Bro and the Beast (The Wolf's Mate, #1)

by L.C. Davis

That's my reality, and yeah, I'm okay with escaping it once in a while to live in a better one. One where love is real, and it's okay to be different, and everything works out okay in the end. If you wanna judge me for that, fine."

By this point, RIP the main character’s panties.

You'd think they’d notice she has magical werewolf pussy if it's so fucking irresistible that this alpha douchebag can't keep his hands off her just because she's in heat all of a sudden, because of his pheromones or whatever. And what the fuck is all this shit about his knot? How the hell does bro fit into a jockstrap if that thing's sitting down there all the time? Or is it just when he has a hard-on?

I. Am. Invested. In this story, I mean. Not the werewolf dick. I ain't gay.

I've lived on this planet for twenty-two fucking years and I've never seen someone's eyes twinkle. Something is very, very wrong with this place.

The intensity of his stare is unsettling, to say the least. I'm pretty sure I've never looked at anything or anyone that way, except maybe a twenty-ounce sirloin at Longhorn.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Who does that? Me, apparently.

"Is that the shit you say to Catalina when she's pissed?" I snap. "Because even I know better than that, dude. Relationships 101—never tell someone who's mad to calm down unless you wanna get neutered."

"Brad Miller," he answers, hiccuping as he takes another swig of beer. My God, he is so enchanting.

"You know about omegas, then?" I ask. "Sure I do," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "Submissive, doe-eyed little werewolves with daddy issues and tight pussies that put off magical pheromones once a month that drive you and all the other alphas batshit, so the vamps are always trying to take them like some fucked up game of capture the flag."

He slams the empty glass down on the table and says, "I'll drink you under the table anytime, anywhere, you fleabitten mofo." All I can do is gaze at him, a strange warmth stirring in my chest. "You are a charming creature, Brad."

All I can think as I black out is how I'd better wake up in my own world, or at least one where I can be a space pirate or something cool. This omega thing is absolute, complete fucking bullshit.

Poor dumb, lovesick kid. He's a beta anyway, so he should have known he never stood a chance, given the way omegas in this universe crave an alpha's knot like I crave a greasy plate of Randy's Tavern's Heart Attack Nachos when I'm hungover.

"Why do you fucking smell like that?" Raul raises an eyebrow, but seems more amused than offended. "Lovely to see you, too, Brad." "I'm serious. You smell like a Calvin Klein ad and a whorehouse had a fucking contest," I tell him. "What gives?"

Fucking hell, maybe I am a little bit gay. Like... one percent. Maybe one and a half. He spreads my cheeks and his tongue slides up my crack and it immediately skyrockets to five percent.

"Great," I mutter. "Just what I've always wanted. A magical, lube-dispensing asshole to turn alphas on."