Boarlander Beast Boar (Boarlander Bears #4)(18)

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.

Beck ignored him and rested her elbow on the table, cupped her neck, and avoided his curious gaze.

“Oh, I remember now. Rebecca Anderson.”

“What are you doing?” Mason asked in a hard tone.

Clinton was apparently too busy tapping away on his cell phone to answer.

A soft rumble sounded from Mason. He turned to her, drew her closer, and whispered right up against her ear, “Don’t let him get to you.” His bottom lip brushed her sensitive earlobe, and she sighed as heat pooled between her legs. And now there would be no hiding her eyes because her animal was desperate to drink in more of her mate.

Beck closed her eyes and clutched onto his shirt. Mason slipped his hand over her fist, squeezed her gently, and left his cheek against hers. His beard was rough against her soft skin. “I’ve never kissed a man with a beard before,” she whispered.

His chest was heaving curiously under her hand, and he pressed her palm against his drumming heart, content to stay near her. Beck was shaking now, her muscles twitching to be even closer to him, and somehow, in the busy restaurant, the chaos fell away, and it was just her and Mason.

Eyes tightly closed, she whispered, “You make me feel…” What could she say that wouldn’t send him scattered to the wind? Happy, normal, hopeful, like she could be good at love, like she didn’t have to be alone, like she could share her whole self with someone for the first time in her life…

“I make you feel what?”

She could do this—be brave. She didn’t want to hide from Mason like she had with Robbie. Mason was like her. He wouldn’t judge her or look at her like she was disgusting. He wouldn’t be disappointed. Slowly, she eased back, determined to let him see her eyes. They would be the color of liquid gold right now, an admission that she wasn’t what she’d pretended to be. That she wasn’t human. With a deep inhalation, she fluttered her eyes open.

Mason froze, and the relaxed expression on his face faltered with confusion. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb under her eye, brushing her lashes delicately. Her pupils would have shrunk to pinpoints by now, and the strange color undeniable.

“Beck,” Mason murmured.

She heaved breath as fear blanketed her. This wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. She was at a table of predator shifters, and she was small and fine-boned, fragile compared to the goliaths talking around them. “Don’t tell,” she pleaded pathetically.

He searched her eyes, his own gaze lightened to a stormy blue now, as if her animal was calling to his boar. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dipping low before he said, “Okay. I won’t.”

And just as she moved to escape to the bathroom, he pulled her in close and kissed her.

“Bangaboarlander dot com strikes again!” Bash crowed from a few seats down the table, and Beck ended the kiss with a frantic smack of her lips.

Mason pulled her close, hiding her face from the others as he dished out, “Bash, she didn’t find me on your stupid website.”

Focus, focus, focus.

“Besides, we aren’t exactly banging.” Mason’s tone sparked with humor. “She’s just beggin’ me to do the photoshoot tomorrow. Without words. Thinkin’ about my lumberjack body got her all revved up, and I was just helpin’ her—ow!” he said, wincing away from Beck’s swat. He broke out in a laugh with the others.

Beck giggled and shook her head, feeling more in control of herself. But when she looked at Clinton, he wore an empty smile and murmured, “Well, you ain’t registered.”

Mason kicked him hard under the table. Clinton grabbed his shin and launched into a muttered string of F-words.

“Can I have your autograph?” an eight-year-old boy asked from over Clinton’s shoulder.

The sandy-haired, grumpy behemoth formed his lips like he was about to say, ‘No,’ but Beck spoke up for him. “He would love to!” And then she glared him down. He was not going to make a public scene this close to the shifter rights vote.

“Fine,” he gritted out. With a put-upon sigh, Clinton snatched the pen and paper from the boy and said, “You better not sell this on the Internet until it appreciates to a million dollars. This is the one and only time I’ll be signing one of these.” He scribbled his name across the paper and then spent some time doodling a cartoon of a bear who was…doodling. There was a smiley-faced poop glob and happy looking flies involved and everything. Lovely.

“Cool,” the boy drawled out, staring wide-eyed at the crude treasure in his hands. “You’re really good at drawing, mister!”

Clinton crossed his arms, practically gloating under the compliment. He tossed Mason a competitive smile. “I’m good at everything.”