Alpha’s Prey: A BBW Bear Shifter Romance (Bad Boy Alphas Book 11)
Alpha’s Prey: Chapter 12

Miranda

Caleb shows up in the forest, not as a bear, but as a man. I’m not disappointed. I would’ve been thrilled with either version of him.

I stand up when I hear him coming. Bear runs to him with a happy woof and a wagging tail. “Hi.”

He glances at the increment borer in my hand. “How can I help?”

I blink in surprise.

He wants to help?

What man has ever offered to help me without having something in for him?

No man other than Caleb.

And I suddenly feel like we’re on a first date. Like my secret crush just showed up and I’m tongue-tied and clammy-palmed. I guess this means I’ve admitted I like the guy.

More than a little.

Which is a big problem.

“Well, I’m taking a sample from every tree in this plot.” I show him how to take the samples from the tree and then how I wrap it up and pack it away for later studies.

He takes the borer out of my hand, all business. “I’ll take the samples. You wrap them up. Point me to the next tree.”

Swoon.

This man seriously has zero to gain from doing my work for me. I want to kiss him or drop to my knees and suck his cock again, but he’s already taking the next sample, and then the next. He’s stronger and more agile than I am. He makes the work look like a walk in the meadow. I follow along, drooling over the bulge of his muscles as he works and trying not to fawn too much.

As we work, he tells me about his phone call and what he learned from his connection in Tucson. The information certainly fits with the pieces of the puzzle Caleb already has.

We finish in a matter of hours. What would’ve take me another half day is done.

I should be happy, but instead, my stomach knots up.

It’s time to leave Pecos and go back to Albuquerque. No more snowstorms to keep me locked in with Caleb, no more research to keep me on the mountain.

Caleb walks me back to the research cabin, doing that protective, visual sweep of the area as we go. When we arrive, he says, “Better get your shit packed and ready now, because I’m taking you out tonight.”

I gape at him in surprise.

“What, like on a date?”

Caleb winces a little and my face grows warm. “Okay, not a date. I wasn’t suggesting you should. I just—”

“It’s trivia night at the bar. I thought I should bring my ringer down and turn the place on its head.”

I don’t fight the broad smile that stretches my cheeks from ear to ear. “Trivia? I love trivia!”

His lips quirk with amusement. “So you said. I want to see you in action.”

My face heats again, but pleasure shoots through me, warming all my newfound pleasure zones.

Joes’ Bar is an old brick building with a vintage Coors Beer sign over the door. The sign probably wasn’t vintage when they put it up. More like it’s been hanging there so long it’s now considered an antique, and therefore, cool. I doubt Joe or—if the placement of the apostrophe is correct—Joes plural care about cool decorations. This bar is a no-nonsense watering hole where the locals go and gripe about tourists, and hope the centuries-old grime covering the building and the sign are enough to keep away any snowbirds.

My theory proves correct when I walk in and the entire bar—ninety percent male—pivots to glare at me. I hunch in my poufy ski coat, hoping I don’t look too much like an outsider invading their local sanctuary. I consider waving to them all, but decide that would prove to them that I’m an out-of-towner and a dork. Instead I scuttle to the side and let them see Caleb.

The instant he walks in, the tension dissipates like it never existed. The bartender nods to Caleb like he recognizes him and Caleb raises his chin in a totally macho mountain man greeting. The move says, I’m a loner but this is a small town so we say hello. Polite but with the least amount of effort possible. Lots of communication in a simple gesture. It would be interesting if we greeted each other like dogs do, sniffing each other’s noses, mouths, and… other places. Okay, not interesting, awkward.

Caleb touches me and I jump.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “All good.”

He takes my elbow and guides me past the full tables. Trivia night must be popular. On our way to the bar, Caleb gets more mountain man greetings. A few of those eyes slide to me and Caleb’s hand moves to the small of my back in another very telling gesture. Marking his territory, warning off potentially interested males. Look, don’t approach. This one’s claimed.

