I laugh. “The violin was emotional.”
“It was begging for release,” he mutters.
I snort so hard I nearly choke. “Okay, then you choose something.”
He stiffens like I’ve asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spatula.
“What do you normally listen to?” I prompt.
“Silence.”
“Boone.”
“And sometimes storms,” he adds grudgingly.
“Well, that’s not an option!” I thumb the radio on. “So you get human music.”
He groans like the radio personally wronged him.
I flip through stations until I land on an upbeat and energetic tune. Boone flinches like the drumbeat physically struck him.
“What is this?” he demands.
“Pop rock,” I say, already delighted.
“It sounds like bees being electrocuted.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic. Relax!”
“I am relaxed. This is my relaxed face.”
“This?” I point at his expression—a tight line of a mouth, brows slightly drawn, the embodiment of “I’d rather be anywhere but here.” “This is relaxed?”
“I’m breathing,” he says. “That’s as much as you’re getting.”
I have to laugh again because I’m trying desperately not to look at him too long.
Because here’s the thing: Boone’s human form isbeautiful.Unfairly beautiful.
Chiseled jaw, copper-dark hair tumbling over his forehead in waves, broad shoulders that strain against the T-shirt hereluctantly agreed to wear. His forearms flex when he adjusts his seat belt again. His profile is sharp, dignified, almost regal.
He looks like he was carved from the same mountain range he calls home.
And yet… my heart aches a little every time I glance over. Because this isn’t the version of him I fell for first.
I keep thinking about the other him—the real him—massive and warm and covered in thick russet fur that glints like sunlit redwood bark. Shoulders so much bigger than his human form. Hands that could lift me easily. And eyes… those golden eyes that glow faintly in the dark, like embers that know secrets.
A flush races up my neck.
I’d miss that form even if I weren’t… wildly attracted to it. Even if I weren’t still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve kissed him, touched him, held him. Even if I weren’t lying awake at night imagining… well. Things.
Things involving eight feet of gorgeous cryptid. Things involving proportions that should probably alarm me. Things I am embarrassingly open-minded about.
And yes, I’m absolutely talking about his cock.
But no, Elias, think about science. Think about your research. Think about…bees being electrocuted, apparently.
Boone shifts in his seat, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me. Assessing me. Maybe even amused.
