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

by L.C. Davis

She gets all lightheaded and her panties melt, though, because she immediately knows he’s a shifter, too. And an alpha. I'm starting to think the sketchier a guy is, the greater the chance he's an alpha.

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've never been so invested in another guy's junk unless you count that time Stupid Steve decided to see if his dick would stick to a frozen lamp post—hence how he got the nickname Stupid Steve—and I'm really not sure what to make of that, but one thing is for sure.

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 look over my shoulder instinctively, half-expecting the heroine with the magical werewolf pussy to be standing behind me.

I'm halfway to the door when Mr. Knife Eyes intercepts me, coming out of nowhere. How the hell have these bumpkins not figured out he's a werewolf by now if he's teleporting all over the damn place like a complete weirdo?

I'm not expecting the way my heart ker-thumps against the wall of my chest like it's trying to get out. What the hell? I thought that line was just an exaggeration. That or the heroine has undiagnosed POTS. Why the fuck am I feeling this shit?

He steps closer, so close I can smell the musky scent of his aftershave and see the flecks of goldier gold in his eyes. Wait. When the fuck have I ever noticed someone's musky scent if it wasn't Steve stinking up the frathouse after a workout?

"Oh, no," I say, holding up my hands and backing up. I've had enough shocks and weird mind melding for one night, thank you very much. "I'm not interested in getting off on anything with any body part of yours."

"A bond?" I echo. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "It means we're connected," he answers. "By fate." "Fate," I say flatly. "Like the little pointy fuckers from Hercules?"

The bed is enormous like everything else, with a dark mahogany frame and luxurious velvet sheets. I can't help but admire the ornate carved details on the headboard. A fuck palace, if ever there was one.

Raul just sighs and opens an armoire. At least, I think that's what that thing is. Pretty sure it's the same thing as the busty French furniture chick from Beauty and the Beast. Real fancy shit.

So that's Lenore. I remember her from the book. She looks innocent, but she's smart as hell and she has it bad for Raul. 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.

Lenore gives me a strange look and tilts her head, clearly sizing me up. I've only ever been looked at that way by another linebacker trying to suss out the opposing team's defense during quarterfinals when there was a national scout in the crowd. This bitch's eyes could cut diamonds.

Raul's demeanor immediately shifts, and he becomes the stalwart, steel-eyed alpha that leaves Catalina's panties perennially moist.

I've been aware of the existence of werewolves for all of an hour, and they are already by far the most overconfident douchebags I've ever met. And that's saying a lot. Hell, I am an overconfident douchebag, and these people give me an inferiority complex.

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 like the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the last chicken parm on the sandwich tray and the Superbowl party isn't even half over.

as far as I know, that shit is all just fantasy, like cyborgs and reindeer." Raul starts to say something, then stops, frowning. "Reindeer are real, Brad." "Yeah, sure, and I'm sure there are pixies, too," I say with a wave of my hand. "We've already established your world is fucked up."

Something about producing an error code for his Honda?" "An heir of accord?" he asks eagerly. "Yeah! That's it."

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.

"Just lie down," the doctor says, standing over his bedside. "I'm going to palpate your abdomen." "You're gonna fuckin' what now?" The doctor looks skyward as if for strength even though I know for a fact he's an atheist. "I'm just going to feel your stomach." "Oh," says Brad. "Yeah, fine, whatever."

"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?"

"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. And that's not even the kind of thing Catalina would say, so it's not like I can blame that on whatever kind of book magic is tormenting me.

"Easy," he says, and that's the six-hundred dollar square in “things you'd say to a horse and also a lover."

One of them was a frat buddy, but that was why we called him Peg Greg, and I did not want an assfucking-related nickname of my own.