Page 14 of Love, Clumsily (Fur Real Love #2)
Moving in with Mason was both easier and harder than I’d anticipated.
Easier because, as we’d already acknowledged, I spent most of my time at his cabin anyway, so the practical shift was minimal.
Harder because suddenly all my quirks and habits were on full display, with no personal space to retreat to when I needed a break.
Not that Mason seemed to mind my quirks.
If anything, he found them endearing—my morning grumpiness before coffee, my insistence on color-coding the closet, my habit of talking to myself while working.
He observed these traits with an amused tolerance that made me feel simultaneously self-conscious and utterly accepted.
“You’re staring again,” I said without looking up from my laptop, where I was finishing a website design for a client.
Mason, sprawled on the couch pretending to read a book but actually watching me work at the dining table, didn’t even try to deny it. “Can’t help it. You make adorable faces when you’re concentrating.”
“I do not make faces,” I protested, though I knew from past comments that I absolutely did—furrowing my brow, biting my lip, occasionally sticking out my tongue slightly when particularly focused.
“You absolutely do,” he countered, setting his book aside. “And they’re fascinating. Especially the thing you do with your eyebrows when something doesn’t align properly.”
I glared at him, deliberately raising one eyebrow. “This thing?”
“That’s the one,” he confirmed with a grin. “Very expressive eyebrows. It’s sexy.”
“My eyebrows are not sexy,” I said firmly, turning back to my work. “They’re just eyebrows.”
“Everything about you is sexy,” he insisted, rising from the couch and approaching with the fluid grace he displayed when he wasn’t overthinking his movements. “Your eyebrows, your fingers when you’re typing, the little crease between your eyes when you’re frustrated…”
He reached the table and leaned over me from behind, his large hands braced on either side of my laptop, effectively caging me in. His body radiated heat, and I could feel his breath on my neck as he spoke.
“The way you smell when you’re focused,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “All determination and creativity, with just a hint of frustration. It’s intoxicating.”
“Mason,” I warned, though I couldn’t stop myself from leaning back into his solid presence. “I have a deadline.”
“Mmm,” he acknowledged, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. “How much longer?”
I shivered at the contact. “An hour. Maybe less if you let me concentrate.”
“I can wait an hour,” he murmured, though his actions suggested otherwise as his teeth grazed my earlobe. “Or I could provide some… motivation to finish faster.”
His hand slid from the table to my thigh, large and warm through my jeans. My body responded immediately, despite my best efforts to focus on work.
“That’s not motivation,” I pointed out, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “That’s distraction.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. “How about a deal? You finish your work, and then I’ll show you exactly what I’ve been thinking about while watching you.”
The promise in his voice sent heat pooling low in my belly. “What have you been thinking about?” I couldn’t help asking.
His hand moved higher on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns that made my breath catch. “About how beautiful you look when you’re focused. About the faces you’ll make when I’m inside you. About how you taste when you’re desperate for me.”
“Jesus, Mason,” I breathed, my work forgotten as I turned in my chair to face him.
He straightened slightly, looking down at me with eyes that had darkened to burnt amber. “Finish your work,” he said, suddenly stepping back. “I’ll be good. For now.”
The abrupt loss of contact left me momentarily disoriented. “That’s… not fair.”
“All’s fair in love and motivation,” he replied with a wicked grin, returning to the couch and picking up his book. “Clock’s ticking, designer boy.”
I turned back to my laptop, trying to refocus on the website layout but hyperaware of Mason’s presence across the room.
This was a familiar game between us—him distracting me, me pretending to be annoyed but secretly enjoying it.
The anticipation he’d built would make finishing work both more difficult and more rewarding.
Somehow, I managed to complete the project in record time, sending it off to the client with a brief email that I hoped made sense despite my distracted state.
“Done,” I announced, closing my laptop with more force than necessary. “Your turn to deliver on your promise.”
Mason set his book aside, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light that sent a thrill through me. “Come here,” he said, his voice low and commanding.
