Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 279

Chapter 279: Grace: Forget the Math

I swallow back a witty retort, because for once humor isn’t going to fix anything and my panic level is sky-high. Instead I ask in the tiniest voice known to man, "Can we just go back to the fingers?"

His cheek flexes and his eyes are even darker now, if possible. But he says calmly, "We can if you want to."

Which, of course, immediately makes me feel guilty, so I shake my head, muttering, "No, it’s fine. It has to happen sometime." Then, squeezing my eyes shut, I grit out, "Just do it."

And... he doesn’t.

Just stays there, his chest hot against my back as he starts kissing my ear with soft brushes of his lips. "No," he finally says, and my entire body stiffens even more.

Seriously? No?

The audacity. The sheer, towering, tattooed audacity of this man.

Never mind that I showed all the enthusiasm of a murder victim, that’s beside the point.

I huff to let him know how offended I am and the man’s chest rumbles like he’s holding back a laugh. His lips find my ear again, and the rumble travels straight down my spine like it has a destination in mind.

It probably does.

"You’ll take me when your body asks for it," he murmurs. "Not your pride."

My pride and my body are a package deal. We come as a set. Like salt and pepper shakers.

But all I say is, "It’s asking," sounding oh-so-enthusiastic as I grit my teeth and wait for him to do the thing.

"Mm."

Caine presses a kiss against my jaw, so soft it barely qualifies as contact, and my brain does that thing where it forgets what’s happening.

Which is unfair. Objectively, criminally unfair. I built up all that courage. I did the math—terrible math, horrifying math, math that should be reported to some board of ethics—and I accepted my fate like a heroine of old, and this man has the nerve to reject my sacrifice and then nuzzle me about it.

"You can’t just—" His mouth drifts lower, to that spot below my ear, and my sentence dies without a funeral. Then down the side of my neck, slow and warm, and I make a weird sound that probably meant to sound like a purr but sounds more like I’m fighting back a cough.

"You want me to stop?" he asks, and I bristle instantly.

"I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth."

"Then be still."

I roll my eyes, glad he can’t see it.

Yeah. Sure. Be still. Like he isn’t all up in my business both near and far, like 90% of my brain isn’t focused on how he’s pressed against me down there, like we aren’t about to do the thing and make my virginity a part of the past.

His stubble scrapes where his lips soothe, rough then soft, rough then soft, and somewhere between one pass and the next my fists unclench.

Traitors. Both hands. Traitors.

It’s a small adjustment—a redistribution of knees, a settling of weight—and it drags every hard inch of him right against me. Right there. My whole body seizes up like someone hit the emergency brake, every muscle reporting for duty at once, and the terrible math comes roaring back out of the filing cabinet with all its terrible numbers.

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