Page 51 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

And Boone... Boone is standing beside me with his chest puffed out so far he looks like he might explode with pure, smug pride.

"Told you she was smart," Boone says, slinging a heavy arm over my shoulders and pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to my temple.

"Stop," I mutter, my face burning, but I lean into his side anyway.

Tuesday afternoon reveals a side of Boone I've never seen on campus.

At Creature University, everyone knows Boone Kinkaid as the star football player, the honors student, the guy who carries my backpack across the quad. But here, on his pack's territory, he's the future alpha.

I sit on the broad cedar porch wrapped in a thick wool blanket, flashcards spread across my lap, watching him work. Over four hours, half a dozen pack members come up the gravel drive. A young couple asks about timber harvest permits for their property line. An older shifter named Greg brings maintenance blueprints for the community snowplows.

Boone doesn't rush them. He stands on the gravel in his heavy canvas coat and work boots, listening with absolute patience. When he speaks, his voice carries that deep, calm authority that doesn't need volume to command respect. He makes decisions quickly, fairly, with total confidence.

Watching him command not just a room but an entire ridge makes something hot and dangerous coil low in my stomach. He's only twenty-one, but the weight of the pack on his shoulders makes him look ten feet tall.

When he finally climbs back up the porch steps, stamping snow off his boots, he catches me staring.

"What?" he asks, lips curving into a slow smirk.

"Nothing," I lie, flipping a flashcard. "Just wondering how many forestry permits you have to sign before you're legally allowed to take a nap."

Boone chuckles, reaching down to tug the edge of my blanket. "Come inside. It's freezing out here."

That night, after the house finally goes quiet and the lights downstairs click off, the atmosphere in Boone's childhood bedroom shifts completely.

We're both exhausted, but the second that heavy oak door clicks shut and Boone turns the lock, the restraint we've been clinging to all day shatters.

Boone grabs my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest before I can reach the bed. His mouth finds the sensitive curve where my neck meets my shoulder, right over the silver scar of my mating mark. He bites down—gently, just enough pressure to make a sharp, breathless gasp tear from my throat.

“Boone,” I whisper, my fingers digging into his forearms. “Your parents...”

“Door’s locked,” he rasps against my skin, his hands sliding down to grip the hem of my oversized sweater. He hauls it up over my head in one rough movement. “And I’ve been watching you all damn day.”

“I was doing flashcards.”

“You were looking at me on the porch like you wanted to climb me,” he growls, spinning me around and lifting me onto the edge of his wide wooden desk.

Papers and Pilot G2 pens scatter across the blotter, but neither of us cares. Boone steps between my parted thighs, his large, calloused hands sliding up my bare ribs, his thumbs brushing over the lace of my bra until my nipples pebble against the fabric. His amber eyes are dark, glowing with pure full-moon heat.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Maisie,” he mutters, his voice thick with reverence. “Smartest girl in the room. Fixing dogs on my kitchen floor.”

“Boone, please,” I whimper, arching my back as his mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, and closes hot and wet over the swell of my breast through the lace.

He doesn’t rush. He strips my sweatpants down my legs and tosses them onto the floor. When his fingers slide between my thighs, finding me soaking wet and trembling for him, a low, guttural groan rips from his chest.

“So wet for me,” he whispers, working me in slow, filthy circles that make my hips buck off the desk. “Look at me, Maisie. Open your eyes.”

I open them, panting, staring into the burning gold of his gaze.

He unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off, then lines himself up at my entrance. He’s massive, thick, and burning hot. When he pushes inside—slow, relentless, filling every single inch of me—I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I taste copper to keep from screaming.

Boone instantly catches my chin with two fingers, pulling my lip free. “Don’t bleed,” he whispers fiercely, his brow damp with sweat. “Squeeze my shoulders. Bite my neck if you have to. But let me hear you.”

He starts to move. It’s slow, deep, and devastating. Every thrust rocks the heavy desk against the wall, but Boone keeps his hands clamped on my hips, holding me flush against him so not an inch of friction is wasted. The pressure is unbearable, sending waves of white-hot pleasure radiating straight through my mating mark, pulsing through the bond until I can’t tell where my heartbeat ends and his begins.

“Boone... oh God, Boone...”

“I’ve got you, baby,” he pants, picking up the pace, his thrusts turning harder, heavier, driving me closer to the edge. “Right here. You’re mine.”