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Tenderness bloomed in his chest. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow; he didn’t have to pretend he didn’t like her. While they were both being nice to each other, they hadn’t outwardly acknowledged that their previously reignited war had once again come to a pause.

“Let’s get you to bed, too,” he said. There was no way she was driving, and they had an extra guest room she could stay in for the night.

“Okey,” she said, still holding on to his neck. She hopped several times, clinging to him. He was confused until she frowned, saying, “Carry me.”

Chuckling, Grayson hooked an arm under her knees, easily lifting her up, and she cuddled against his chest. He loved the feel of her in his arms; she fit so perfectly, so sweetly. He remembered holding her in bed, and his blood pounded.

Unbidden, the memory of her straddling his hips came back to him, and he clenched his jaw, his grip on her tightening. She moaned as his fingers pressed into her skin.

Desire burned through him, and he carried Lucy up the stairs with haste, taking two steps at a time. He quickly brought her to the guest room, depositing her gently on the bed.

“Good night,” he said, all but running as he made to leave.

“Wait!” she cried just as he reached the door.

Lucy had pushed her sweaterdress up, revealing an inch of skin above the waistband of her tights. His breath came faster at the sight of her flat on her back.

“I need help,” she whined, brows furrowed.

She flopped around on the bed, her sweater lowering, and he watched her tug her black tights, unsuccessfully trying to get them off. Her hands kept slipping on the fabric. She kicked her feet, trying to get rid of her boots at the same time.

“You’re a witch,” he reminded her, but she whimpered. His heart leaped painfully, and he walked over to her. She stopped fussing, lying still. He gripped her ankle, unzipping the boot on her left foot, pulling it off.

“Mm,” she hummed, closing her eyes. Heat flushed through him. He moved to the other boot, the sound of the zip moving down impossibly loud in the otherwise quiet room. His hand skimmed her calf as he pulled the boot off.

She stretched like a cat, spreading on the bed. His blood went hot.

“Now these,” she said, touching the tights on her thighs.

“Can’t you—” he started. She frowned at him, and he shut up.

She lifted her sweaterdress, revealing her perfect hips, along with a sliver of stomach above the top of the tights. He reached for the waistband, hooking his fingers in. As he touched the skin of her stomach, she gasped, arching slightly into his hands.

He swallowed, trying to focus, tugging the tights, but the fabric wouldn’t budge. He tried again, and his fingers slipped.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Are these glued on?”

“They’re two sizes too small.”

“Why?!”

“To snatch my waist in!” She sighed. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“I absolutely do not get it,” he snapped.

These tights were his number one enemy now. He’d never had trouble undressing a woman before. Frustrated, he held the fabric at the seam with both hands and ripped; the knit gave, tearing down the crotch to reveal her white underwear, thin enough that he saw the shadow of her skin underneath. Desire spiked through him.

A little more aggressively than necessary, he ripped the rest of the tights off her, baring her legs, and she squealed as the cold air hit her.

“Grayson!” she cried. “My feet!”

“They’re perfect,” he said, voice gruff.

“I need socks!” She kicked the air.

Unbelievable.

“Give me a second,” he said. He left and returned with a pair of his socks.