Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
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.