The air between us thickens.
Without thinking, I reach out and touch his shoulder, just above the strap of his backpack.
He looks up at me. Really looks. His pupils are wide; his lips part on a small, shaky exhale.
“I’m going to need you to sit,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“So I can get to you properly,” he continues, cheeks flushing but not backing down. “You’re very tall, and I’m done giving my calves extra work for the sake of kissing you.”
Heat rushes through me. “Demanding,” I say.
“Accurate,” he replies.
There’s a fallen log nearby, broad and mostly dry. I move to it and sit, the wood creaking faintly under my weight. He steps between my knees without hesitation, dropping his pack to the side.
His eyes flick over my face, searching, making sure. “Okay?” he asks.
“More than,” I say.
He smiles, small and fierce, then climbs astride my lap, which, honestly, should be illegal.
He settles there like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one knee braced on either side of my thighs. His hands come up to rest on my shoulders, fingers flexing lightly in my fur as he wriggles closer to find his balance.
Everywhere he touches ignites.
His chest brushes mine. His breath fans across my mouth. His scent—warm skin, fabric, the faint sweetness of whatever soap he uses, and an unmistakable trace that’s simply Elias—wraps around me in a dizzying wave.
“You’re distracted,” he murmurs. “And not just because of Solstice.”
“I wonder why,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
He huffs a soft laugh, then tilts his head, eyes intent. “Let me help,” he says.
He leans in and kisses me.
We’ve kissed before over the last week. Sweet kisses, stolen ones. Soft presses of mouth to mouth, lingering brushes when we part, the occasional deeper exploratory moment that left us both a little breathless and stupid.
This is different.
There’s a kind of purpose to it. A determination. Like he’s decided that the best way to anchor me in the present is to burn it into both our memories.
His lips meet mine with more pressure, more need. I respond automatically, my hands coming up to cradle his back, careful not to squeeze too hard. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat—half sigh, half pleased noise—and presses closer.
My awareness spikes.
I feel every shift of his weight, every subtle move of his body. His thighs are firm where they cradle my hips. His clothes rasp softly against my fur. My breath shortens.
He kisses like he does everything else: with unfiltered enthusiasm and a total lack of self-protection. When he pulls back, it’s only to change the angle, to breathe, to murmur my name in a way that makes my self-control go very, very thin.
“Boone,” he whispers, mouth brushing mine. “Hey. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you,” I manage.
“Good,” he says. “Because I need you to really hear this too.”
He takes one hand from my shoulder and lays it over my chest, right above my heart. His hand is small there, fingers splayed wide.
