Page 15 of Love, Clumsily (Fur Real Love #2)

The sincerity in his voice melted my self-consciousness. I leaned into his touch, turning my head to press a kiss to his palm. “Yours,” I agreed. “Now take off your pants before I do it for you.”

He laughed, the sound warming me from the inside out, and quickly shed his remaining clothing. Naked, he was magnificent—all powerful muscle and smooth skin, his arousal evident and impressive.

We came together in a tangle of limbs and heated kisses, falling onto the bed with less grace than intention. Mason rolled us so I was beneath him, his larger body covering mine in a way that made me feel simultaneously protected and possessed.

His mouth explored me thoroughly, trailing from my lips to my jaw, down my neck to my chest. When he reached my nipple, he lavished it with attention, alternating between gentle suction and light grazes of teeth that had me arching up into him.

“Mason,” I gasped as he moved to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. “Please.”

“Please what?” he murmured against my skin, continuing his journey downward, across my stomach.

“You know what,” I said, my hands threading through his hair as he reached my hipbone and nipped lightly.

He looked up at me, his eyes now fully gold, a hint of fang visible when he smiled. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Touch me,” I said, beyond caring about pride or dignity. “Taste me. Please, Mason.”

A rumbling sound of satisfaction vibrated through him. Without further teasing, he moved lower, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs apart as he settled between them. The first touch of his tongue against my cock drew a sharp gasp from me, my hands tightening in his hair.

He took his time, exploring with lips and tongue as if we hadn’t done this countless times before, as if each response was a new discovery. When he finally took me fully into his mouth, the wet heat of it had me moaning his name, my hips lifting involuntarily.

His hands on my hips held me still—not painfully, but with enough strength to remind me of his inhuman power. The contrast of that controlled strength with the gentle attention of his mouth was intoxicating.

Just when I thought I might embarrass myself by finishing too quickly, he pulled away, moving back up my body to capture my mouth in a kiss that tasted of desire and something wilder, something uniquely Mason.

“Want you,” he murmured against my lips. “Need to be inside you.”

“Yes,” I agreed, reaching between us to wrap my hand around him. “Want that too.”

He groaned at my touch, his hips pushing into my grip. For a moment, he seemed to lose himself in the sensation, his eyes closing and head dropping forward. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back, reaching for the nightstand drawer where we kept the lube.

I watched, aroused and touched by his care, as he warmed the lube between his fingers before reaching between my legs. The first press of his finger against my entrance made me tense slightly, then relax as he circled gently, not pushing in yet.

“Okay?” he asked, always checking, always making sure.

“More than okay,” I assured him, lifting my hips in silent encouragement.

He worked me open slowly, carefully, adding a second finger only when I was pushing back against the first, a third when I was begging for more. By the time he deemed me ready, I was a trembling mess, desperate for him.

“Mason, please,” I gasped as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes. “I’m ready. I need you.”

He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Our eyes met as he began to push forward, the stretch and burn exquisite as he filled me inch by careful inch.

“God, Julian,” he groaned once he was fully seated. “You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. “Move,” I commanded, my hands clutching at his shoulders. “Please, Mason, move.”

He did, establishing a rhythm that started slow and deliberate but gradually increased in intensity as his control began to slip. I could see it happening—the gold of his eyes brightening, his canines lengthening into distinct fangs, his nails sharpening against my skin.

It should have been frightening, this partial transformation. Instead, it was incredibly arousing to know that I affected him so deeply he couldn’t maintain his human form.

“Don’t hold back,” I encouraged, lifting my hips to meet his thrusts. “Let go, Mason. I can take it.”

A growl rumbled from his chest, and his pace increased, each thrust driving deeper, harder. One hand slipped between us to wrap around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to his movements.

I was close, the dual stimulation pushing me rapidly toward the edge. “Mason,” I gasped, “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” he growled, his voice hardly human. “Come for me, Julian. Want to feel you.”

His words, combined with a particularly well-aimed thrust and a twist of his hand, sent me over the edge. My orgasm tore through me, making me cry out his name as I spilled over his fingers and onto my stomach.

