Page 33 of Howl Lotta Love

He was leaning against the counter when she walked in, tie loosened, jacket slung over a chair, wearing the look of a night spent thinking too hard about things he usually kept locked down. He looked up when she came in, and the silence that followed was supposed to read as awkward and didn’t.

“Good night?” he asked.

“Nora billed me for emotional labor and told me to stop being careful.” Emma set her bag down slowly. “You?”

“Roman clapped me on the shoulder and told me the whole team’s known the entire time.” He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between them without hurrying, already decided on where this was going and in no rush at all to cover the last few feet. “Apparently I’m bad at hiding things.”

“Apparently we both are.”

“What did you tell her?” His voice had dropped, quiet, direct, a man who already suspected the answer and wanted to hear her say it more than he wanted to protect either of them from it.

“The truth. That this stopped being fake a week ago. That I’m terrified of how much I want it to stay real.” Her heart was going too fast for a kitchen conversation, but she held his gaze anyway, done hiding behind competence for one night. “What did you tell Roman?”

“That my wolf knew you before I did. Before either of us said a word.” He closed the last step between them, close enough now that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze. “I’ve never once doubted it since.”

Neither of them moved for a beat. He didn’t touch her yet, and the not-touching had its own weight, charged and deliberate, the choice being made in full view before either of them acted on it. She could feel the heat coming off him, could hear the change in his breathing that matched the one happening in her own chest, could see the moment his gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there.

“You’re doing the thing,” she said, breathless despite herself.

“What thing.”

“The staring thing. Roman’s right, you know. You do it constantly.”

“I’ve earned the right to stare. I’ve been not staring for two weeks. Considerable restraint was involved.” His hand finally came up, slow, and brushed a strand of hair back from her face with a gentleness more intimate than anything else that had happened between them tonight. “I’m done with the restraint now, if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s more than all right.” Her voice had gone rough at the edges. “It’s the only thing I want tonight.”

She reached up and fisted a hand in his shirt, pulling him the rest of the way down to her. “I was never very good at pretending in the first place.”

He kissed her like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission he hadn’t known he needed, one hand sliding into her hair, the other splayed wide across her spine, pulling her flush against him. She kissed him back with everything she’d spent two weeks not saying out loud, fingers curling into his shirt, and when he lifted her onto the counter without breaking the kiss, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer instead of protesting.

His mouth left hers to trace along her jaw, her throat, and the low sound he made against her skin registered more than it was heard, his hands settling at her hips, tracing her through the fabric before he let himself have anything more.

“Upstairs,” she managed, against his mouth. “I want a bed. I want you to have time.”

“I have all night.” His voice had gone dark and rough, wolf close under the surface, his eyes gone molten at the edges in the low kitchen light. “I intend to use every hour of it.”

He carried her up the stairs as though she weighed nothing at all, mouth finding her throat, her jaw, the spot behind her ear that made her breath catch every single time, and by the time they reached her room neither of them had a single coherent thought left about anything but each other.

He set her down at the foot of the bed and held her gaze for one long moment, amber eyes gone dark, memorizing the view like he intended to keep it for the rest of his life. The lamp on her nightstand threw everything into low gold light, soft enough to blur the edges of the room and sharpen everything about him instead—the way his chest rose and fell too fast for a man usually built out of stillness, the way his hands weren’t quite steady when they found the top button of her blouse.

“You’re allowed to go faster than that,” she said, watching his fingers work the second button with a patience that bordered on torture.

“No. I’m not.” He got the third button free and pressed a kiss to the skin it revealed, unhurried, deliberate. “I’ve imagined this exact moment more times than I’m willing to admit out loud, and I’m not rushing through a single second of it.”

“That’s an alarming amount of premeditation.”

“You have no idea.” He finished the buttons and pushed the blouse from her shoulders, and the way he looked at her then—reverent, hungry, both at once—stole the quip she’d been building to say next.

Clothes fell away between kisses, slow despite two weeks of built-up want, because he seemed determined to memorize all of her before he let either of them rush. His hands were reverent where she expected them to be hungry, tracing the curve of her waist, the line of her spine, lingering there to feel her shiver under his palm, the reaction itself worth savoring. When her bra joined the rest of the clothes on the floor, he went still for a moment, drinking in the sight of her, and the raw want on his face did more to unravel her than his hands had managed yet.

“You’re staring,” she said, breathless, when he pulled back to look at her in the low lamplight.

“I’ve been staring since the ballroom. I’m allowed to catch up.” His voice had dropped low and reverent, and for a moment he held her gaze, taking his time, a man finally granted the one thing he’d spent two weeks not letting himself want out loud. He laid her back against the pillows, following her down, and the weight of him settling over her sent a fresh wave of heat through everything he hadn’t touched yet.

He kissed his way down her body slowly—her collarbone, the curve of one breast, the soft skin below her navel—learning her by inches, memorizing every hitch in her breathing, information he clearly intended to keep. His mouth closed over one peaked nipple and her back arched off the mattress on a sound she didn’t recognize as her own voice, and he made a rough, pleased noise against her skin that vibrated straight through her.

“Jace—”