time and that was with Will Carter, another grad student who literally fucked me over, using me to help him sort through his research and dumping me as soon as he figured out what to do.

  Which is why I don’t do men. Or sex. Or relationships.

  Observe the male of the species, poisoned by testosterone. Spurred by his competitive and antagonistic instincts, he views any intelligent woman as a threat...

  Because being a woman in science has taught me one lesson very well: If I don’t look out for myself and my research, I will never get anywhere. Sex, relationships, even friendships—they only screw your career in the end.

  It doesn’t help that the extra weight I carry makes me look like a fertility goddess instead of a serious science geek. And this man here got to see it all last night. Every pound of flesh on me.

  My pussy clenches as if it suspects he liked what he saw, even though my brain tells me different.

  It’s crazy—not like me at all—but I slowly push the sleeping bag down to see more of the man’s chest. I tell myself I just want to see the rest of the tattoos.

  The ritual markings o
f the male, signals his pain tolerance and non-conformity to conservative ideals...

  Hello, twelve-pack of abdominal muscles. His body is both lean and large at the same time. I’m tempted to touch the curls in his dark beard, but I know that would be going too far.

  Bear lifts his head and thumps his tail.

  I don’t speak to my dog because I don’t want to wake up my rescuer. Not until I crawl safely out of this sleeping bag and find some clothes. I continue my ridiculous shimmy, army crawling my way out of the bag and he snorts, curving up the arm that was under my head and is now at waist level and capturing me.

  Oh crap.

  My breast now brushes the top of his head, and my pussy’s wetter than before just from feeling his strength.

  I imagine him using that strength to hold me down and bring those sensuous lips to my nipple.

  OMG, what? Okay, I’m crazy. Hold me down? Definitely not a fantasy I’ve ever had before. I don’t go for cocky, dominant men who think they need to take charge in the relationship or bed.

  Gross.

  I try to keep shimmying, but his arm around my waist bands tight, even though he’s fallen back into gentle snores.

  What kind of man tightens his grip on a woman when he sleeps?

  A serial killer, the worrisome voice whispers.

  I shake it off. No, that’s not right. A man who is used to sleeping with a woman.

  And I should find that sweet, but instead a knot of jealousy tightens in my belly. So this guy regularly brings women home to his cabin? Who are they? Women from town?

  Okay, I give up. I’m going to have to risk waking the guy up. I’m starving and I have to pee. I clear my throat.

  Nothing. He doesn’t even stir.

  I try to push the limb around my midsection away, but it doesn’t budge. I clear my throat again.

  “I, uh, need to get up,” I finally say out loud.

  He still doesn’t stir.

  Wow. Deep sleeper.

  Well, screw polite. This guy has to let go. I push at the arm and struggle to get out of the sleeping bag, accidentally kneeing him in the ribs as I do.

  He snorts and shakes his head, rolling over to his side and up to an elbow in a slow but fluid motion. He blinks like I just woke him from the dead. His eyes seem yellow at first, but it must be a reflection from the fire, because after he blinks, I realize they are very dark brown. Almost black.

  Then his lids snap wide, because, yeah. He’s got a curvy naked woman on her hands and knees beside his head. I’m sure he’s getting more than an eyeful of way too many of my unclothed parts. After a quick debate between diving back under the sleeping bag covers and getting out, I choose getting out. Because I don’t need to rub my bare body down the front of his bare body—Stop, brain!—I scramble out as fast as I can, covering my breasts with my forearm and my twat with my other hand.

  The man makes an animal-sounding growl and his muscled arm swings through the air as he twists his body and reaches up behind him. The fire glints in his eyes again, giving them an animal-like glow.

  A hunter green flannel shirt flies through the air at me, and I catch it with my face. I yank it on, buttoning quickly and pulling the hem down as far as it goes. He’s a big guy, but I’m a big girl—curvy, I like to say because it feels better than overweight—and I fill the shirt so it barely drops below my crotch.

  My face totally burns up as he watches me with dark eyes. I remember him carrying me out of the bathroom last night like I weighed nothing. Like I was the heroine in a movie.

  I shake my head to dislodge that starry-eyed thought.

  “Um, thanks,” I mumble, backing up as he starts to crawl out of the sleeping bag.

  He stops just before his hips emerge, and pulls the fabric up to his waist.

  I can’t help but look, because the reason he didn’t come out is obvious.

  Yep. Giant tent in the sleeping bag. Holy shit, that flag pole is high.

  I turn away to give him some privacy.

  Bathroom. That’s what I need. I look around, not remembering the layout from last night when I was too disoriented from the cold.

  I must’ve had hypothermia.

  A fresh rush of gratitude runs through me. Bear and I would both be dead if it wasn’t for the man out there. Whose name I don’t even know.

