Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
ELIAS
The shower barely qualifies as functional for two people.
Steam curls upward almost immediately, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of the room until the world beyond the tiles feels very far away. The water drums against the walls, a steady, intimate sound that fills every quiet space. It’s warm—almost too warm—but neither of us moves to adjust it.
Boone closes the door behind us, the latch clicking into place with a finality that makes my breath hitch.
For a moment, we just stand here.
He’s human now, and my brain keeps stumbling over the familiarity of him like this. The breadth of his shoulders, the way his body still holds power even without fur or towering height. There’s a watchful restraint in him, like he’s bracing himself against his own wants.
It makes my chest ache.
I step closer first, the tile cool beneath my bare feet, my skin already prickling from the temperature. When I reach for him, he stills. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean in. He just waits.
That alone nearly undoes me.
My hands settle at his waist, thumbs brushing warm skin, and only then does he move. His hands come up slowly, cupping my sides, anchoring me there like he’s afraid I might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
The kiss is soft at first. Exploratory.
Water beads along his jaw, sliding down the column of his throat. I taste salt and the familiar comfort that’s simply Boone—steady, grounding, real. The kiss deepens gradually, pressure increasing in small increments until my breath stutters and I press closer without thinking.
He makes a low sound, barely more than a hum, and I feel it resonate through him.
“Elias,” he murmurs, like a question.
I nod, forehead resting briefly against his. “I’m here.”
His hands tighten, then flex. The restraint in that small movement sends need pooling low in my belly.
When I speak again, my voice is quieter. More vulnerable. “Can I… ask you something?”
His thumbs trace small, grounding circles at my ribs. “Yes.”
I swallow. “Like this. While you’re… human. Would you want to… be with me like this?”
The pause that follows is charged, not uncertain. He searches my face, eyes dark and intent, reading me the way he always does—carefully, completely. “Yes,” he says finally, voice roughening. “But only if you’re sure.”
“I am,” I say without hesitation. Then, because honesty feels easier with him than it ever has with anyone else, I add, “And I want your other form too. I just… think I’ll need time. To build up to it.”
A soft, surprised laugh escapes him. “You plan everything.”
“I plan dangerous things,” I correct, smiling despite the nerves fluttering in my chest. But seriously, the size of his cock in cryptid form is enough to make me wince, but not back away completely. It’ll have to be a time when we have days to stretch and plan.
Hmm, I wonder if there’s somewhere I can buy poppers. Not that I’m usually down for drug use, but I want to take all of him, and if it means I need some extra help to be able to accommodate him, damn straight I’m keeping my options open.
His expression warms, fond and heated all at once. “That’s wise.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and the world narrows.
He slides his hands with purpose now, mapping my back, my waist, my hips, learning how I fit against him in this smaller, closer space. The water slicks everything, warmth and friction blurring into sensation until my thoughts scatter.
I press him back gently, until his shoulders meet tile, and he lets me—lets me take that small bit of control. The look he gives me in response sends a jolt straight through me.
“You’re looking at me like I’m prey,” I murmur, half teasing.
He exhales slowly. “You’re not prey.”
“Good,” I say, kissing him again. “Because I don’t feel hunted.”
His hands shift, cradling me closer, his presence solid and protective even as the moment grows hotter. When his touch dips first to his exposed cock, then lower to my ass, it’s unhurried, deliberate, checking in at every step.
I tense for a moment at the first touch—anticipation, nerves riding me. He stills instantly.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly.
“I’m good,” I assure him, meeting his gaze. “Just… feeling everything.”
He nods, adjusting his fingers before pressing one thick finger inside me.
“Oh my—fuck!” The word pushes out of me with force. He stills. “Keep going,” I say quickly. His finger is deep, and when he moves it, I groan. “Holy! How—”
His brows dip in confusion, but I can’t form words. Heck, I can barely catch my breath, as with every dip and swipe of his finger drags across my prostate.
How on earth does he know how to make it feel so good?
I want to ask. Want to know if he has a prostate. But what I want more is for him to never stop, unless it’s to replace his digit with his impressive cock.
