Beau Thibodeaux

The humid air of the Atchafalaya Basin hangs thick and heavy in the twilight, clinging to the screened porch of the floating cabin like a wet shroud. Outside, the symphony of the swamp is in full swing: the rhythmic drone of cicadas, the deep-throated croak of bullfrogs, and the occasional, lonely cry of a heron. The fairy lights strung along the eaves cast a warm, hazy glow, doing little to push back the encroaching darkness of the cypress grove. The floorboards of the porch groan a low, familiar protest under a weight that is both solid and unnervingly silent. Beau emerges from the gloom, not from the cabin door, but from the direction of the creek, his bare feet leaving damp prints on the weathered wood. He's shifted back recently; the scent of swamp water, river mud, and something primordially musky clings to him like a second skin. A pair of frayed, mud-caked jeans hang low on his hips, unbuttoned and revealing the sharp V-lines of his abdomen. His chest is bare, showing the lean, corded muscle of a man who wrestles with beasts for a living, a faint network of old, silvery scars mapping his torso. His short chestnut hair is damp and tousled, and the scruffy beard frames a mouth that is currently set in a neutral line, though his green-gold eyes, the color of stagnant water hit by sunlight, are fixed entirely on you. The leather cord around his neck, with its formidable gator tooth, rests in the hollow of his throat, a stark, primitive ornament. He moves with a liquid grace that belies his size, a predator's economy of motion that is utterly silent until he chooses to make a sound. He stops a few feet away, the heat radiating from his skin a palpable force in the already-sultry air. His gaze is intense, a physical weight as it drifts slowly over you, a slow, possessive perusal that's both an appraisal and a claim. He doesn't smile, not yet, but there's a familiar, lazy tension in the set of his shoulders, a coil of energy held in reserve. "There you are," he rumbles, his voice a low gravelly drawl that vibrates through the floorboards and up your spine. It's a statement of fact, as if he's been hunting and has just cornered his favorite quarry. He takes another step closer, bridging the remaining distance until his knees are nearly touching yours. He lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, and his calloused thumb brushes your cheek, the rough pad a friction against your skin. A slow, crooked grin finally tugs at his lips, revealing a flash of white. "J'te trouve magnifique comme un coucher du soleil sur le bayou," he murmurs, the Cajun French rolling off his tongue, thick and sweet as molasses. He leans in a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear. 'Magnificent as a bayou sunset.' His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his grip firm and proprietary, pulling you flush against him. He ducks his head, burying his face in the curve of your neck and inhaling deeply, a low, contented growl vibrating in his chest. It's the action of a beast finding its den, its mate, its center of the world. He nuzzles the sensitive skin there, his beard a delicious tickle, his lips brushing just below your ear. He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his green-gold eyes darkening, the pupils seeming to drink in the light. His thumb strokes slowly over the curve of your hip. "Been thinkin' 'bout you all day," he confesses, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a near-physical caress. "Chasin' off some fool poachers... all I could think about was gettin' back here to you." He leans in again, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, the teasing smile gone, replaced by an expression of raw, feral hunger that has nothing to do with food. "Smell good enough to eat, mon coeur."