Alpha's Moon (Shifter Ops 1)

Is Deke the sort of guy who cheats? He’s so hot, with epic levels of masculine bad-assery. I can’t imagine him meeting a heterosexual woman who didn’t swoon over him and offer up her panties in tribute.

But the way he looked at me, the intensity in his eyes...it made me feel like the only woman in the world.

I’m probably wrong. Deke’s probably a player. But I’m willing to be another notch on his bedpost. That motorcycle ride is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Maybe ever.

No—not happened to me.

I made it happen. I think that’s half the excitement there.

The other half is definitely the extremely fit biker who drove it.

Up on stage, the band is rocking out. The sun is setting, and there’s a good crowd for a Thursday night.

“Is this seat taken?” a woman asks me, her fingers already curling on the seat’s back, ready to carry it away. She has long pink fingernails, tight jeans and a low cut black top. Why didn’t I wear an outfit like that? She looks more like a biker babe than I ever will.

“Yes, it’s taken,” I tell her, jealousy making my voice sharp. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she struts away. I can almost hear her thoughts about me, but I don’t care. It’s nice to not be nice all the time.

“He’ll show up,” I whisper to myself. I’m sitting with my legs crossed primly at the ankle, my hands folded in my lap like a good little kindergarten teacher. My hair is tied back with a bow, for frick’s sake.

I rise and tug off the bow, shaking out my hair. That’s when I sense him. The hairs rise on the back of my neck, and the scent of motor oil and leather hits me.

I turn and scan the crowd but don’t see Deke at first. But I know he’s here.

And then he appears, stepping out of the shadows and striding towards me. There’s a group of sexy snow bunny types standing in his path. They poke each other and stare at Deke, wide-eyed. But he doesn’t even glance at them as he heads straight toward me. He’s got that intense look again, the one that makes me shiver. I feel a little like I’m being hunted.

“Babe.” He uses the word to convey whole sentences. I just have to decipher what they mean. He strolls right up to me. For a big guy, he moves with grace, prowling like a panther. He’s wearing the same sort of outfit he wore before, dark jeans and a soft white t-shirt that clings to his abs. Big motorcycle boots.

My mouth waters.

He’s so gosh darn hot. And I baked him cookies. What was I thinking?

“Deke. You came.” I step in front of the table, hoping he won’t see the cookie tray.

Of course, he spots it immediately. “What are these?” He reaches around me and touches the plastic.

“Um, just a little thank you. You know, for yesterday.”

“You baked me cookies?”

“Yes.”

“Babe,” he says again and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thank you.” He doesn’t smile, but his dark gaze smolders. Up close, he’s overwhelmingly sexy. My thighs clench, and I stifle a whimper.

“It’s nothing.” I turn away and fiddle with the plastic wrap around the cookie tray. “I owed you.”

“Yeah?” He cocks his head to the side, still totally focused on me. The young women still gawk at Deke, and he hasn’t even noticed.

I swallow and step closer, so I don’t have to shout over the music. “For last night. You’re my hero.”

His forehead creases. “I am not a hero.”

I want to argue, but I realize I would sound foolish. I obviously made last night into a bigger deal than it is to him.

“Well, I still owe you.” I summon my bravery and put my hand on his chest.

He raises a dark brow. “Oh yeah? You owe me?” There’s a suggestive purr to his voice.

Heat shoots between my legs. “If you ever need me to be your fake girlfriend, let me know,” I say, half joking. As if he couldn’t snap his fingers and get any sort of woman to do anything he wanted.

“Babe.” He hits me with that intense stare of his—so hot it could burn off all my clothes. His lips twitch like he thinks I’m cute. Then he leans close and whispers, “With me, you wouldn’t be faking anything.” His voice is deep and rich with the pure promise of sex.

I flush. Goosebumps break out all over my body.

The song the band is playing abruptly ends. The crowd sends up a half-hearted cheer. Deke straightens, and I take in his expression. He looks dead serious now.

I turn and clap for the band, but I can feel Deke still focused on me.

“Thank you,” the lead guitarist shouts into the microphone. “We’re the Flying Oysters. This is for all the lovebirds out there.”