Page 5 of Love, Clumsily (Fur Real Love #2)

I didn’t sleep much that night. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle outside had me sitting up, wondering if my maybe-werewolf not-quite-boyfriend had returned. By morning, I’d convinced myself I was being ridiculous. Stress and an overactive imagination, that’s all it was.

Then I checked my phone and found a text from Mason:

Can I come over today? Need to talk. Important.

I stared at the screen. Was he going to confess? Or was this about something else entirely, and I was just projecting my werewolf theory onto an ordinary relationship conversation?

Sure, I texted back. Around 2?

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, appeared again, and finally:

See you then.

I spent the morning alternating between cleaning my already-tidy cabin and researching werewolves online, which was about as helpful as you’d expect.

According to the internet, Mason was either a bloodthirsty monster who would tear me apart at the full moon, a tortured soul cursed to shift forms against his will, or a sexy alpha male with magical pheromones and the ability to impregnate men.

(That last one was from a particularly creative fan fiction site I fell down a rabbit hole into.)

By the time 2 o’clock rolled around, I’d worked myself into a state of nervous anticipation. When a knock came at my door, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I took a deep breath, smoothed down my shirt, and opened the door.

Mason stood on my porch looking like he hadn’t slept either. His hair was more disheveled than usual, and there was a tension in his shoulders that made his already imposing frame seem even larger. He wore a simple gray t-shirt and jeans, both of which looked like they’d been slept in.

“Hi,” I said, stepping back to let him in.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual. He hesitated before entering, as if crossing my threshold required special permission.

Once inside, he stood awkwardly in the middle of my living room, looking too big for the space, like a great dane who thought it was a lap dog.

“Do you want coffee? Or water?” I offered.

“No, I’m—water would be good, actually,” he said, changing his mind mid-sentence.

I fetched us both glasses of water, using the moment in the kitchen to gather my thoughts. When I returned, he was still standing in the same spot, looking like he was facing a firing squad.

“You can sit down, you know,” I said, gesturing to the couch. “I promise it won’t bite.”

A strangled sound escaped him—not quite a laugh. “Right. Sorry.” He lowered himself onto my couch, which creaked ominously under his weight.

I sat in the armchair opposite him, setting our water on the coffee table between us. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“So,” I finally said, deciding to rip off the Band-Aid, “are we going to talk about how you’re a werewolf, or is this about something else?”

The glass of water Mason had just picked up slipped from his fingers, splashing across my coffee table and floor. He didn’t seem to notice, his wide eyes fixed on my face.

“What did you just—how did you—” He stopped, swallowed. “What?”

“You’re a werewolf,” I said, surprised by how calm I sounded. “That’s your big secret, right? The thing you’ve been afraid to tell me?”

He stared at me, mouth opening and closing without sound, looking remarkably like a very muscular fish out of water.

“I saw you last night,” I continued. “In my yard. At least, I’m pretty sure it was you. The eyes were the same.”

“You… you’re not…” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “You’re talking about this like it’s… normal.”

“Oh, I’m freaking out internally,” I assured him. “But externally, I’m trying to be cool about it because you look like you might bolt through my wall like the Kool-Aid Man if I start screaming.”

A surprised laugh burst from him, breaking some of the tension. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and ran his hands through his hair.

“This is not how I planned this conversation,” he muttered.

“How did you plan it?”

He looked up at me. “Carefully. With diagrams, maybe. And a prepared speech about how I’d understand if you never wanted to see me again.”

“Well, we can still do that if you want,” I offered. “I can pretend to be shocked and horrified, you can do your speech, we’ll both feel awkward…”

Another laugh, more genuine this time. “You’re taking this suspiciously well.”

I shrugged. “I’ve had a night to process. And honestly, it explains a lot. The super senses, the strength, the whole ‘afraid of losing control’ thing…”

“I was afraid of hurting you,” he said softly. “I still am.”

“You won’t,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“You don’t know that,” he insisted. “When we’re… intimate… it’s harder to keep the wolf in check. And if I shifted while we were… if I lost control…”

“Then we work on your control,” I said simply. “Or you tie me up instead of the other way around.”

