Page 66 of Rocky Top

I exhaled, long and rough. “’Cause I want you to see the part of me that ain’t just the scowl and the bike and the blood. The part that’s wild but not dangerous. Not to you.”

I stepped back, hands at the hem of my shirt.

“Wait. What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna shift. If you’ll let me.”

Birdie’s mouth fell open. “You’re just gonna, strip naked and turn into a wolf in front of me? Like it’s not the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever heard?”

I gave her a slow, lazy grin. “That’s about the gist of it.”

She blinked. Then laughed. “Well hell. At least gimme a heads up next time.”

I did strip then. Slow. Not to tease, though her eyes definitely lingered, but because shifting ain’t just about takin’ your clothes off. It’s about vulnerability. About trust.

Not gonna lie. It did help that I wasn’t just a grower but a shower, too. Couldn’t miss her reaction to seeing my dick, but I fought the grin. Went on like I didn’t smell her pussy drippin’.

The wind kicked up as I let the change take me, muscles stretching, bones snapping into new shapes. My skin rippled, fur sliding across it like a second skin until I stood on four legs, my wolf breathing deep, eyes locked on Birdie.

She gasped. Took a step back.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

I lowered my head, ears flicking back, waiting. Letting her choose.

After a beat, she stepped forward, her fingers trembling as they brushed through the fur on my neck.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, voice full of awe. “Scary as all hell, but beautiful.”

I whined low, pressing my head into her palm.

We stayed like that for a while. My wolf sittin’ in the grass, her beside me, talkin’ like she wasn’t petting a 200-pound predator.

Eventually, the moon rose higher, and the itch under my skin said it was time to run.

I bumped her hand, then trotted off into the trees.

Behind me, she called out, “Don’t go too far, Wolfman!”

I howled in response, loud and long, the sound echoing through the mountains like a damn vow.

When I came back, I shifted behind the trees before walkin’ back barefoot.

Birdie sat on a rock, hugging her knees, a soft smile on her face.

“You’re back,” she said, like it surprised her.

“Always.”

And then she stood, walked right up to me, and kissed me.

No preamble. No hesitation.

Her lips were soft but sure, tasting like mint gum and moonlight, her hands gripping my jaw like she needed to anchor herself. I kissed her back with everything I had, pouring weeks of pent-up desire and frustration and protectiveness into that one kiss.

When we pulled apart, her forehead rested against mine.

“Now that,” she murmured. “Was worth the trip.” She glanced down.

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