Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 277

Chapter 277: Caine: Restraint, Or the Lack Thereof

CAINE

The room smells like her, the offensive scent of roses now buried beneath blueberries and the sweet darkness of her arousal.

It coats the back of my throat. It sits behind my teeth. My chest aches with the force of holding myself back, acquiring Goddess-given patience. Fenris, thankfully, is mostly silent in my head.

Grace shifts under me, one arm flung over her eyes like she can hide from what her own body just did. Her chest rises and falls and it makes my teeth ache with the urge to bite every inch of her skin, flushed and pink from her collarbones to the shell of her ear.

"Oh my God," she croaks out, sounding already drained when we’ve barely started.

A soft hum of acknowledgement escapes my throat even as I reach for her thighs, pushing them apart with single-minded intent.

She jerks a little, and her arousal spikes the air as her breathing returns to a shallow rhythm.

"Don’t cover your face," I tell her, wanting to see her beautiful green eyes, glassy and unfocused in the heat of desire.

Her thighs twitch as I slide my hands up. "I’m not covering my face. I’m—resting my arm."

"Over your face," I mutter, but it isn’t hard to recognize Grace’s unusual method of coping. Whenever she feels anything, she turns to humor and deflection. My sweet mate doesn’t just have a phobia of commitment; it’s clear the woman doesn’t know how to handle anything beyond neutral gear in her head.

Like you, Fenris whispers, and my left eye twitches.

Get out.

Thankfully, he does.

"Coincidence," Grace says, her voice going artificially high-pitched as she keeps her arm exactly where it is, her entire body now stiff as a board. If it wasn’t for her deepening scent and the slickness between her thighs, I’d think she didn’t want more.

I take her wrist and move it. She lets me. Her eyes are glassy, the green almost hidden behind pupil-black, and her breath hitches when she sees me staring down at her.

I put my mouth on her throat, biting at the pulse fluttering there.

She gasps and her hips jerk up and forward and the beast in my chest goes wild. That spot. Right there, where her shoulder joins her neck, where the skin is thin and sweet and made for teeth, where my mark—

Calm down, Fenris interrupts again, sounding more irritated than usual. If you don’t stay in control you’ll end up scaring her out of the room before the end. Again.

To be fair, it wasn’t as if she ran out of the truck because she was afraid, but I take a deep breath of blueberry-scented air and let it out in a soft huff against her beautiful, vibrant pulse.

It isn’t time to mark her yet.

But the urge is there, so I bite. Not deep and without breaking her skin, but still my teeth hold muscle and tendon tight and I wait until she gives a soft, submissive whimper.

My tongue soothes the dent I’ve left. Then I suck, hard, until I taste the blood rising under her skin without ever breaking it, until she has a bruise there in the shape of my mouth. A poor substitute, but it helps soothe the urge.

Meanwhile, her hips rock up time and time again, desperate for my touch.

Grace’s fingers find my hair again and grip. Her leg comes up around my hip and my fingers dive right in, eager to get back to the play.

She’s soaked, still wet and slick from squirting, still fluttering from what I gave her, and my fingers slide through it and press in without hesitation. This time I go straight to two and they slide all the way in.

She’s tight and hot and groaning, throwing her head back as her back arches, and my eyes focus again on the hickey as I fight the urge to bite her again.

Not yet.

Soon.

"Oh—God—"

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