Page 37 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

Her hands fly to my jacket as I bend down and capture her mouth. It isn't a careful kiss. I've been careful for a month and a half, and right now I don't have a single drop of restraint left in me. I part her lips with my tongue, tasting cider and sugar, pulling her flush against my body until she lets out a small, breathless noise and grips my shoulders.

Behind us, someone lets out a loud, obnoxious wolf whistle.

"Called it in week two!" Tate yells over the music. "The blueberry muffin never fucking lies!"

Deacon claps once, sharp and loud, and a couple of the offensive linemen start laughing and making noise.

I break the kiss just enough to flip Tate off over Maisie's shoulder without letting go of her waist. "Shut the fuck up, Tate."

Maisie laughs against my lips, her face flushed red, eyes dark and dilated under the festival lights. She tilts her head slightly toward the dark path leading away from the quad, toward my apartment building.

"Take me home, Kinkaid," she whispers.

"Done."

The second the front door clicks shut behind us, I push her gently against the wood and kiss her again.

Her bag hits the floor with a thud. Maisie reaches up, pulls the crooked plastic wolf ears off her head, and tosses them onto the entryway table before tangling both hands in my hair. She pulls me down hard, opening her mouth against mine, meeting my tongue with a heat that makes my head spin.

I pull back an inch, our chests heaving together in the dark hallway. My hands settle on her hips, my thumbs digging lightly into the curve of her waist through the flannel.

"Maisie," I rasp, checking her eyes. "Look at me."

"I'm looking."

"You sure about this? We don't have to rush anything."

She huffs out a breathless laugh, her pupils blown wide. "Boone, if you don't take your shirt off in the next five seconds, I'm going to rip it off you myself."

That's all the permission I need.

I yank my jacket off and throw it somewhere behind me, then pull my shirt over my head in one motion. Maisie's gaze drops immediately to my chest and stomach. Her hands come up, small and warm, pressing flat against the center of my chest before tracing the line of my ribs down to my waist. Her skin feels cool against my body heat—I run at 102 degrees, and right now I feel like I'm burning alive.

"Jesus," she mutters under her breath, her fingers flexing against my abs. "You're huge."

"You like it?" I ask, my voice dropping low and rough.

"Shut up," she whispers, biting her lip as she looks back up at me, breathless and flushed. "Show me."

I grab the hem of her flannel and undo the buttons fast, sliding it off her shoulders, followed by her shirt. When she reaches behind her back to unclip her bra, I catch her wrists.

"Let me," I tell her.

I unhook the clasp and drop the lace to the floor.

She's gorgeous. Soft curves, pale skin flushed pink with heat, her chest rising and falling fast. My wolf is pacing behind my ribs, starving, clawing to get at every inch of her.

"You have no idea what you do to me," I growl, sliding my hands up her ribcage to cup her breasts, thumbing her hard nipples until she arches into my touch with a sharp gasp. "Six fucking weeks of sitting across from you at that library table, watching you chew on your pen cap, pretending I wasn't losing my goddamn mind thinking about this."

"Already?" she teases, breathless, rising on her toes to press her chest against mine. "You're slipping, Kinkaid."

"You're a brat," I mutter against her jaw, bending to scoop her up into my arms.

She squeaks in surprise, her legs wrapping instantly around my waist, arms locking around my neck. I carry her three strides into my bedroom and drop her onto the mattress. Before she can sit up, I'm over her, stripping off her boots and jeans in brutal, efficient pulls until she's lying there in just her underwear.

I push her knees apart and drop down between her thighs.

"Boone—"