Boarlander Beast Boar(17)

“Mmm, I’m your monster, though,” he rumbled, flipping her over and pulling her beside him on the bed. “Five more minutes.”

“No! I only have forty minutes to get ready now, and I have to look professional today.”

Mason was nibbling at the back of her neck with those sexy nipping teeth of his. And oooh, now he was sucking on her, and the pull of her skin between his lips made her arch her ass against him instinctively. His grip on her waist was hard as he angled her farther back against him.

“Mason!” she yelped. He was getting riled up again, and as fun as it sounded to fool around with him all day, she really had to stop them at some point. Beck abandoned the covers and scrambled from bed.

Mason grabbed for her backside and missed, then grunted and lay limp, half off the bed with a sexy little pout on his bottom lip. She couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up her throat. “You owe me an alarm clock, by the way.”

Mason frowned at the destroyed appliance.

Beck bustled into the bathroom and called out, “And also breakfast since it’s your fault I’m running late!”





Chapter Fourteen




“Clinton, for the last time, I’m begging you…just take off the gym socks.” Eight in the morning, and Beck was already about done with this day thanks to the ridiculous man standing before her.

Clinton had done everything she’d asked: fixed his sandy colored hair into a stylish mess on top of his head, trimmed his facial scruff so it looked designer, and he’d even cleaned and polished both his chainsaw and his brand new white Ford Raptor, which she was pretty sure he bought just to compete with Mason’s truck. He’d started testing her with the jeans she’d asked him to wear, though. She’d said “sexy, with well-placed holes,” and Clinton had decided on redneck lookin’ cut-off jean shorts with a hole in his crotch that clearly showed his dick. And then to top off his look, a pair of atrocious yellow and white knee-high gym socks clung to his hairy legs. If the smile he was wearing was anything to go by, this had been the plan since he’d made the deal to take a picture for the calendar.

“Can we edit the socks out?” Beck asked the photographer, a sweet, mousy woman named Drea.

“It would be easier to just add jeans to him later.”

“No!” Clinton barked as he hit another ridiculous pose. He held his chainsaw up in the air, splayed his legs and yep, his giant dick flopped right out of the hole in his jean shorts. “Are you getting this one? This one will sell millions.” He was trying to contain his laughter, and Beck wanted to claw that stupid smile right off his stupid face.

Behind her, Harrison, Bash, and Kirk were chuckling, and it was all too much.

“This is shoot one out of twelve today. Twelve! And already we’ve wasted an hour staring at your dick!”

“Hey, I manscaped it, just like you asked!” Clinton yelled.

“I meant your chest, Clinton,” she gritted out. “This isn’t an R-rated calendar. Harrison,” she pleaded, turning to the alpha, “can you talk to him? Please.”

“Oh, no.” Harrison’s blue eyes sparked with amusement. “I don’t have any control over that asshole. I’m fine sitting back and watching someone else try to handle him for a while. Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

She let off a screech that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. This was just great that Clinton was already working up her animal.

“Hey, you’re eyes are pee-pee yellow.” Clinton pelvic-thrusted and revved the chainsaw up in the air, waggling his eyebrows not-so-seductively, and she wanted to kick everything.

The photographer stopped clicking away on her digital camera with the long lens and arched her eyebrow at the images she reviewed. “I mean…we’d have to cut half of him out of the pictures. There’s not really a good angle for the shape we need for the calendar.”

Beck turned her hands into little claws as she gripped her daily planner to her chest. With a frozen, feral smile for Clinton, she said too shrilly, “It’s okay. Everything is okay. Clinton, you’re out of the calendar!” There, take that, ass.

“Finally,” Clinton muttered. He lowered the chainsaw to the ground and hooked his hands on his hips. And then, dick out, he said, “Anyone want to get drunk and eat pizza rolls up at Bear Trap Falls with me?”

Bash raised his hand like he was a giant school boy. “Well, I want to—”

“No!” Beck hollered. “No, no, no. Clinton, you can go do whatever you want. You three are coming with me.”

“But”—Bash pouted—“he’s making pizza rolls.”