His eyes darkened at that, pupils dilating visibly. “That’s not funny, Julian.”

“It wasn’t entirely a joke,” I admitted. “Look, I’m not saying this isn’t a lot to process. It is. But I was already falling for you before I knew you occasionally grew fur and a tail. Finding out you’re a werewolf doesn’t change how I feel.”

He looked at me with naked hope in his eyes. “And how do you feel?”

I moved from the armchair to the couch, sitting close enough that our thighs touched.

“Like I want to know everything about you—human and wolf. Like I want to keep dating you and see where this goes. Like I really, really want to finally get you into bed and find out if your control is actually as fragile as you think it is.”

A rumbling sound came from his chest—not quite a growl, but something deeper and more primal than a normal human could produce. “You shouldn’t tempt me,” he warned, but he was already leaning closer.

“Why not?” I challenged, tilting my head to expose my neck in what was pure instinct but apparently the right move, given the way his eyes flashed gold. “I’m not afraid of you, Mason.”

“You should be,” he whispered, but his hand was already sliding around the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

“Prove it,” I whispered back.

His kiss was different this time—less restrained, more primal. There was a hint of teeth, sharper than they should be, and when I opened my eyes briefly, I caught a flash of gold in his.

I pulled him closer, practically climbing into his lap, and he groaned into my mouth. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging in just shy of painful, and lifted me fully onto his lap with embarrassing ease.

“Bedroom,” I gasped against his mouth. “Now.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He stood, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist. I directed him between kisses, and somehow we made it to my bedroom without crashing into any walls, which I considered a victory given Mason’s usual coordination.

He set me on the edge of the bed and stepped back, his chest heaving. His eyes were more gold than amber now, and I could see the internal struggle playing out on his face.

“We can stop,” I offered, though it nearly killed me to say it. “If you’re not ready.”

“I want this,” he said roughly. “I want you. I just don’t want to scare you.”

“Then don’t,” I said simply. “Show me all of you, Mason. I want to see.”

He hesitated, then nodded once, decision made. He reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

Holy mother of god, I thought reverently.

Mason shirtless was a religious experience.

His chest and shoulders were even broader than they appeared clothed, sculpted muscle shifting under golden skin.

A dusting of dark hair covered his pectorals, thickening as it traveled down to form a trail leading into his jeans.

His abs were defined but not overly cut—the solid, functional muscle of someone naturally powerful rather than gym-crafted.

But it wasn’t just his impressive physique that caught my attention. There were scars—old, silvery lines across his ribs, a larger one on his left shoulder that looked like a bite mark. Marks of a life I knew nothing about yet.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice low and rough.

I suddenly felt inadequate. I was in decent shape—lean and toned from regular running and yoga—but compared to Mason, I was practically fragile.

Still, the hunger in his eyes gave me courage. I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, letting it fall open to reveal my chest and stomach. His eyes tracked every movement, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching me.

I shrugged the shirt off completely, feeling exposed and aroused by his intense gaze.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, so formally it almost made me laugh.

“Please do,” I said, reaching for him.

He came to me then, pressing me back onto the bed and covering my body with his. The weight of him was incredible—heavy but carefully distributed so he didn’t crush me. His skin burned against mine, hotter than a normal human, and the hair on his chest created a delicious friction as he moved.

His mouth found my neck, lips and tongue exploring the sensitive skin there. When he scraped his teeth—definitely sharper than normal—lightly across my pulse point, I arched up with a gasp.

“Too much?” he murmured against my skin.

“Not enough,” I countered, my hands roaming his broad back, feeling the shift and play of muscles beneath my fingers.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me, and continued his exploration, moving down to my chest. When his mouth closed around my nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, I let out a sound that would have embarrassed me if I’d been capable of embarrassment at that moment.

His hand slid down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans, hesitating there. “Is this okay?”

“If you don’t touch me soon, I might actually die,” I informed him seriously.