Boarlander Beast Boar(10)

Before he could change his mind, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead, then released her and grinned at her baffled smile. She looked drunk as a skunk, and all he had to do was hug her. God that felt good—having a woman like Beck react to a simple touch from a man like him. He had to get better. Had to, because she wouldn’t settle for a broken man. She deserved better. Everything faded away as her full lips curved up in that smile he was falling in love with. She was the prize. If he worked hard enough, and long enough, maybe she would open up her heart to him. He couldn’t offer her much, but he would treat her a helluva lot better than her ex if she gave him half a chance. He had to earn that chance first, though.

“You know how obnoxious this one is?” Bash asked, rubbing his giant hand over Beck’s hair, mussing her gold-red curls. “She gave us one of them itittyaries—”

“Itineraries,” Emerson corrected.

“And then Beck said we have to take sexy lumberjack pictures for some calendar and told us to manscape. Manscape!” Bash doubled over with a single bellowing laugh. “I had to Internet-search what that even meant. Emerson gots to shave my chest tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, my God,” Harrison groaned, scrubbing his hand down his entire face.

“I ain’t doin’ it!” Clinton said from the outskirts of the group. “I don’t want to be part of some project to get the ladies all masturbating while they’re looking at my sexy body. No thank you.”

“Well, you have to,” Kirk said lightly. “Damon and Cora said we need to do what Beck says, so if you want that paycheck to pay for all the pointless shit you buy, you can take a picture.”

“Well,” Beck cut in, her cheeks blazing a shade of red Mason had never seen on a human before, “the idea is to garner positive attention. We’ll give all the proceeds to a charity you choose. I’ll build it up real big online because the ladies in this country can be a powerful ally. They are outspoken about what they like, and they can give us a huge push in votes for reinstating shifter rights. So them—touching themselves if that’s what they want to do—is good because that means they would see you as men and not animals.”

“Ew.” Clinton crossed his arms and looked grumpy. “When you say ‘touching themselves,’ it sounds pervy. Just say masturbate. That’s what it is.”

Beck’s eyes went dead, like she wouldn’t be baited.

Clinton got a predatory smile. “Say it, and I’ll take one picture. Come on, publicist. Have a little fun. Say masturbate.”

Beck was the color of a cherry and gritted her teeth. With an impressive eye roll, she gritted out, “Masturbate. And now you’ll be January.”

“What’s January?” Clinton asked suspiciously.

“You’ll be up against your fancy new truck, half-naked, wearing your hard hat, ripping your chainsaw in front of your crotch. And the photographer I hired will be taking your picture at the crack of dawn so it looks colder. You’ll be up first.”

Clinton scowled but didn’t argue, and that was some progress right there.

“We should celebrate,” Audrey said, her grin infectious.

“Celebrating nudie pictures?” Bash asked, looking from one face to the next. “That’s weird, but okay!”

“No, Bash Bear,” Audrey said through a giggle. “Celebrating Mason’s return.”

“Return of the pig!” Bash crowed, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Boar,” Mason corrected for the billionth time. Bash’s filter was broken.

Harrison draped his arm over Audrey’s shoulders and said, “There’s a new home cookin’ restaurant that just opened ten minutes from Moosey’s we could try. That Jam’s Chicken House place. I think it’s BYOB.”

“Bring your own boobs,” Bash said excitedly. “I call Emerson!”

“Good God, you moron,” Clinton muttered. “It’s bring your own beer.”

“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes,” Beck said tiredly. “The perfect pre-photoshoot food.”

Everyone scattered quickly, on the hunt for six-packs to load up, but Beck’s smile was sad as she watched the chaos.

“What’s wrong?” Mason asked. “You know they’ll still have hard-bodies even if they ate all the fried chicken in that place. Shifter metabolisms and all.”

“Yeah, I know.” She squeezed his hand gently. “I’m glad you’re back and that your crew is so happy. Have fun tonight.”

