Chapter 16 #2
He builds the firepit while I set up the tent. And by “set up the tent,” I mean I pull it out of its sack, examine its contents, and immediately trip over a pole.
Boone materializes at my side. “I’ll do it,” he says gently.
“No, I need to contribute!”
He arches a brow.
I hold the pole with too much determination. “I am capable.”
He watches me for three full seconds, then says, “You are about to assemble a modern art sculpture, not a tent.”
“Maybe I’m an artist.”
He huffs and takes the pole from me like he’s rescuing a small, injured bird. “Sit,” he orders.
I sit, despite having put up a tent more times than I can count. Honestly, my clumsiness at this point is all his fault.
Five minutes later, the tent is up, perfect, and symmetrical. I point at it. “I loosened the zipper. That counts.”
“It does not.”
“Let me have this.”
Boone’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
He sits beside me, not touching but close enough that I feel the warmth of him radiating through the fabric of my shirt. His knee brushes mine every so often, deliberate or not, and each time, a spark zips up my spine.
The forest settles around us. Birds quiet. The sky slowly bruises into evening.
It’s time I make it clear what I want.
“Boone?”
He turns his head, all attentive focus. “Yes?”
“I’m not sleeping in the tent.”
He stiffens. “Yes, you are.”
“Nope.”
He levels me with a look. “Elias, we discussed this.”
“You discussed it,” I correct. “I didn’t agree.”
“Sleeping outside without shelter is unsafe.”
“That depends,” I say brightly, “on who I’m sleeping next to.”
A beat of silence follows, and Boone’s pupils dilate slightly.
“Elias.”
I inch closer. “I want to sleep with you,” I say softly. “On you, against you, under your arm, draped across your chest—some configuration of cuddling. I’m not picky.”
His breath leaves him in one long, quiet exhale. “I am… not opposed,” he says carefully, voice dropping an octave, “but you need to understand something.”
“What?”
He leans in, slow and deliberate, gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “When you touch me,” he murmurs, “I don’t think clearly.”
My heartbeat becomes a frantic drum. “Good,” I whisper.
His jaw tenses. This is the moment where he restrains himself, where he pulls back, where he hides behind logic or caution or whatever ancient instincts guide him.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts a hand, cups my cheek, and says, “You smell like you want me.”
I stop breathing. “Boone,” I squeak.
He smiles. Not smug or even teasing. It’s warm, feral… maybe even a little reverent. “Do you?” he asks quietly.
My mouth opens but no words come out. Instead, I nod.
His breath shudders. “Then come here.”
I move without thinking—straddling his lap in one fluid motion, guided more by desire than grace. His hands land on my hips immediately, hot and firm, grounding me.
His eyes flicker—bright gold even in human form. He smells like cedar smoke, warmth, and the untamed forest itself.
“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. How big he 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.