Alpha’s Prey: A BBW Bear Shifter Romance (Bad Boy Alphas Book 11)

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 of 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.

Stop!

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I pad to the kitchenette to find us some food. I’m hangry as hell, and I’ll bet she is too. Food will calm the bear down.

“What’s your name?” Her voice starts off wobbly but finishes on a strong note, like she’s forcing herself to be assertive.

“Caleb.” I don’t dare look at her. Not when all I can think about is making those breasts dance. I open the refrigerator and pull out two packages of bacon, the eggs, milk and butter.

“I’m Miranda.” Her voice is musical to my ears. Her name is a goddamn song. I can’t stop myself from taking a look.

Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her auburn hair tumbles in tangled waves across her shoulders. Her eyes are green, with lashes I can barely see because they’re the same color as her hair. The uneasy expression on her face makes me turn quickly away.

I fire up the two front gas burners and put frying pans on them to heat, then pull out a bowl and the box of pancake mix. “Just Miranda? Not Doctor Somebody?” Fates, am I making chit chat?

That’s not like me at all. I don’t talk much. To anyone. I especially don’t make useless conversation to make people feel more comfortable.

Apparently now I do.

She lets out a surprised laugh—a sound that instantly relaxes my bear. “Well, I do have a doctorate. But no one calls me that.” Her voice turns suspicious. “What made you think I’m a Ph.D.?”

“Research lab,” I grunt. “I saw you driving up there yesterday.”

Not a lie.

I leave out the part where I rubbed my nose on her window looking in at her prancing around in her little tank top.

I arrange one package of bacon in the frying pan and then crack six eggs into a bowl to make a large batch of pancakes.

“Why don’t you use the title? I imagine you worked hard for those letters.” I risk another glance over my shoulder at her.

Damn. She’s no less enticing in my sweatpants. She fills them out with her ample hips and curvy ass. They’re too long for her, of course, but she’s pulled them up and rolled the waistband down until it rests on her hip bones. Fuck, she’s beautiful.

Surprise flits over her face at my words. I don’t even know what made me say them, just that I have a feeling she doesn’t demand enough respect from the people around her.

“I don’t like to be pretentious,” she says, but her brows drop down. “Although I guess all the men in my department insist they be called Doctor.”

“What department is that?”

Mark it down. This must be a record for the most conversation I’ve made in three years.

The bacon starts to sizzle as I combine the ingredients for the pancakes and pull a package of frozen wild blueberries out of the freezer.

“Ecology. That’s a lot of packages of blueberries in your freezer.” Her voice is close, like she walked into the kitchen. Well, it’s technically all one room—kitchen, dining, living room. One main area, two bedrooms and a bath. I built it myself for my mate.

She opens my freezer. I bristle at having her in my kitchen, in the space Jen used to occupy, but then I have another problem.

“Wow. So trout and blueberries. Do you eat anything else?”

I cringe inwardly. My freezer is packed with bear food. It probably looks strange to a human.

“I eat bacon,” I grunt, flipping the pancakes. “And pancakes.” Then, to distract her, I say, “How are you feeling today? Any numbness or pain in your fingers or toes? Ears? Tip of your nose?” I didn’t see anything that looked like frostbite last night, but I also was in a hurry to get her in the sleeping bag and warmed up, so it’s not like I gave her a thorough examination.

And that thought shouldn’t give me a throbbing hard on, but it does.

My nostrils flare and I swivel my hips more firmly away from her so she won’t see her effect on me.

“Um, no. I think I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

Her hesitant gratitude creates a surprising warmth in my chest. Which is dumb. I certainly didn’t expect or desire her thanks.

“I’m not even going to ask what the hell you were doing out there, because I’m pretty sure it’s gonna make me want to turn you over my knee.”

She draws in a sharp breath.

Oh fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

I give her my back, turning the bacon, piling pancakes onto a plate and tossing one down to her dog. Over the scent of the bacon and pancakes, I catch her scent.

That sweet arousal.

Fuck me now.

Seriously? She’s turned on by my comment? I didn’t need to know that.

I really didn’t.

Because now I can’t stop thinking about just how much I’d love to bend her over and smack that ass red for nearly freezing to death.

“That was entirely inappropriate.” Her voice sounds strangled.

I’m not asshole enough not to turn around now. I find her cheeks flushed pink, eyes snapping. The way her chest rises and falls too quickly makes me think of how I’d like to make her lose her breath in other ways.

“You’re right,” I admit. “I’m a dick. And I don’t get company too often. I’m rusty on what to say to a woman I stripped naked but didn’t fuck.”

Oh for fates’ sake! Now I’m really digging a hole.

The scent of her arousal grows stronger. “Okay, probably you’d better stop before it gets worse,” she warns and I’m surprised to feel my lips quirk at the edges.

My cock lengthens down the leg of my jeans.

“Who are you?” she demands suddenly, like she senses my differences. That I’m an entirely different species from her.

I turn back to the stove, pouring three neat circles of batter on the frying pan and dropping frozen blueberries onto them. “I’m no one.”

Of course that sounds entirely suspicious. The scent of her arousal disappears, replaced the metallic scent of fear.

She’s probably been warned about that missing women up here. Does she think I’m the killer?

I rack my brain to think of something to say that will put her at ease, but nothing occurs to me. All I can think to do is to make breakfast and keep my mouth shut. I put a coffee pot onto brew, then scoop the first package of bacon out of the frying pan and put in another. “Here,” I grunt, dropping the plate piled high with pancakes and a plate with bacon onto the small table that sits by the window. The window which is halfway covered by a snowdrift. Her dog follows closely, pleading eyes on me.

“You must be hungry.” I slide the plate of butter onto the table, along with the jug of honey.

She stands over the table while I pour some coffee, her nervous energy making me want to go back into hibernation. It’s my default response to anything that requires emotion. Or effort. Or any spark of living.

I hand her a plate and fork and lift my chin to the chair at the table. She takes them wordlessly and sits down. I toss a piece of bacon to the dog, sit down across from her and slather my pile of pancakes with honey.

She watches me dubiously. “Sweet tooth, eh?”

I look down at the amount of honey on the cakes as I take a huge bite. I suppose it is a lot. I shrug. “I guess,” I say with my mouth full. “I like honey.”

I think I detect amusement in her expression, but we eat without speaking. I shouldn’t care whether she likes the food or not, but my bear is stupidly pleased when she cleans her plate and reaches for seconds.

“Well, what now? I don’t suppose you have a snowmobile here? Or some other way for me to get back to the research cabin?”

I get up and retrieve the second batch of bacon and set it on the table. “Doctor M, you’re not going anywhere.”