"Knock yourself out," I say.
She beams. It’s a genuine smile, bright and sudden, and it hits me in the chest.
She tears into the box like a kid. It’s mostly junk—tangled lights that probably don't work, a few wooden ornaments my Mémère carved, and a dented tin star.
She spends the next hour stringing the lights along the rafters. I lean against the counter, drinking coffee, watching the way her body stretches as she reaches up. The flannel shirt rises, showing a sliver of pale skin at her hip. My eyes lock onto it. I trace the line of her hip bone with my gaze, wondering if her skin tastes as sweet as she smells.
"I can't reach the center beam," she says, breaking my trance.
She’s standing on the chair, stretching onto her tiptoes, holding the tin star. She’s still a foot short.
"Short genes," I comment, setting my mug down.
"Design flaw," she corrects, straining. "If I had your excessive pituitary output, this wouldn't be an issue. Do you think you're God's gift to verticality or something?"
I walk over to her. "I’m a gift to my parents," I say dryly. "They tried for years. Didn't think they’d get a kid. Then they got me. Lucky them."
She rolls her eyes, looking down at me. "Right. Main character energy. Just... help me."
I step up behind the chair.
I don't need to climb it. I just reach up. My chest brushes her back.
The contact is electric.
Miranda freezes. Her breath hitches, audible in the sudden silence. I can smell the spike in her arousal—wet heat and sugar—mixing with the sudden spike in her fear.
I reach over her shoulder, taking the star from her hand. My arm brushes hers. My skin is burning hot; hers is cool. The contrast makes my nerves fire.
I enclose her hand with mine for a second longer than necessary. Her fingers are delicate, bone and tendon, easily crushed. But I don't want to crush. I want to consume.
"Right here?" I rumble. My mouth is inches from her ear.
"Yes," she breathes. Her voice is barely a whisper.
I nail the star into the soft wood of the beam with my thumb. I’m surrounding her. I’m looming, boxing her in with my size. The Wolf is screamingMine. Bite. Claim.
The air feels thick, charged with static. If I turn her around... if I pull her off that chair...
I step back abruptly.
"Done," I say, rougher than I intended.
I turn my back on her and walk to the door. My hand dives into my pocket, fingers closing around the raw iron spike.
I squeeze.
I grind the jagged metal into my palm until the skin splits. The sharp, hot sting of iron slicing into meat cuts through the haze of lust. It grounds me. It reminds me of who I am and what she is.
"Dinner," I choke out. "I'm making steaks."
Two hours later, the cabin smells of seared beef and rosemary.
I put the plate in front of her. It’s heavy. A massive ribeye, rare, swimming in juice, with a pile of roasted potatoes.
"Eat," I command.
She looks at the plate, then at me. " Jax, this is... this is a lot of protein."
