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."

Of course I’m dreaming I’m in the same town from that damn book. Wonder when the eyefucker’s gonna show up.

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.

Nope. Not gonna back down. This asshole might be an alpha wolf, but I'm the vice prez of my fraternity and Kappa Nus don't run.

"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."

I know that was a mistake, too, when I see the murderous look he's giving me, as if I've just fucked his mother on his father's grave. Without a condom.

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."

For some reason, he's ignored her for the last ten years in favor of the roughly human equivalent of unsalted butter.

I love my girl Catalina and all, but next to a big titty goth girlfriend with a blackbelt and a degree in microbiology? Come on.

I'd never hit a woman, even if she is a supernatural monster who’s technically holding me here against my will, but I don't really think moving one gently aside is a violation of my ethics, all things considered. I barely even reach for her before she grabs my wrist and flips me onto my back like I’m not easily four times her size. My ass hits the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of me and I wheeze. "What the fuck?"

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.

"I don't know why you assholes think I'm an omega, but you're way off base," I inform him. "I'm human. Just an average, admittedly very swole, but completely normal human."

This is definitely that look that melts the main character's panties. My sweatpants are getting tight for entirely unrelated reasons, though.

"No more than there already was. Feels like someone took a fucking torque wrench to my oil pan gasket." "You're human," the doctor says pointedly. "You don't have one of those."

"I'm serious. You smell like a Calvin Klein ad and a whorehouse had a fucking contest,"

I don't like that I just admitted that, considering he's probably going to file it in his "proof Brad is an omega" cabinet somewhere, but my filter is dislodged.

"I'm good," I say, holding my tongue because I'm way too fucking close to asking if he wants to fill my prescription for dick.

I'm being forced to confront a very uncomfortable revelation right now, and that's that even if this really is all a dream—which feels less likely the longer I'm trapped here—that means it's my dream. And in turn, that means my dream is to be a fucking omega who needs to get railed by a massive alpha shifter with a softball-sized knot at the base of his monster cock. And judging from the fact that my mouth is watering at the thought, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to deny it anymore.

I'm not sure if I'm more insulted by the fact that he sees me as something to worry and fret over, or the fact that he seems to be having a much easier time resisting this whole rutt-slash-heat clusterfuck than I am.

when in Rome... It's Rome that was hella gay, right?

Did he shift his claws? I remember something about him being able to do that during one of the sex scenes I reread for… research, and it's hotter than I want to admit. Fortunately, I barely have time to process that before he pulls his shirt off over his head and the sight of his naked torso shakes out all my thoughts like a fucking etch-a-sketch.

"Patience, pet. You're not going to enjoy it if I just shove my knot into you without any preparation." There's a not-so-dormant part of me that wants to disagree with him, but I keep that thought to myself before my horniness can get me split in half like a fire log.

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."