“Catch me,” I repeat.
Before he can argue, I push off the stool.
For the briefest of moments, gravity yanks me forward. Then his arms are there—fast and sure and utterly solid—scooping me out of the air like I weigh nothing. One massive hand supportsmy back, the other sliding under my thighs. The stool tips and clatters somewhere behind us, but I’m not falling.
I’m held.
He lifts me easily, bringing me up and in, pressing me to his chest. The world tilts for a moment; then everything rights itself as I hook my legs around his waist on instinct, balancing against him.
Now we’re face-to-face.
Now I can see every line of his features up close, each strand of fur, the way his pupils expand when he looks at my mouth. His breath fans across my lips, warm and uneven.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, because it crashes through me with such force I can’t hold it back.
He stares at me like he doesn’t understand that sentence.
I smile, feeling suddenly reckless and impossibly light. “Kiss me like you mean it,” I tell him.
A low noise escapes him then. Not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something in between that makes my toes curl.
“Elias,” he says, and this time my name in his voice sounds like a promise and a warning all at once.
Then he leans in and does exactly what I asked.
The second kiss is nothing like the first.
There’s no excessive holding back now or brittle stillness. He still moves carefully—he’ll probably always be careful with me—but there’s weight behind it. Intention. Heat.
His mouth slants over mine, firm and searching. His hand at my back presses me closer, the broad span of it covering most of my spine. I feel the flex of muscle under his fur, the contained power in every inch of him. My fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, clutching at him without meaning to.
My lips part slightly, just enough to deepen the contact. He follows, answering, adjusting, learning my rhythm even as I learn his. There’s a hint of fang when he moves, the faint scrapeof a sharper tooth that sends a bright spark of sensation through me, chased immediately by his retreat, as if he’s terrified of crossing a line.
I chasehim.
I tilt my head, steal another angle, another brush, another press. I break only to gasp and then dive back in, laughing breathlessly against his mouth when he huffs in surprise and then answers in kind.
The rumble in his chest builds, low and constant, like distant thunder.
By the time we slow, I’m panting, my heart racing so fast it feels like I’ve sprinted up the ridge. My legs are still wrapped around his waist. My hands are still buried in his fur. My brain is somewhere several yards away, trying to recalibrate to the fact that I’ve just made out with Bigfoot and it was, quite frankly, incredible.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“Are you all right?” he asks, voice rough as gravel.
I laugh, giddy. “That was… very okay.”
He huffs, a tiny puff of warm air against my lips. “Good.”
We stay this way for a long moment, suspended in the shared heartbeat between us. Eventually, practicality taps me on the shoulder.
“If we keep doing this, I’m going to forget that there’s food,” I say.
“You need to eat,” he says immediately, as if the idea of me skipping a meal is a personal affront.
“So do you,” I point out.
He grumbles, but the fight has softened out of him. There’s a new look in his eyes now—a mix of wonder and quiet vulnerability.