The clench of my body around him pushed Mason toward his own release. His rhythm faltered, becoming more erratic as he chased his pleasure. I watched his face, fascinated as always by the way ecstasy transformed his features, making them both more animal and more beautiful.

“Julian,” he groaned, his hips jerking forward one final time as he came deep inside me.

In that moment of release, his control slipped completely.

His nails lengthened into definite claws, digging into the sheets beside my head.

His fangs extended fully, visible as he panted through the aftershocks of pleasure.

Most strikingly, a ripple seemed to pass over his skin—not a full shift, but as if the wolf within was pushing at the boundaries of his human form.

It happened so quickly that if I hadn’t been watching closely, I might have missed it. But I was watching, and I saw the moment his eyes widened in alarm as he realized what had happened.

Before I could reassure him, I felt a sharp sting on my shoulder—his claw had caught my skin during that momentary loss of control, leaving a shallow scratch that was already beading with blood.

“Julian!” Mason’s voice was panicked as he pulled away, nearly falling off the bed in his haste to put distance between us. “Oh god, I hurt you. I’m so sorry—I lost control—I shouldn’t have—”

“Mason, it’s fine,” I said, sitting up and reaching for him. “It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse from my neighbor’s cat.”

But Mason was already backing away, horror written across his face as he stared at the thin line of blood on my shoulder. His eyes, still more gold than amber, were wide with panic.

“I could have killed you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “If I’d shifted fully, if my claws had been at your throat instead of your shoulder…”

“But they weren’t,” I pointed out, trying to stay calm despite the growing knot of dread in my stomach. I’d never seen him like this—so frightened, so disgusted with himself. “Mason, please. Come back to bed. It’s really nothing.”

He shook his head, backing up until he hit the wall. “No. I need—I need space. I need to think.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed his discarded pants from the floor and practically fled the room. I heard the front door open and close a moment later, followed by the sound of running footsteps on the porch.

“Shit,” I muttered, falling back against the pillows.

I lay there for a few minutes, processing what had just happened. The scratch on my shoulder stung slightly but was already clotting—it truly was minor, barely breaking the skin. The real wound was to Mason’s confidence, to the careful balance he maintained between his human and wolf sides.

With a sigh, I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom.

The face that looked back at me from the mirror was flushed, hair disheveled, a small smear of blood visible on my left shoulder.

I cleaned the scratch with antiseptic, wincing at the sting, and covered it with a small bandage more for Mason’s peace of mind than medical necessity.

After a quick shower to wash away the evidence of our lovemaking, I dressed in comfortable clothes and went looking for my werewolf boyfriend, though I already knew he wouldn’t be in the cabin. When Mason was upset, he retreated to the forest, often in wolf form.

Sure enough, the cabin was empty, his truck still parked outside indicating he hadn’t gone far. I made coffee, knowing I’d need the fortification, and settled on the porch swing to wait. The night was cool but not cold, the forest around us alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.

An hour passed. Then two. I went inside for a blanket and more coffee, then resumed my vigil. By the third hour, I was alternating between worry and irritation. I understood his need for space, but this was becoming ridiculous.

Just as I was considering going to bed and letting him work through his crisis alone, I spotted movement at the edge of the trees. A large black shape emerged from the shadows, hesitating at the boundary between forest and yard.

“I can see you, you know,” I called softly, knowing he could hear me perfectly. “Standing there being dramatic.”

The wolf—Mason—took a few steps forward, then stopped again, head lowered.

I sighed, setting my coffee mug aside. “If we’re going to have this conversation, I’d prefer you had thumbs and the ability to use words. But if you want to stay furry, that’s your choice.”

For a moment, he remained frozen. Then, with what seemed like reluctance, he turned and disappeared back into the trees.

A few minutes later, Mason emerged in human form, wearing only the jeans he’d grabbed during his hasty exit.

His hair was wild, twigs and leaves caught in it, and his expression was guarded as he approached the porch.