I could tell him that it’s okay, no one’s likely to hit on me, but I don’t know. If there’s one thing that attracts human males, it’s a female whom another male, an alpha male, has claimed. Something about wanting what they can’t have. It says more about their esteem of Caleb than it does about me. They see me with Caleb, and they’re wondering what hidden assets I have that could attract a macho man like him. They don’t know we were snowed in with nothing else to do.

Caleb gets us to the bar, still resting a large hand in the small of my back. Normally I don’t go for macho You my woman shit, but it feels nice. Gentlemanly. Especially since half the bar (all men) are still staring at us. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and take inventory just in case my fly’s unzipped or my underwear is showing.

I’m wearing a pink vest and white thermal, and comfy jeans. In the mirror behind the bar, I see the pink matches my cheeks which are flushed from the cold. And multiple orgasms. I feel pretty—much sexier than before I met Caleb—but that’s probably not why they’re staring. One, they’ve probably seen Caleb a few times, but never with a woman. Or with anyone he’s close enough to touch and talk to. Two, I have sex hair. I did my best to brush it down, but the past seventy-two hours were filled solid with fucking, and it’s going to take more than a brush to tame my “just went to bed with a raging sex fiend” hairdo. A bottle of hairspray, maybe two. And an act of God. Of course, Caleb does not have hairspray, or any “girly shit.” He thought I was crazy for asking.

As for an act of God, I’m an atheist, but even I know a hot mountain man sexing me up is a miracle, and I’m unlikely to get another anytime soon.

The bartender finishes with his last customer and comes to wait on us. He’s a big mountain man, not as big as Caleb, but cut from the same macho cloth. Normally I’d be scared shitless to come into a place like this, but with Caleb, the biggest badass of them all, it’s kinda fun.

I lean on the bar and give the man a friendly smile. “Are Joe and Joe here?” I chirp.

The bartender raises a brow and grunts, “Who?”

“The Joes who own the bar,” I say encouragingly.

“There’s just one Joe.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. It’s just the sign—” I point behind me at the door. “The apostrophe is on the outside of the ‘s’ and that means…” I coast to a stop. The bartender is looking at me like I have two heads. The rest of the bar stares at me, sipping their drinks and watching the show. I forge on. “It means it’s plural. Joe and Joe. Not… um… singular but plural possessive.”

“Babe,” Caleb mutters. His cheek twitches in a way that I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Nevermind,” I mumble.

“Babe,” Caleb says again and hooks an arm around my shoulders, having my back in the most literally way. “Whatcha drinking?”

I squint around the bar but don’t see any menus, so I cock my head and ask the bartender, “Do you have any white wine?”

Someone behind me snorts. My cheeks heat and Caleb twists. I imagine he glared whoever laughed into submission because the room goes quiet again.

“No,” the bartender drawls with a WTF look on his face.

Crap. I’m not a big fan of beer. “Coors?”

The bartender takes my question as an order because he thuds two bottles down in front of us and moves on.

Okey dokey.

“Guess this isn’t the place to order white wine,” I mutter.

“You’re probably the only one to ever walk in here and order it.” Caleb grabs the beers.

“Probably.”

Caleb chuckles and guides me away. My disappointment lasts as long is takes for the trivia game host to stand up and announce, then have her volunteer pass out the scorecards.

“I’ll scribe,” I tell Caleb and fuss over the pencil, making sure it’s sharp, not broken, and the eraser is good. Caleb watches with his eyes crinkled up at the sides. He thinks my fussing is cute. I know this because he tells me.

The game host calls for silence and he leans close.

“You ready?”

“I was born ready.” I poise with my pencil to the scorecard, eyes on the host.

He chuckles and goosebumps rise all over my body. It’s nice, but it makes me want to pull him into the dim hall and smooch his brains out.

“You’re distracting.” I wrinkle my nose at him.

“Am I?” His lips curve and he takes a pull of beer to hide his smile. “I’ll shut up.”

His strong throat works as he swallows. “That won’t help,” I mutter. “Not unless you put a bag over your head.”

“Cute,” he says again, shaking his head.

