Page 49 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

On the desk, sitting next to a stack of old alpha leadership journals, is a wooden pen organizer. Inside it, arranged in terrifyingly precise rows, are two dozen Pilot G2 gel pens.

Blue. Black. Red. Green.

I reach out, pick up a green pen, and turn to look at him. "You've had an intuitive filing system since you were sixteen."

Boone closes the bedroom door, leans his back against the heavy wood, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Organization is a leadership skill."

"You're a lunatic."

"I'm your lunatic."

"Debatable." I set the pen down and cross to the bookshelf beside the bed. Sitting on the second shelf, right next to a bronze regional MVP trophy, is a framed five-by-seven photograph.

I pick it up and gasp.

It's Boone at approximately fourteen years old. He's already broad-shouldered, but his limbs are entirely too long for his torso, his ears stick out like handles, and his hair is cut into an aggressive, tragic bowl cut that parts awkwardly down the middle. He glares at the camera like he wants to murder the photographer.

"Oh," I whisper reverently. "Oh, this is holy."

In half a second, Boone crosses the room, his long strides silent on the wide pine floorboards, and reaches for the frame. "Put that down."

"Never." I dodge behind his desk chair, clutching the frame to my chest. "This is going on my desk. This is going on my phone lock screen. I'm sending this to Delilah right now."

"Maisie, I swear to God⁠—"

"Who cut this hair, Boone? Did your mother use an actual mixing bowl?"

"It was a team cut," he groans, lunging across the desk. He snatches the frame out of my hands with effortless werewolf speed, sets it facedown on the top shelf—out of my reach—then hooks his large hands under my armpits. He lifts me straight off the floor like I weigh nothing and drops me onto the mattress.

I land on the thick patchwork quilt with a breathless laugh, but before I can sit up, Boone comes down over me.

He doesn't crush me with his weight—he braces his forearms on either side of my shoulders, his massive body caging me against the pillows. The humor in his face drops away, replaced by that heavy, focused intensity that always makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.

"You done teasing me, Pope?" he rasps, his amber eyes dropping to my mouth.

"Probably not," I whisper, my fingers tangling in his short, soft hair. "I've got about forty more questions about Uncle Wes, and I haven't even seen your baby pictures yet."

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, his head dipping low. "Right now, you're in my bed."

His mouth slams into mine, hot and hungry.

This isn’t the careful kiss from our first date. It isn’t the panicked ones from before the full moon either. This is deep. Practiced. All claim. His tongue slides against mine and his scruff scrapes my chin. Then his heavy thigh slots between my legs and presses hard against my center.

A loud, helpless moan breaks out of me.

Boone freezes instantly. His mouth rips away from mine, his breathing ragged, and he snaps his head toward the closed bedroom door.

I blink up at him, dazed and flushed. "What?"

"My parents," he whispers, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek.

"They're downstairs, Boone."

"Maisie." He looks down at me, his pupils blown wide, dark and predatory. "We're werewolves. My dad can hear your heartbeat from the kitchen. If you make that sound again, he'll hear it from the driveway."

A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face.

"Really?" I whisper.