I rose from the chair and crossed to the couch, anticipation building with each step. Before I could sit beside him, he reached out, catching my wrist and pulling me onto his lap so I straddled his thighs.
“Better,” he murmured, his hands settling on my hips. “Now I can see your face properly.”
I braced my hands on his broad shoulders, enjoying the position of subtle dominance despite our size difference. “You really do have a thing for my facial expressions, don’t you?”
“Among other things,” he confirmed, his thumbs slipping beneath my t-shirt to stroke the skin above my waistband. “I love watching you react. Seeing pleasure take over. Knowing I’m the one causing it.”
His words, combined with the gentle pressure of his hands, sent a shiver through me. “What else do you love?” I asked, my voice dropping to match his intimate tone.
A slow smile spread across his face. “I love the sounds you make when I touch you just right,” he said, demonstrating by sliding one hand up my back, nails dragging lightly along my spine. I couldn’t suppress a small gasp, proving his point.
“I love the way you smell when you’re aroused,” he continued, leaning forward to nuzzle at my neck, inhaling deeply. “Like sunshine and need and mine.”
His possessive tone made my heart race. Three months into our relationship, and the intensity of his desire still took my breath away.
“I love how responsive you are,” he murmured against my skin, his hands now fully under my shirt, exploring the contours of my back and sides. “How you can’t hide what you’re feeling from me.”
As if to demonstrate, he rolled his hips upward, the hard length of him pressing against me through our clothes. I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped me, my body instinctively grinding down to meet him.
“See?” he said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “Perfect.”
His mouth found mine in a kiss that started gentle but quickly turned hungry.
One hand tangled in my hair, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth with thorough attention.
The other continued its exploration under my shirt, eventually finding a nipple and pinching lightly.
I gasped into his mouth, arching into the touch. Mason used the opportunity to trail kisses down my jaw to my neck, where he focused his attention on the sensitive spot that always drove me crazy.
“Mason,” I breathed, my hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and chest, wanting more contact but not sure what I needed.
He seemed to understand, pulling back just enough to tug my shirt over my head and discard it on the floor. His own followed quickly, revealing the broad expanse of his chest that never failed to take my breath away.
I ran my hands over him, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm skin, the dusting of dark hair that thickened as it traveled down toward his waistband. He watched me touch him, his eyes increasingly golden as his control began to slip.
“I love your hands on me,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Love how they look against my skin. So careful, so curious. Even after all this time.”
I smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his collarbone. “I’m still discovering you,” I murmured against his skin. “Still learning what makes you growl, what makes you beg.”
A rumbling sound vibrated through his chest—not quite a growl, but heading in that direction. “I never beg,” he protested, though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true.
“No?” I questioned, shifting my weight to create friction where we were pressed together. “What about last week, when I had my mouth on you for nearly an hour? You were definitely begging then.”
His eyes flashed gold at the memory, and his hands tightened on my hips. “Special circumstance,” he growled. “You were being deliberately cruel.”
“I was being thorough,” I corrected, repeating the motion and enjoying the way his breath hitched. “And you loved every second of it.”
Before I could continue teasing him, he stood suddenly, lifting me with him as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, my arms looping around his neck for balance.
“Bedroom,” he said, already moving. “Now.”
I laughed, exhilarated by the display of strength and the hunger in his eyes. “So demanding.”
He carried me through the cabin to our bedroom—and it was truly our bedroom now, my clothes hanging beside his in the closet, my books on the nightstand, my ridiculous collection of decorative pillows arranged on the bed (much to Mason’s good-natured complaining).
He set me down beside the bed and immediately reached for the button of my jeans. “Too many clothes,” he muttered, echoing his earlier complaint.
I didn’t argue, helping him unfasten my jeans and push them down my legs, along with my underwear. Once I was naked, I reached for his waistband, but he caught my hands.
“Let me look at you first,” he said, his voice rough with desire.
I fought the urge to cover myself, still not entirely comfortable with the intensity of his gaze despite months of intimacy. He sensed my discomfort—he always did—and released my hands to cup my face gently.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Perfect. And mine.”