Page 72 of The Good Boys Club

His soft snoring was less a snore and more like a purr. His dark hair was matted with twigs and leaves and other outdoor crap. I eased the detritus from his curls, careful not to pull on it or wake him.

For about ten seconds I debated covering his junk with something, because whilst werewolf culture on principle was somewhat lacking in modesty, Cian was not a werewolf. He already thought we were all batshit. But I didn’t cover him, because it would have meant getting up and finding a leaf and potentially waking him.

I knew it was wrong—he was asleep and he trusted me—but I couldn’t stop my eyes from travelling over his peaceful body. I’d never thought about another man this way, but Cian was beautiful. Tattoos covered his skin, from his neck to his knees, with only a few square inches of space remaining here and there. There was no overarching design tying all the pieces together; he was a patchwork of impromptu choices and inspiration, and it was stunning. A mishmash of memories and moments shared.

I’d been with him when he’d got some of the work done. Chosen a few of them. Not designed any because I was never as artistically gifted as him, but I liked coming up with the ideas.

Like the bare-chested mermaid I’d chosen on his left hip, or the deep-sea diver’s helmet with octopus tentacles busting out on his right pec, or the Good Boys Club paw print on his arm. It matched the one on my chest.

I liked knowing that he wore pieces of me. That I was always there with him.

His body was a work of art, but his face was a masterpiece.

I knew the angles and lines of Cian’s face better than my own. If I was as skilful as he was with a pen, I would have been able to draw it with my eyes closed. The arch of his dark brows, the slight upturn of his nose, the precise curve of his cupid’s bow, and his lips . . .

His lips . . .

My cells physically ached with the need to feel those lips against mine.

I lay back down on my side, pillowing my head on my arm, and just watched him.

My stomach rumbled again, and again, louder and more violent with each passing minute. It wouldn’t be long before Ci’s fundamental needs roused him too.

A few moments later, the snoring stopped and his eyes fluttered open.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he asked, his voice husky as it warmed up.

“Not for the first time, and won’t be the last,” I replied.

“Fucking stalker.”

I smiled. Cian pushed up onto his elbows, squinted down at his utter nakedness and now semi-hard cock, and groaned from what I assumed was irritation, aching bones, and near perishment. Waking up naked on the cold damp dirt in your thirties will do that to a man.

“I was gonna get something to cover your modesty, but I couldn’t find a large enough leaf,” I said.

Cian barked out a laugh and sat upright, stretching his back. I guessed he’d spent so long around me that being naked in each other’s presence was no longer a big deal. Even being naked and semi-hard.

“I’m fucking starving.” He rubbed his stomach.

“When I was younger, the night before the full moon I’d come out here and stash a pair of shorts and a whole box of GryphonCrackers. But I haven’t shifted here for so long, I forgot all about it. Next time, we can be more prepared.”

“Mash,” Cian began. His eyebrows knotted at the centre.

A heavy sense of dread hit me in the pit of my stomach. “Oh shit, what did I do last night? Fuck, did I hump you?”

Did I confess to all my secret thoughts? The ones I’d promised I’d never let surface.

I’d told myself this, and yet moments ago I’d been staring at his lips wondering when I might feel them against mine again.

Did I destroy our friendship?

“Do you remember anything?” he said.

My stomach flipped, and my heart smashed against my ribs. I’m gonna lose you, aren’t I? I can’t lose you.

“Some bits,” I said. I raked through my memories. “I remember leaving your glasses outside the marquee . . . and you getting weirded out by the butt sniffing.”

“The butt sniffing is just plain wrong, okay?!” he half-shouted. “I don’t ever wanna be in a position where your great uncle Phil has his nostrils buried in my colon.” He inhaled sharply, and puffed the breath out in a more controlled way. “Do you remember coming here?”

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