“Elias,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “I want to kiss you.”
I melt. “So do it.”
When he does just that, the world narrows to heat and pressure and the slow, hungry pull of his mouth on mine.
He kisses differently like this—deeper, firmer, more certain. His hands slide up my back, fingers splaying wide, pulling me against the solid strength of him.
I gasp, and he swallows the sound.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy, breathless, and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Boone leans his forehead against mine. “We’re not going further tonight,” he says, voice thick. “Not when I can barely think.”
I whine—actually whine—and he huffs a quiet laugh.
“But,” he adds, brushing his thumb over my lower lip, “I will hold you.”
That’s enough to make my entire chest ache. “Okay,” I whisper, even though the horny part of my brain whispers that the morning is a whole new day, and if he’s anything like me and wakes with morning wood, I’m not going to miss my chance.
We stay this way for a long moment, breathing together, until I finally slide off his lap and curl against him. When my stomach rumbles a little while later, Boone insists we eat before settling for the night. I suspect it’s partly practicality… and partly an excuse to regain control of himself, because the look he gave me during that kiss could have melted bedrock.
We sit by the fire—me with a small camping pan, him with a piece of roasted meat he prepared earlier. He eats slowly, methodically, posture relaxed but eyes always scanning the forest line.
I watch him. Maybe too openly. Okay, definitely too openly. But come on—look at him.
His human form is all sharp lines and carved strength, the firelight flickering across his cheekbones, highlighting the faint scar beneath his jaw.
I have no idea why he hasn’t changed back, but I miss his cryptid form already. Not in a novelty sense or a “wow, cool,a real-life Bigfoot” sense. No, I miss how he feels. Howbighe is. How warm. How his fur brushes against my skin like velvet warmed by sun. How his presence surrounds me like a living, breathing shelter.
He catches me staring. Again.
“What?” he says flatly.
“You’re pretty,” I blurt.
Boone blinks. Slowly. “No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m many things. Pretty isn’t one of them.”
“You’re gorgeous,” I insist. “As a man. And as—well. As yourself.”
He goes still. I’ve told him how beautiful he is before, but I still don’t think he believes me.
The fire pops. A branch cracks in the distance. There’s a rustle among the leaves. But Boone doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he watches me with a look so intense it melts straight through the marrow of my bones.
“You prefer my cryptid form,” he says quietly.
“Prefer?” I laugh softly. “Iwantboth. But the real you… that’s the one I feel drawn to.”
His throat works as he swallows. “You’re strange,” he murmurs.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It absolutely was.”