Harrison was grinning like this was the funniest thing he’d seen in his life, Kirk was laying on the ground, hands linked behind his head and definitely snoring, and Bash was now asking, “When’s lunch?”

“It’s eight in the morning, Bash. Didn’t you just have breakfast?”

Bash shrugged like that was a silly question. “Yeah, first breakfast.”

Beck blinked hard, shook her head, counted to three, and opened her daily planner again. “Bash,” she said, forcing a calm voice, “you’re up next. Your setting is the Boarlander woods. Somewhere pretty and mossy with lots of shade. Do you know a place that is close?”

Bash pointed to the tree line behind the trailers, twenty yards away. “That’s good.”

Clinton had sucked the wind straight out of her sails, so Beck sighed and said, “Great.”

She marched toward the woods, leading the others, and let Drea have the reins on Bash since he was much more open to direction. And while the behemoth was rubbing moisturizer over his rippling muscles, Beck let off a little sound of relief. Bash would take a better picture and not give her the mountainous pile of shit Clinton had.

And now she had to figure out an extra picture since she’d been depending on Clinton for January. She’d spent hours sketching out ideas and imagining how this would go, and in all the time she’d worked on this project, losing their first model right out of the gate hadn’t even crossed her mind.

She shook her head as she looked over the list of months.

January – Clinton, bear, Boarlander

February – Bash, bear, Boarlander

March – Harrison, bear, alpha of the Boarlanders

April – Kirk, silverback, Boarlander

May – Creed, bear, alpha of the Gray Backs

June – Matt, bear, Gray Back

July – Beaston, bear, Gray Back

August – Tagan, bear, alpha of the Ashe Crew

September – Haydan, bear, Ashe Crew

October – Bruiser, bear, Ashe Crew

November – Brighton and Denison, twin bears, requested shoot together, Ashe Crew

December – Damon, dragon, king of the motherfuckin’ mountains



Meet Robbie tonight at Sammy’s, 9:00



“Crap,” she muttered. She’d been so caught up in everything here, she’d completely forgotten about her meeting with McFartFace. Irritated, she scribbled devil horns on Robbie’s name while she tried to work through who she would shoot for January. Everyone on her list was all the ones who had agreed to be in the calendar. Everyone else was a hard no. And she couldn’t split up the Beck brothers or they would bow out of the project. Theirs was going to be a music shoot with their guitars. Still shirtless and sexy, but their fans would be ravenous for a spread of both of them together.

“Hey,” Mason murmured right beside her ear.

“Aaah!” Beck yelped, jumping nearly out of her skin.

Mason backed away, barely saving the trio of coffees in his hands from spilling, a big old grin on his face. On his beautiful, shaven face.

“Mother of pearl,” she murmured as she dragged her gaze along his clean-shaven jawline. Dark eyes said his animal was content, a straight, strong nose, sensual lips lifted in a smile, and his chiseled jawline belonged on a model. And the deeper his smile grew, the deeper two sexpot dimples became.

“Beck.”

She wanted to swim in those dimples. She wanted to dive into them and backstroke around in them, then snuggle up and take a nap and wake up and squish her cheek against the sides of her dimple bed…

“Beck?” Mason said again, looking concerned now. “Are you okay?”

Will you marry me? Stop it. Breathe and stop being weird. He looks worried. Say something smart. “I saw Clinton’s dick.” Freaking perfect.

Mason’s dark eyebrows lifted slightly. “Everyone has seen Clinton’s dick. He’s real proud of it.”

“Mine’s bigger,” Bash called from where Drea was positioning him against a tree.

“Y-your ummm,” Beck stammered, gesturing to Mason’s perfect jawline and lips. “Your face is my favorite.”

“It’s my favorite, too,” Bash chimed in.

The worry in Mason’s eyes morphed to amusement, and was that a blush in his cheeks? “I roughed up your face last night and felt bad. Figured I’d shave for you so you don’t have to flinch away when we’re kissing.”

So he planned on more kissing! Eeeee! Beck cleared her throat coolly and murmured, “I really appreciate it. I loved you bearded, but this…” She lifted her fingertips to his face, hesitated for a moment, then brushed a light touch down his cheek. “This is a good surprise.”