Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 278

Chapter 278: Grace: The Math of It

Everything goes from oh yeah to oh shit very, very quickly.

One second I’m grinding against all his fingers as hard as I possibly can, reveling in the stretch and feel and thinking I’m such a badass there’s no way I’m going to panic when his actual dick goes in because now I’m a pro, damn it—

And in the next I’m suddenly flipped over onto my stomach like a ragdoll and the man’s biting his way up my spine like I’m his favorite barbecue rib.

Which, for the record, does feel amazing. Yes. Wow. Backs can be erogenous zones and I’m on board for this.

But also I wasn’t expecting it so I might thrash a little bit, only for all my octopus-flailing limbs to get shoved down by his, only it somehow feels like he has more arms and legs than I do because my sexually-deprived intellect is not computing how he seems to have a hand everywhere, all at the same time.

"What are you—oh. Mm. Okay, I like that," I mumble into a surviving pillow—the one that had been below my head. It’s a little wet from my hair so it’s hard to breathe into, but hey, minor details.

"Don’t move," he warns me, and the feel of his breath against my spine has me stiffening even as my ass pushes back.

Yep. That’s his dick.

And it seems his pants have disappeared. When? No idea. Probably around the same time he acquired ten hands to hold me down.

An arm slides under my pelvis and lifts me up like I’m a sack of potatoes. At the same time, his other hand presses between my shoulder blades, keeping my face right where it is.

In the pillow.

But at the same time it still feels like something’s pushing down on my arms, keeping me from freaking out again—like a weighted blanket but, you know, sexier in the moment.

But more importantly—Oh. Oh.

The position clicks into place in my brain about two seconds after my body already figured it out, and a full-body shiver rolls through me from scalp to toes. Because I am... exposed. Extremely. Comprehensively.

There is no angle of me he cannot currently see and my face burns so hot the pillow probably would need a fire extinguisher if it wasn’t already wet from my hair.

Thank you, hair.

"Caine—"

"Don’t move," he interrupts me, his entire voice lowered into that rumbly, wolfen register that makes my entire body shiver every time he speaks.

My thighs tremble because I’ve apparently decided that being manhandled into a position of total vulnerability is the single hottest thing that has ever happened to me.

Yeah, I’m so fucked.

"I feel like I’m on display," I say into the pillow, because if I don’t make a joke I might actually combust. "Is this an inspection? Do I pass—"

Teeth sink into my ass.

One bite, right into the curve of my left buttcheek, and I squeak like a goddamn mouse. It would be embarrassing if I wasn’t currently more concerned about his mouth on my ass.

He’s still shoving me down even as his other hand spreads wide over my hip, his fingers digging in to random places and somehow sending all kinds of thrills and whistles down my nerves.

It makes me want to rock and grind but I’m currently flabbergasted and frozen.

Then his mouth drops lower and I stop having thoughts, what few of them existed in between my pathetically few free brain cells.

It goes from room air tickling my nethers to Caine sealing his mouth against me from behind and he fucking devours me, his nose pressed places I would have sworn an hour ago no nose belonged.

"Oh my G—" My fingers claw into the pillow, acquiring a little space for my nose to breathe more oxygen as I eke out a faint, "Caine."

He answers by hooking one arm under my hips when my knees start to buckle, holding me up to his mouth like I’m a bowl he refuses to set down. His tongue does something slow and flat and dragging, then something quick and pointed, then teeth again—a careful nip against the most sensitive part of me that makes my whole spine arch and my voice crack down the middle.

The pillow is officially ruined. I’ve bitten it. There are probably feathers in my teeth. I don’t care. Worse things have been bitten, literally seconds ago.

My hips have started moving without any authorization from me, rocking back against his mouth in a rhythm I couldn’t stop if the building caught fire. Everything is heat and wet sound and the scrape of his stubble and there’s a coil in my belly winding tighter and tighter again, and I’m close, I’m right there, I’m—

Gone.

Something. Pressed against me. Right there.

Every ounce of badass pro confidence I’d built up over the last however long of our shenanigans evaporates like water on a hot pan. Because three fingers—three fingers were a lot. Three fingers had me seeing constellations. And this is not three fingers. This is not four fingers. This is not any configuration of fingers known to human anatomy.

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