Page 30 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

I don't think about it. I just sit up and close the distance and kiss him, one hand at his jaw, and he meets me the way he always does—like he's been waiting, and he's not in any hurry now that it's happening.

Except this time something's different.

This time his hand doesn't settle carefully at my waist. It grips. Both hands—one at my hip, one sliding to my lower back—and he pulls me across his lap in one move, like the question of where I'm supposed to be has already been settled and he's done waiting for me to catch up. I end up straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and I feel the sharp breath he takes against my mouth.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi." He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are already going gold at the edges, and the expression on his face does something immediate to my nervous system. "You okay up there?"

"I'm great up here, actually."

"Yeah." His hands tighten at my hips. "You are."

I kiss him again, and this time I don't hold back—both hands in his hair, tilting his head where I want it, kissing him slow and deep until I feel the low sound in his chest that isn't quite human. He groans against my mouth, his hands stop being careful, and one slides up under the back of the sweatshirt, palm hot against my bare skin, while the other drags down over my hip like he's been thinking about exactly this and is done pretending otherwise.

"You've been wearing my sweatshirt all week," he says against my mouth. Low. Rough. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Tell me."

His grip tightens. "Makes my wolf absolutely insane." He kisses my jaw, then my neck, slow and deliberate. "You walk into class smelling like me and every male in fifty feet knows it, even when I'm not there." Another kiss, lower, against my pulse. "Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the library losing my mind every time you lean across the table."

"You should've said something."

"I'm saying something now."

He pulls back just enough to look at me again, checking the way he always does, and whatever he sees makes the gold in his eyes go steady.

"Can I—" He hooks his fingers under the hem of the sweatshirt and waits, hands still.

"Yes," I say. "God, yes."

He pulls it over my head in one smooth motion and tosses it aside. The way he looks at me after—that slow, full, unguarded once-over—makes my face hot in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

"Maisie." He says my name like it means something, low and a little wrecked. His hands come up to my waist, my ribs, sliding upward, and I feel his palms against my skin and have to remind myself how breathing works. "You're so soft." His thumbs trace just below my bralette. "I've been thinking about getting my hands on you since week two."

"Week two," I repeat. "You have been absolutely failing to function normally around me."

"I've been functioning heroically under extremely difficult circumstances." He unclips the bralette and lets it fall, then just looks at me—not rushed, not grabby, just taking his time like he's been patient long enough to have earned it. The expression on his face makes me feel more attractive than I have in my entire life. "Christ," he says softly. "You're gorgeous."

"You're staring."

"I'm appreciating." His hands cup me, warm and sure, and I arch into him before I can think about it. The sound that escapes me is completely involuntary—and his whole body responds. That low growl rumbles through his chest, his grip tightening, his eyes going fully gold.

"There," he says, rough and satisfied. "I've been wanting to hear that for weeks."

"Boone—"

"Tell me what you want." Not a request. His thumbs move slow and deliberate, and I have to grab his shoulders just to stay upright. "Tell me."

"I want—" My voice comes out unsteady. "I want your mouth on me."

He makes a sound against my collarbone that isn't human at all, and then his mouth is moving—down my throat, across my collarbone, lower—and I grab the back of his head and let my eyes fall shut.

His hands steady my hips as he shifts us, and I end up on my back against the couch cushions with Boone above me. The sheer size of him like this makes my breath catch.

"Hi," I say again.

"Hi." He kisses me, deep and slow, one hand sliding up my side, taking his time. His mouth traces down my jaw, my throat, and I feel him actually breathe me in—face pressed to the curve of my neck, slow and deliberate—and I've read enough now to know what that means for a werewolf. Knowing it and feeling it are two very different things.