Bared to the Bear

By Clea Kinderton

Ex-FBI agent Elliot's got a score to settle with big game hunter and modern-day Viking Tyrell. The burly bear killed his friend and has to be punished. But Elliot's going to get more than he bargained for in Tyrell's remote Alaskan lodge. Something a whole lot stranger, scarier, and sexier than he ever imagined!

Is the ginger giant really on his side? What has Elliot been smuggling for the mysterious shadow organization known only as The Committee? More importantly: has Elliot been in denial his whole life? Has he always secretly craved the touch of another man? What long-suppressed desires are making him yearn to submit to this superior, dominant alpha male?

This blazing-hot, action-packed, suspense-filled, paranormal straight-to-gay conversion novella is sure to raise more than your questions!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Lamp Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386371649

Clea Kinderton

I've always had a wild imagination. I love fat fantasy novels, B movies, comic books, and scifi. But I also love romance and sex and you'll find plenty of both along with heaps of humor, mystery, and suspense jampacked into some of the hottest, hardest, kinkiest stories you may ever read. Strap yourself in, it's going to be a wild ride. I'm always interested in hearing what you have to say and welcome suggestions. You can contact me at [e-mail] and follow me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CleaKinderton/ and Twitter: https://twitter.com/CleaKinderton.

Book preview

1

This is too easy, thought Elliot, sliding open the glass door.

He stepped softly into the lodge, pulling the door shut behind him, careful to minimize the squeak of the rollers. Tyrell was so arrogant, he couldn’t even be bothered to lock his own doors.

Elliot was standing on the south side of a living room, on a sort of raised walkway that lined two of the walls. The snow from his boots was slowly melting into a coarse gray mat. Behind him, on the other side of the wall of glass, was a large snow-covered deck. Beyond the deck was a spectacular view of a pine-forested Alaskan valley ending in ice-capped mountains. Though it was only two in the afternoon, the blue sky already seemed a little faint, as if it were about to fade into darkness.

It had taken Elliot several hours to find a good path through the woods, one that skirted the lodge at a distance sufficient for approaching it unseen from the rear. His footprints were clearly visible in the snow on the deck, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. Tyrell might be one of the greatest hunters alive, but he wasn’t going to live long enough to see them.

Elliot slipped the Wilson Combat custom Beretta out of his jacket pocket and checked the clip. Everything was in order. He slid the clip back into place and flipped the safety. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Tyrell was big and he was fast. Even a single lost second could spell the difference between life and death for Elliot.

He cocked his head, listening carefully. There was a faint hissing sound, the drumming rat-a-tat-tat of water striking glass, and the soft clank of pipes. Tyrell was still in the shower. Elliot had been watching the big man from the hills; had seen him undress and walk unselfconsciously through the cabin, naked. Elliot had left his binoculars outside under the deck, along with the rest of his gear and his big winter coat. You can’t afford to have your movements restricted when you’re killing a man. In any case, his thick charcoal-gray turtleneck was warm enough. The sweater had been a gift from Tyrell’s sister. Sort of odd, when you thought about it. The way things developed.

Tightening his grip on the Beretta, he carefully examined the interior terrain.

The walkway made a ninety degree turn and hugged the east wall, where it eventually merged into a hall that led deeper into the cabin. Large framed photographs of Tyrell’s hunting and fishing expeditions lined the wall. One was a picture of a shark Tyrell had caught off the coast of Cuba, a story Elliot had heard many times. The shark had attacked Tyrell while he was swimming and the big man had killed it with a dive knife. Elliot wanted to believe that Tyrell was making it up, and that he’d killed the shark with a harpoon from the safety of his boat, but the truth was, Elliot did believe him. Or, at least, he believed it was possible. One good look at Tyrell was enough to make anyone believe the ginger giant was capable of almost anything.

Elliot remembered the layout of the lodge fairly well. He’d come to one of Tyrell’s parties once, where he’d met the big man’s sister, Tara. She’d brought him here on her own, later, when Tyrell had been away in Siberia. They’d made love in Tyrell’s bed and drunk wine on his deck. The lodge had a study, a kitchen, a dining room, and a laundry room on the ground floor, in addition to the living room. The floor above held the master bedroom, two smaller guest rooms, and the main washroom. Below the lodge, cut right out of the rock and permafrost, was Tyrell’s workroom, where he processed his kills, turning them into meat and stuffed trophies. He’d taken Elliot down there the night of the party, bragging about his accomplishments, and threatened — jokingly — to lock him in the meat locker with the frozen deer carcasses if he ever pissed him off. Elliot wasn’t easily intimidated, but he’d never forgotten Tyrell’s ‘joke’.

The hall was in shadow now. There were no lights on in the lodge, but the light coming in through the windows provided plenty of natural illumination. Steps led down from the walkway where Elliot was standing to a square sitting area with polished wood floors. A large leather couch, two leather recliners, and a square wooden coffee table filled the center of the room. There was a large book open on the table beside a coffee mug and a dirty dinner plate. The rustic timber beams of the ceiling peaked twenty feet overhead.

The west wall of the room was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling fireplace of rough gray stone. There was no fire, though there were fresh logs in the pit, and a stack of short, split logs to one side. A bearskin rug lay on the floor in front of the fireplace; a tacky and cliche affectation, in Elliot’s opinion, but if anyone had a right to it, it was Tyrell. There was a stereo on shelves built into the walls and a collection of vinyl records. There was no television, but Elliot doubted that it would have gotten much use; Tyrell was an active outdoorsman and preferred to spend his time hunting, fishing, and kayaking. When he wasn’t down at the Talkeetna roadhouse drinking, that is. Fishing poles, nets, lobster traps, snowshoes, a small wooden sleigh, a collection of antique muskets and other curios lined the walls. There were a number of stuffed and mounted animals as well, including birds and fish, and —