My body has complete control as it chases the pleasure. A whimper escapes me when he removes his finger but is immediately exchanged when he pushes two digits inside me. I feel everything: the rough pads of his fingers, their size, how they drag along my walls, threatening to push me over the edge.
He adjusts his movement to match my breath, my reactions. The care in it is overwhelming. I’ve never felt so seen, so attended to, and the knowledge that he’s choosing this with me—choosing to be careful when he could so easily overwhelm—makes my throat tighten.
The space between us shrinks again, heat building, want threading through every movement. I cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as my body tilts instinctively closer.
“I need you.” The words are desperate, my words higher pitched than I intended. That doesn’t stop my desperate “Please, Boone. Now” from escaping.
And then I’m clinging to him, grabbing on as my view shifts and he picks me up with such little effort that I grasp my balls to stop me from coming.
He’s so hot. Absolutely crazy, ridiculously, perfectly strong and sexy and—
My eyes roll back when he presses in with soapy fingers. Then he’s breaching my hole. Along with my eyesight, the sensation steals my breath entirely.
I gasp, forehead dropping to his shoulder as I adjust and he stills, my body learning the shape of him, the closeness, the weight of this choice.
He’s so big, filling me in a way that I’ve never experienced before.
And this is his human form, which is two inches smaller and has a girth I can apparently handle.
That and he’s not fully seated yet.
The last thing I should be doing is thinking ahead when I’m already stretched and feeling full, but praise be to the cryptid gods, I can’t wait until it’s fur I can feel in my grip when he’s fucking into me.
He doesn’t move until I nod, until my breath evens and I look up at him again.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “My Elias, let me take care of you.”
The words do something to me that nothing else ever has. I nod again, trusting him completely, and when he pushes his huge cock deeper and finally settles fully inside me, the connection feels less like taking and more like belonging. Like a missing piece finally sliding into place.
I laugh softly, breathless and overwhelmed. “Okay. That’s—wow.”
I wriggle a little, testing the hold of his arms, feeling impossibly safe and, honestly, impaled. Impaled in the most exquisite of ways. Every inch of me is aware of how full I am, how completely he has me. The knowledge sends another ripple of pleasure through my body.
Boone groans, his lids sliding shut like he’s bracing himself. “Elias,” he grunts. “Give me a moment.”
The sound of my name on his tongue makes my chest ache. I beam, helplessly delighted by the fact that he’s just as affected as I am, but I need him to move. Need him to pound into me so hard I feel him everywhere, need the force of him to drive the thought of anything else right out of my head.
I try—I really do—to give him the moment he’s asking for. But the urge to wriggle, to lift and slam down on him, coils tight and urgent inside me, wrapped in desire and the need to come and be filled so thoroughly with him that it leaves me dizzy and wrecked and gasping.
“Boone.” The word spills out of me, needy and unfiltered, a pining, slutty plea I don’t even try to take back. Because what else is a man supposed to do when he’s stuffed to capacity with a monster cock?
Beg, apparently.
His eyes snap open, locking onto mine, and whatever restraint he was clinging to shatters. His expression turns molten—almost feral—as his grip tightens. One hand anchors my ass, the other wraps around my back, fingers biting into my shoulder, holding me exactly where he wants me.
Then he thrusts.
Hard.
So perfectly, dizzyingly hard that stars burst behind my eyes and my breath tears free in a broken sound.
I can do nothing but cling to him as he tilts his hips and drives into me again and again, each movement sending sensation skidding across my skin, flooding my veins, settling deep into every cell that makes me who I am.
It’s too much—overwhelming and exquisite—and still not enough.
I swear I can feel myself changing under his touch, the pleasure zapping through me with such intensity it feels like it’s rewriting who I am, claiming me in ways that have nothing to do with logic and everything to do with truth.
I feel everything.
Still too much, and somehow still never enough.
The thought is wild and desperate, but I taste its honesty as I peel my head off the shower wall and kiss him, sharing what I can’t say into the press of my mouth against his.
The kiss is hungry, open-mouthed, all desire and urgency, as if we’re both trying to say the same impossible thing at once.
His lips are insistent, moving against mine with a rough tenderness that makes my chest ache.
I taste water and salt and him—the familiar comfort that’s simply Boone, grounding me so completely my breath hitches and warmth blooms through my chest.