“Shhh,” I focus as the questions start coming. Number one: what’s the longest continuously held running sporting event in the US? Kentucky Derby. “And away we go…”

We fall into a rhythm, me writing, him watching over my shoulder and downing his beer. First round is all sports questions, second is television. I thank my grandma for all those afternoons she babysat me by setting me in front of her old TV and putting on reruns.

“You are good at this,” Caleb murmurs, squeezing the back of my neck. Proving, once again, that he’s not intimidated by my brains or competitive nature. I flash him a smile.

“You drinking this?” He holds up my untouched beer.

I shake my head and keep scribing. I get the name of Charles Darwin’s pet turtle (Harriet), the color of giraffe’s tongue (black), the location of the world’s largest pyramid (not Egypt, Mexico).

“You sure about that, babe?” Caleb asks after the last one.

“Yeah.” I duck close to whisper in his ear. “Most people don’t know it’s the largest because it’s buried in a mountain.”

“Gotcha.” He turns his head, touches my chin to keep me still, and kisses me. He tastes like Coors. Luckily I like beer-flavored macho man just fine. The kiss deepens, and tingles shoot through my body, all the way to my toes.

Caleb breaks the kiss. I keep my neck outstretched, lips parted.

“Which South American desert is one of the driest places on Earth?” he asks.

“What?” I ask in a daze.

“Miranda, focus.”

I blink but his smile is all I see.

The host repeats the question and I return to reality.

“Right.” I write down Attacama Desert and glare at Caleb. “Distracting,” I mouth at him.

“Right,” he stands. “I see you got this.” Caleb grabs the empty beers and goes for refills while I answer a few more questions. Amazon.com’s first website address (Relentless.com), the town where mayors are chosen by picking names out of a hat (Dorset, Minnesota), and the fear of crossing bridges (gephyrophobia).

Caleb returns and peruses my work, pursing his lips at the last answer.

“Don’t ask me to pronounce it,” I tell him.

At my elbow is a glass of white wine.

“Caleb.” I poke him in the side and point. “I thought they didn’t have it .”

“They didn’t, but the owner heard you asking for it and ran out and got some.”

“Awww, so nice.” I toast the grizzled guy behind the bar. “I shouldn’t drink white wine in the cold months, but I love it.”

“I’ll keep you warm.” He drapes an arm around me. Um, nice.

“And now for a lightning bonus round,” the host announces. “Put together by our own Joe of Joes’ Bar.” The grizzled man takes a bow.

“They should do a round on correct punctuation,” I grumble to myself.

“The category is collective nouns,” the host continues.

“What the fuck are those?” someone asks, but I surreptitiously pump my fist.

“You got this?” Caleb asks.

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s the collective noun for buffalo?”

“Herd,” I scribble. “That was easy,” I mouth to Caleb. He toasts me with a grin.

“Collective noun for chickens.”

“Fuck.” The table next to us isn’t doing well at all. I smile to myself and fill in, “Clutch.”

“A collective noun for fish.”

“School,” I write, and turn to Caleb and add, “Or shoal.”

“Lions.” Easy. “Pride.”

“Dolphins.”

“Pod,” Caleb whispers to me.

I nod and grin and scribe.

“Bears.”

“Bears are solitary animals.” I frown at Caleb.

He sets down his beer with a thunk. “A group of bears is called a sloth,” he murmurs and taps the scorecard. “Write it.”

I do, my mouth hanging open. “How did you know that?”

“I was bored and looked it up.” He taps the scorecard again and I bend my head to get to it.

“Have you ever seen a group of bears?”

“No. We’re solitary animals.” He winks.

“A group of crows” is next. The scribe at the table beside us throws down his pencil. I write ‘murder’ and whisper to Caleb, “I learned that from a Sting song.”

“Final. Buzzards.”

“Yes,” I hiss. I write ‘committee’, but second-guess myself.

“What is it?” Caleb leans close.

“This is the answer,” I tap the paper, “Unless they’re in flight—then they’re called a kettle. When eating, they’re called a wake.” I gnaw my lip. “What should I put?”

