I watch her. The line of her throat. The way the moonlight sits on her cheekbones.
I look away.
“You should go to bed,” I say.
She turns her head toward me slowly. “Are you kicking me out of your yard?”
“You drank a very strong beer, and you’re about twenty minutes from face-planting on my patio.”
She stands, which proves my point because the moment she’s on her feet, she begins wobbling. I quickly grab her and lift her into my arms. Her own go around my neck.
“I can walk.” She beams at me.
“I know.” I sigh. “You can do everything.”
“You don’t have to carry me.”
“I really shouldn’t.” I should also not look at her relaxed face, especially when it’s so close to mine. Sober Miranda has no problem pushing me away if I get carried away when teasing her. This one, I’m not so sure about.
I carry her up the stairs, and she is not making it easy.
She’s decided, somewhere between the patio door and the bottom step, that my collar is interesting. Her fingers find the top button of my shirt and trace along it, slowly and idly, like she’s thinking about something else entirely while her hand does whatever it wants.
“Your shoulders are very broad,” she announces.
“Miranda, I’m trying to get you up a staircase without dropping you.”
“I’m just saying.” She tips her head back to look at my face, her expression perfectly serious. “They’re very broad. Has anyone told you that?”
“Not recently, no.” My voice comes out steady. Nothing else about me is.
Her fingers slide to my collarbone and trace the line of it, unhurried, exploratory, like she has all the time in the world and no intention of stopping. Heat moves up the back of my neck and settles low in my gut.
“You have very good bone structure.”
“Please stop touching my collarbone,” I plead, my self-control withering away with each touch.
She ignores this completely and presses her palm flat against my chest. My wolf, which has been restless since the moment I lifted her, goes very still and very focused. “You’re so warm. Are you always this warm?”
“You need to stop.” I mean it. But I mean it less than I did thirty seconds ago.
She hums, completely unbothered, and turns her face into my neck. I feel her breathe in, and every thought in my head narrows to a single point. My blood runs hot, and my arms tighten around her before I can stop them. I want, very badly, to put her against the wall instead of the guest bed. I want to find out what sound she makes when I put my mouth on her throat. I want things I have no business wanting from a woman who has had a shifter brew and doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.
“You smell really good,” she says, her voice muffled against my collar. Her fingers curl into the fabric and tug lightly once, and I exhale through my nose like a man holding on by a thread.
“You’re making this very hard,” I tell her, and I mean it in every possible sense.
She lifts her head and looks at me, face tipped up, close enough that the gap between us is nothing. Her eyes are soft and dark and heavy-lidded. Her mouth is right there.
I want to press her into this bed and take my time with every inch of her. The only thing stopping me is that my arms are full of her because if they weren’t, my hands would already be somewhere they shouldn’t be.
“You’re not as horrible as I thought you were,” she tells me, her breath ghosting against my neck.
“That’s generous of you.” My voice is rough.
“I thought you were very horrible. Like a seven.” She holds up fingers. “But you’re maybe a four now.”
“I’m a four?”