“You’re still awake,” he said, stopping at the bottom of the steps.

“Waiting for my boyfriend to come home and talk to me like an adult instead of hiding in the woods,” I replied, keeping my tone mild despite my frustration. “Crazy, I know.”

He winced. “I’m sorry. I needed to… clear my head.”

“For three hours?”

“I lost track of time,” he admitted, finally climbing the steps to stand before me. His eyes immediately went to my shoulder, where the bandage was visible beneath my t-shirt. “How bad is it?”

“Literally a scratch,” I said, pulling down the collar of my shirt to show him. “See? Already stopped bleeding. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

He stared at the bandage, his expression haunted. “This time,” he said quietly. “But what about next time? Or the time after that? I lost control, Julian. Completely. It’s never happened like that before.”

“So we’ll be more careful,” I said reasonably. “Maybe use the restraints we bought but never actually tried. Problem solved.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not just about sex. It’s about living with me, being near me. I’m dangerous. My wolf is too strong, too close to the surface.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. “What are you saying, Mason?”

He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Maybe… maybe this was a mistake. Us, living together. Maybe it’s too soon, too risky.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious,” he said, his voice strained. “I love you too much to risk hurting you.”

“So your solution is to hurt me emotionally instead?” I stood up, anger replacing my initial shock. “That’s bullshit, Mason, and you know it.”

He finally looked at me, his eyes tortured. “What if I’d shifted fully? What if I’d lost control completely? I could have killed you, Julian.”

“But you didn’t,” I insisted, stepping closer to him. “You’ve never hurt me before, not in months of being together. One tiny scratch doesn’t change that.”

“It changes everything,” he argued. “It proves what I’ve always feared—that I can’t control my wolf around you. That I’m not safe.”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “God, you’re so dramatic! You’re not some monster, Mason. You’re just a guy who happens to turn furry sometimes. A guy I love, who I chose to be with knowing exactly what he is.”

“You don’t know,” he said, his voice dropping. “You’ve only seen the surface. You haven’t seen what I’m capable of when the wolf takes over completely.”

“Then show me,” I challenged. “Stop hiding parts of yourself from me. Let me see all of you, even the parts you’re afraid of.”

He shook his head, taking a step back. “No. That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

I realized then that this wasn’t just about the scratch. This was about Mason’s deep-seated fear of his own nature, a fear that had been temporarily buried by our happiness but had never truly gone away.

My anger deflated, replaced by a profound sadness. “Mason,” I said gently, “if you don’t trust yourself with me, how can we build a life together?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and the despair in his voice broke my heart. “I don’t know if we can.”

We stood in silence for a long moment, the gap between us feeling wider than the few feet that physically separated us.

“I think I should sleep in the guest room tonight,” he finally said. “Give us both some space to think.”

I wanted to argue, to demand he face this with me instead of retreating, but I was tired—emotionally and physically. “If that’s what you need,” I said, unable to keep the hurt from my voice.

He reached for me, then stopped himself, hand falling back to his side. “I’m sorry, Julian. I love you. That’s why I can’t risk your safety.”

“If you really love me,” I said quietly, “you’ll stop making decisions for both of us and start trusting me to know what risks I’m willing to take.”

Without waiting for his response, I turned and went inside, leaving him standing alone on the porch. It was petty, perhaps, but I needed him to feel a fraction of the rejection I was experiencing.

That night, I lay awake in our bed—a bed that felt too large, too empty without Mason’s solid warmth beside me. Down the hall, I could hear him moving restlessly in the guest room, unable to settle. Neither of us was sleeping, both trapped in our separate miseries.

This is ridiculous, I thought, staring at the ceiling. We’re both miserable because he scratched me during sex. There has to be a better solution than this.

But I knew it wasn’t really about the scratch. It was about Mason’s fear of himself, his wolf, and the intensity of our connection. Somehow, I needed to show him that I wasn’t afraid—not of his strength, not of his wolf, not of the wildness in him that he tried so hard to suppress.

I just wasn’t sure how.