Excerpt: Moonrise

“I’d like to make things okay between us, Boone.”

“By... seducing me?” Boone asked, and he shook his head. “Not going to happen, Thatcher. You know what, why don’t you just leave? It was great seeing you and all, and thanks for reminding me that I’m an idiot and I’m loads happier when you aren’t in my life.”

He stormed towards the front door, unlocking it and starting to pull it open. On cue, one of Thatcher’s hands came from behind him, pushing it shut again – Boone abhorred when Thatcher would do that; when he would suddenly appear next to him after he’d been on the complete other side of the room. It was one of those ‘heightened senses’ things that werewolves had, the super speed.

Scowling, Boone slowly turned to face Thatcher, who he realized was much too close for comfort. Thatcher kept his hand on the door, and his chest was almost touching Boone’s, their bodies mere inches away from one another.

“I’m sorry,” Boone said softly. “That wasn’t what I intended to do to you, Boone, believe me. I just... you mess me up. And I can’t help but want to feel you, it’s been so long.”

“We’re broken up,” Boone said. “What don’t you get?”

Thatcher’s other hand came up to rest against the door, and Boone was now trapped in between the werewolf’s arms, pressed up flat against the door. Boone swallowed, trying to keep his gaze averted – he was all too aware of the musky scent of Thatcher’s cologne that filled his nostrils, completely intoxicating and mixed with the worn leather smell of Thatcher’s motorcycle jacket.

The jacket that Boone wanted to curl up in and never let go of.

“Boone, can I ask you something?” Thatcher was speaking in the same low tone as earlier, and Boone knew that tone – it was his, ‘Let’s-Have-Sex’ voice. Damnit. “What would you do if I were to kiss you? Right now?”

Boone took a deep breath through his mouth, and before he could stop himself, he raised his gaze to meet Thatcher’s. He almost found himself hypnotized. “I might kiss you back,” he said, in all truth. He knew there was no point in lying to Thatcher, because that would have just given Thatcher the incentive to prove it false. “But then I’d probably punch your lights out.”

With a smirk, Thatcher cocked his head and looked up at the ceiling, as if he were pondering this. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s just a risk I’m willing to take....”