The thought is wild and desperate, but I taste its honesty as I peel my head off the shower wall and kiss him, sharing what I can’t say into the press of my mouth against his.
The kiss is hungry, open-mouthed, all desire and urgency, as if we’re both trying to say the same impossible thing at once. His lips are insistent, moving against mine with a rough tenderness that makes my chest ache. I taste water and salt and him—the familiar comfort that’s simply Boone, grounding me so completely my breath hitches and warmth blooms through my chest.
He makes a sound into my mouth, low and unguarded, and it sends a shiver straight through me. One of his hands slides up my back, firm and possessive, fingers splaying between my shoulders like he’s holding me together by sheer will. The other stays where it is, anchoring me, reminding me exactly where I am and who I’m with.
I kiss him harder, pouring everything into it—the fear I didn’t know I was carrying, the trust I’m choosing anyway, the want that feels too big for my body and yet perfectly matched by his. Our mouths move together, messy and breathless, teeth grazing, lips parting and rejoining like we’re trying to learn each other in a single, desperate moment.
And the whole time, Boone thrusts into me, each uplift and down pull dragging me closer and closer to unraveling.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to this: steam, skin, the press of his mouth on mine, and the certainty blooming in my chest that whatever I was before, I am not that man anymore. This kiss, the way his cock fills me so completely, isn’t just desire. It’s surrender. It’s recognition.
I need to come. To let go. I palm my cock with shaky fingers, my grunt instant. He watches me, gaze flicking between my face, my hand, and where he’s shuttling in and out of me.
My vision blurs as he grazes my prostate. My dick swells, and I’m gone. Absolutely done for.
Clamping around him, I gasp before releasing a strangled cry and coming.
Boone slams into me once, twice, before he stills, his own deep groan following as his cock pulses, releasing his heated cum. It paints my channel, coating my insides. The sensation sears me, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
Words tumble in my head and form in the back of my throat. I need to keep them inside. Need to keep the dam of emotion locked tight before I make this awk?—
“I love you.” The words fly between us. There’s no taking them back, not when they forced their way out without ceremony, without intention.
But they’re real. They hold a truth that my heart refused to keep restrained.
He pulls back just enough for us both to breathe, our foreheads resting together, breaths mingling.
“I love you too, my Elias. You’re mine. If you’ll let me keep you.”
I shudder at the possession of Boone’s words, the absolute certainty in his unwavering gaze. And I know—without even needing his glorious words—that this moment has already changed me.
I nod. “And does that make you mine?”
His answering smile is all warmth and need and something dangerously close to devotion. “Yes.”
We stay this way for a long moment, water washing over us, the world reduced to steam and skin and the quiet certainty of being held.
Time loosens its grip on us.
The water streams over skin that’s gone hypersensitive with attention and touch. The heat isn’t just physical anymore—it’s deeper, coiled tight in my chest, humming through my veins with a kind of quiet insistence.
Boone’s breathing evens out first. Mine follows, slower, like my body is reluctant to let go of the moment even as it settles. Hedoesn’t pull away. He doesn’t rush us forward or backward. He just stays, solid and present, one hand firm at my back, the other resting where it feels like an anchor.
I feel… held. Claimed. Cared for like I’m worth keeping safe.
The realization is unexpectedly emotional.
I laugh softly, the sound a little unsteady. “You know,” I say, voice muffled against his shoulder, “this was not how I imagined my research trip going.”
A low, warm sound rumbles out of him. “You imagined less danger?”
“Less danger,” I agree. “Fewer cryptids. Definitely fewer existential revelations.”
His hand shifts, thumb brushing slow circles at my spine. “You handle them well.”
“I panic internally,” I confess. “Very efficiently.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching my face. There’s an openness in his expression now, an unguarded vulnerability that makes my chest ache all over again.