  I find the bathroom and quickly pee. My clothes are still in a puddle on the floor where he discarded them yesterday. I remember those large hands disrobing me. It wasn’t sexy—he’d been more disgruntled than anything—but the memory of it makes my nipples pucker again. I really wish I had a pair of panties to wear. Then the thrum between my legs wouldn’t be so strong.

  I pick my clothes up but they’re wet and covered with dirt. Damn. I take a quick look in the mirror. Dear lord, I look like hell! My hair is a disaster from being in a hat all day yesterday and then rolling around on a beefy man’s arm all night. I grab his comb and do my best to yank out the tangles. I open the bathroom cabinet.

  I read a statistic once on bathroom cabinets. Something like fifty percent of people who use your bathroom will look in the cabinets. I don’t normally fall into that group, but today’s an exception. There’s no mouthwash or extra toothbrush. There’s very little, actually. Just the man-basics: deodorant, dental floss, and Vaseline which I grab and rub some on my dry, cracked lips.

  I carry my bundle of wet clothes out.

  Mountain man is up and he’s put his jeans on, which somehow makes him look even hotter. The washboard abs look even finer when framed by denim. I lick up my lips—a nervous habit I thought I’d kicked years ago.

  “Um, thanks. You know, for rescuing us. And um”—I look at the rumpled sleeping bag on the floor— “saving my life.”

  He has this strange way of remaining perfectly still. He watches me intently, his eyes so dark they appear black, his expression inscrutable.

  And then he doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks to the back door, opens it and whistles to Bear. Snow’s still falling. My dog, who has somehow decided that this man is the boss, trots over and stops just short of going out, tail tucked.

  “Out,” Caleb grunts and nudges Bear. There’s no anger in his voice, but it’s impossibly firm and my dog instantly obeys, diving into a snow drift taller than him and disappearing.

  I gasp because that means the snow appears to be over three feet deep.

  Crap. I guess I’m not going anywhere. Not unless mountain man has snowshoes or skis I can borrow and he can point me in the right direction.

  Bear does his business quickly and comes bounding back up the steps, snow coating his fur everywhere. He comes inside and shakes it all off onto the floor.

  “Sorry,” I say wryly.

  Mountain man doesn’t answer, just throws a towel down over the snow and walks away.

  “Um, do you have a washing machine?” I try again.

  He turns without answering.

  I gasp when he snatches the clothes from my arms without a word and flips open the washer, which is right next to where we’re standing by the back door. I didn’t notice because the washer and dryer are cloaked by wooden cabinetry. He tosses my clothes in and starts it up.

  When he turns, his gaze lands on my freshly-glossed lips.

  I flush, imagining he’s thinking about me going through his cabinets. His gaze travels down the length of my body, stopping at my bare legs. “You cold?” he rumbles. His voice is deep and just as gruff as I remembered it. It’s also somehow pleasing. My body tingles in reaction. “I can get you some sweatpants.”

  I’m not cold, because the cabin is toasty with the fire, but I definitely want pants. I lick my lips again—dammit, I have to break that habit!—and bob my head. “I—yes. That would be nice, thank you.”

  He walks away without a response. If I weren’t so uncomfortable at waking up spooning this man naked, I might appreciate his economy of words. As it is, I would give anything for some kind of normal conversation. Some chit chat to put me at ease
, like, “My name is Joe Mountain, you had quite a scare yesterday, didn’t you? How are you feeling now? Can I make you some breakfast?”

  Actually, as I imagine that scenario, it sounds too much like what a serial killer might say. As long as this guy remains surly, it probably means he’s not interested in cutting me into pieces and burying me in the basement.

  Right?

  Caleb

  My brain keeps stuttering over the fuck-hot body on that female in my living room.

  Knowing her pussy is bare right now does something visceral to me. My bear came out of slumber hella fast the moment I woke up face to thigh with her. It’s a wonder I didn’t shift right there.

  And her scent: arousal.

  I can’t imagine why she was turned on. I thought she’d be terrified to come to her senses and find herself naked in a sleeping bag with a stranger. And I think she was. But she was also turned on.

  I never thought a human female could smell so good. I certainly didn’t expect to be so affected by another female’s scent. Bears don’t normally mate for life, but this one did.

  So I’m unnerved by my body—and my bear’s—reaction to her. It feels like a betrayal of Jen’s memory.

  So I stay in my bedroom far longer than it takes to grab a pair of sweatpants and try not to wonder how she’ll look in them. I take my time, put on a t-shirt, pace around my room a few times.

  Damn the voluptuous female for interfering with my solitude!

  When I emerge, I toss the pants in her direction, trying not to look at the way her braless breasts stretch the fabric of my flannel. The way the taut points of her nipples protrude. I’m suddenly rocked by a vision of me making those full breasts bounce in a variety of ways that all involve me pounding into her from different angles. My bear rumbles against the cage of humanity.