Beck made to head back to 1010, but he grabbed her fingertips just before she slid her hand out of his. “What do you mean? You’re comin’ too, woman.”

“Oh, but this is crew business, and I’m not…” She swallowed and looked around the park. “I have work to do, anyway.”

Mason arched his eyebrows pointedly.

“I don’t want to be a burden—”

Mason leaned down and pressed his lips to hers to quiet her protests. Beck froze under him, her lips in a stiff line, but little by little, she melted against his side, and her lips turned soft. He cupped the back of her neck, reveling in her taste. Squaring up to her, he pulled her tight to his chest and pushed his tongue gently past her lips. And then he smiled against her mouth because she let off the fucking cutest little needy sound in her throat. He’d pulled that noise from her. Him.

Gripping the back of her hair, he brushed his tongue against hers one last time and eased back. Resting his forehead on hers, he kept his eyes closed just to savor the moment. Oooh, Beck Anderson felt huge to him. Bigger than he’d realized until he’d kissed her. “You’re part of the craziness here now, Beck. You’re coming to dinner with us. Go on, hop in my truck, and I’ll get us some beers.”

“Okay,” she murmured. She was gripping his wrists hard, like she wanted him to stay, and damn, something about this little vixen was calling to his boar.

He let her go, gave her his most charming smile, and sauntered off toward his trailer. If he’d stayed locked up with her another minute, he was gonna say something dumb about how she already felt like his and scare her off.

And the thought of Beck leaving now was unimaginable.





Chapter Eight




Mason draped his arm around the back of Beck’s seat and leaned onto two legs of his rustic ladder-back chair. The Boarlanders had eaten dinner on a long table against the far wall of Jam’s Chicken House. It was one of those old-fashioned restaurants with dark wood walls, exposed rafters above, vintage street signs hung everywhere, mismatched tables, and checkered table clothes. There were only a few options for dinner, and all the sides and biscuits were served family-style.

Everyone was cutting up, ribbing each other, laughing louder than anyone else in the restaurant, and for the first five minutes, she’d debated reminding them they had a public image to uphold, but she’d decided against it. Let them laugh. Let them have a good time. If nothing else, the people in this restaurant could see the Boarlanders genuinely enjoyed being together. That’s if they ignored Clinton’s scowl and the soft snarls that occurred when someone got too close to one of the predator shifter’s food. She supposed big, burly loggers required a lot of calories.

Beck had barely heard a word throughout dinner. She was too enamored with watching the curve of Mason’s lips as he talked through that slight smile that dumped a whole heap of mushy feelings into her middle. What she wouldn’t give to see him under that beard.

She touched her lips with her fingertips and remembered the kiss he’d surprised her with. It was one of those life-altering moments. It was a kiss she would compare every other one to from here on. No man had ever kissed her like that. Like he wasn’t trying to get into her pants, but was just content to taste her and touch her instead. She’d always wished desperately for Robbie to be affectionate with her. Showing love wasn’t his style, though, or maybe he hadn’t ever really loved her. She’d assumed Mason’s aversion to touch meant he was the same, but it was plain and clear that he was nothing like Robbie. She could tell by the way his lips had softened against hers, by the way he’d held her tight, as if he didn’t want to let her go. She could tell by the way he had filled her plate without even asking before his own while he talked with Bash. She could tell by the way his thumb rubbed soothing circles on her back every once in a while just to let her know he was there, right beside her.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he ran his fingertips against her bare arm, trailing fire with his touch.

When she went to grab a sip of her beer, Clinton was frowning at her from across the table, his head canted as if he’d never seen her before. His eyes narrowed to little slits. When Audrey said something funny down the table, Mason laughed beside her, but Clinton lowered his voice and said, “Your eyes sure look strange in this lighting.”

Shit! Beck dropped her gaze immediately. She’d lost herself in Mason’s affection and hadn’t realized he was drawing her animal to the surface. She was usually much better at concealing herself than this.

“What did you say your name was again?” Clinton asked low.