Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 276

Chapter 276: Grace: Overwhelm (II)

"Don’t," Caine says, which only makes me shove the pillow harder against my face.

Sorry, but my body’s beyond the ability to obey on command.

His fingers curl, press, and spread apart again with an obscene, wet sound. I clench harder with a frantic moan, which feels more like it’s coming out of my chest than my throat.

"Be good," he murmurs. "I want to hear you."

My sound muffler gets yanked and tossed to the side, leaving me to thrash as my hands reach for absolutely anything, anything at all, desperate for purchase in the storm of his touch. The stretch burns in the sweetest way as he works me open.

His patience feels almost cruel as my body can’t decide whether to chase the friction or flee from the overwhelming fullness of it.

I choose chase and my hips roll up to meet his hand and his palm grinds flat against my clit and the noise I make is positively feral.

"Good girl." Every syllable is guttural and hits my clit with heat.

Then his mouth is gone, because my fingers have once again found their way into his hair, tangled and yanking him upward with desperate levels of strength. He could fight it—of course he could fight it—but he doesn’t. Instead he slides his lips in slow ascent, starting with a soft kiss at the crease of my hips.

When his stubble rasps against the underside of my breast, my skin’s so damn sensitive it might as well be wired directly to my clit.

Finally he presses his lips to the hollow of my throat, where my pulse hammers so hard I can feel it even in my teeth.

"Caine," I whimper, and the asshole laughs softly, a rumbling little chuckle as he kisses the side of my breast.

I can’t help it. My hands of their own accord yank at his hair in punishment and the soft laughter increases in volume as he lifts himself up, once again looming over me even as his fingers continue to work down below.

Part of me wants to stare at his face. Another part of me wants to pull him back down to my breasts, aching in anticipation. And yet another part is busy being overwhelmed by how he keeps pressing the soft spot that feels so strange and amazing at the same time—like all the pressure might make me pee, but also makes my thighs clench so tight they’re shaking, as my hips continue to roll and shove for more. More pressure. More friction. More everything.

My brain is not capable of handling all these different needs and wants.

Caine pecks at my lips. First a soft brush of our lips. Then a slightly firmer one. Then a gentle nibble at my mouth, even as I open it to let him in. "Be good," he murmurs, his breath tangling with mine.

I nod frantically. I’m so good. So good.

"I need to make sure it doesn’t hurt," he adds calmly. Or at least I think he’s trying to be calm. But his veins are popping under the tattoos of his neck and there’s a strained quality to his words.

It pleases something deep inside me, the part of me that thrives on knowing I have some level of power over a man like him. So I nod and throw him a bone. "It doesn’t hurt," I tell him, tugging at his hair. My fingers are no longer tangled into it like a lifeline; instead I’m stroking, sliding my hands through the silky strands and finding the sensation... soothing. Like a counterpoint to how every single brain cell is focused on how his fingers keep thrusting in.

"I know," Caine murmurs, brushing his mouth against mine again.

My breath comes in frantic little pants as I scratch at his shoulders, begging him to stop, to slow down, to keep going, to—fuck, fuck, fuck, oh shit.

"Relax," he groans against my neck, in between nibbling and sucking and biting and oh God, seriously, I’m going to pee.

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