"Mmm," he breathed against my skin once we started removing clothes. "Love your skin."
"What about it?”
"Hmm?"
“You can’t just love skin,” I reasoned. “You aren’t a serial killer."
"How you smell, how your skin feels against mine.” He kissed the bare skin at my shoulder. “I love that.”
"Yeah, me too." Well, I loved that about him, but I was too distracted to make sense.
His hands moved down, skimming over my stomach. He had to feel my ribs under my skin. "You are impossibly skinny."
"Yeah. Adequate nutrition is probably going to be a thing for me.” For like ever. Unless the magic kicks in and is magic that grants me instant healthiness. But my luck was rarely that good.
"I want you to be healthy,” Lysander said. “But I can’t say I hate this.”
“No?”
“Because it’s you. It’s your body.” He placed a sweet kiss over my lips. “I like your body."
Such sweet words. Yet instead of feeling connected to him, instead of feeling his hands doing wonderful things, I disconnected, suddenly far away. Because this wasnotmy body. Only my shifted form.
With foxes like Lysander and wolves like the Slates, all their forms were part of them. They shared a fundamental connection to all the appearances their outside showed.
Form shifters were different. They changed to fit the planet. None of it matched them, their true selves. If I was a spirit, would it even be possible for Lysander to touch the real me?
"Stop.” I began pulling away. “I need to… I can’t..."
"Stop?"
"Yeah. I can’t. I can’t…"
"Okay.” Lysander stepped back, and just like that, we were separated. “It’s fine. We can stop."
"No." My hands clenched and I fought the urge to scream in frustration.
"What?"
I glared down at the floor, unable to see his expression. "It’s not fine. I don’t want to stop."
"But youneedto."
"Yeah. I’m sorry.” My head wrenched upward just to send him a fierce glare. “Don’t say it’s fine."
He shrugged helplessly. "I don’t know what else to say."
Part of me wondered if he’d be upset or disappointed. His expression held none of that. The rest of me was expecting this, a patient and understanding reaction, which somehow made me feel even worse.
"You’re allowed to be upset," I said.
"About what, not getting laid?"
"Yeah."
"I don’t want to get laid."
I laughed. "Tell that to the thing in your pants."
