I like me the alpha boys. It's a weakness.
If they're growlier than Harleys, Cro-Magnon hairy, and only minimally verbal, even better! After all, nothing says love like popped buttons and grunting. Alpha Boy doesn't back down when he's wrong, doesn't waste time considering alternatives when he can go for an impulsive frontal assault, and skewers (or shoots, or pummels) anyone who so much as looks at his gal, because at the core he's a jealous (insecure?) beast.
I know you're thinking what I'm thinking: How can she love Alpha Boy?
The hell if I know. But we do: Romance readers do love him. Despite the fact that he's not very charming and is, genetically speaking, probably not a good prospect. On second thought, maybe we like him because he's so far removed from our reality and logical sense of what makes a good mate.
Maybe we like him the way we like cheesecake: because he's decadent and delicious and totally bad for us.
Maybe we like him because he makes us feel like princesses certain to be rescued.
Whatever the reasons, I know one thing for certain: The novel I began writing about a middle-aged balding Regency baronet named Nigel isn't getting a lot of traction with the muse. Who'd've thunk.