“Go with your gut,” Caleb advises.

“When you’re ready, turn in your scorecards,” the host says and I race up to drop mine off. We’re the first to turn our card in, which gives us a ten point lead.

Caleb’s eyes crinkle when I return to him. He throws an arm around me, pulling me deep into his hard body and giving me another beer-flavored kiss. The tables next to us hoot and I tap out to gasp and come up for air.

“Proud of you,” Caleb says, tagging my wine and handing it to me.

“Really?” I suppress a thrill. I’m sitting in a hunky man’s arms, one who went out of his way to give me a great night. He’s sexy, and he’s not intimidated by me.

“Oh yeah, watching you get into the game… hot.” This time I let the thrill roll through me. Caleb’s lips hit my ear, “Only thing, babe. It was too easy. Next time we play, I’m making it more of a challenge.” His free hand strokes up my inseam, and I almost drop my wine.

“Th-that sounds interesting. I’d be willing to try it.”

“Mmhmm,” Caleb removes his hand but not his arm. I settle back and gulp my drink. Screw Trivial Pursuit. I’ll play any game with Caleb, as long as he makes the rules.

I win the prize, a plaque that says “Purveyor of Useless Knowledge.” Joe himself, the proprietor, comes out to award it to me. I pick at the logo for Joes’ Bar, sighing over the apostrophe placement until Joe leans in and lets me know: “I heard you earlier and yes, it’s Joes’, plural.” I squint at him and he continues, “He was an army bud. Died in the war. We always talked about when we got out, we’d open a bar together. So the apostrophe is in the right place.” He pauses. “Not that anyone gets the reference.”

I give Joe a hug and turn to Caleb and bug my eyes out.

“A group of owls is called a parliament. A group of seagulls is called a squabble. A group of sharks is called a shiver,” I chant, my boots propped on Caleb’s truck dash.

Caleb parks, comes around to my door and helps me out.

“A group of tigers is an ambush or streak.” My feet hit the ground and Caleb lifts me in his arms. I hook one of my around his neck and inform him, “A group of parrots is panda… pando…” I smack my lips and try again, “Pandemonium.”

“You drunk?”

“Maybe. Sorta. A group of wombats is called a wisdom.”

“You’re so fucking smart,” he tells me and tosses me on the bed.

“You think I’m smart,” I murmur happily. I watch as his coat, shirt and boots hit the floor and then he’s on me.

“I know you are.” He unzips my coat, vest and peels them both off. “You don’t know you’re smart?”

“I do,” I assure him as he pulls my shirt up. “It’s just easy to forget when my colleagues talk down to me.”

“They’re idiots,” Caleb says in his macho man way before stripping my shirt over my head. “Miranda, you gotta know, you’re smart and kind and beautiful. Fuck.” He cups my cheek and just looks at me. Under his gaze, I try not to squirm. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Caleb,” I whisper, and he lowers himself on top of me. His beard brushes my neck, planting delicious, scratchy kisses down to my collarbone. “Caleb,” my whisper turns into a moan, and I wriggle under him as his lips nuzzle the tops of my breasts. He tugs my bra down with his teeth and leans back to take me in. The look in his eyes is everything. I could orgasm right now, just from him looking at me. He sees me. He gets me. He cares. He always has, right from the start.

It’s scary.

I turn my face away. “A group of porcupines is called a prickle.”

“Miranda,” he calls. His fingers, gentle on my jaw, turn my face back to him. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

Yes. I bite my lip so I don’t blurt out, I know this is temporary, but I’m falling for you.

“Miranda?”

“A group of rhinos is called a crash,” I whisper, and tighten my arms around his neck as he slides inside me. I suck in a breath. His hand cups my breasts, thumb teasing my nipple. My inner muscles tighten around him as he moves, surging deeper and deeper, hitching my leg up so he can hit places inside I’ve never felt before. I close my eyes, hurtling towards orgasm, mind going white. Caleb’s cock hits the spot and my thoughts blank so I don’t have to face the truth: This isn’t forever. It’s gonna end.

But not yet. Not tonight.

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