Grace of a Wolf - Chapter 223

Chapter 223: Caine: Taking Too Long
CAINE

If Grace doesn’t stop grinding onto my cock, I’m going to end up claiming her in the truck—which is not how I wanted it to happen.

But rational thought is long gone as I nip and suck at her neck, wondering why her skin’s as sweet as she smells.

“If you keep—mm—doing that, I’m going to—ahh.” Her hips wiggle as my fingers slide under her shirt and the tight band of her bra. One flick of her areola has her groaning and shoving her hips down even harder, and it takes everything in me not to rip off her panties and bury myself inside her right now.

I drag my mouth across her throat, sucking hard enough to leave my mark. Possessive instincts surge, chaotic and unrestrained, as I feel her pulse thudding beneath my lips.

Mine.

Saying she isn’t leaves my mouth tasting sour, and the sweetness of her skin finally erases the repetitive denials of today.

I bite down just enough to brand her with purple evidence of my claim, deciding to leave a few more marks. Even if she doesn’t want to claim a relationship with me in public, I’ll make sure that asshole ex of hers knows she’s unavailable.

She should be grateful I’m still playing along after smelling his scent all around my mate.

Grace’s breath catches at the force of my teeth and her fingers tighten in my hair, nails scraping my scalp as she yanks me closer, demanding more without a single word. The pain only heightens the smug pleasure as I greedily mark her skin before she realizes what I’m doing.

Her blueberry scent is strong, and I swear she tastes like a muffin herself. A perfect, Grace-berry muffin, chock-full of her pheromones and an aphrodisiac that goes straight to my dick.

“Caine,” she whimpers, tilting her head to give me access to the other side of her neck.

Fuck, I love when she says my name.

I press a smug kiss against a fresh mark, taking a moment to admire my work. Now everyone will—

“Fuck!” The word jumps out of my throat before I have a chance to process what her talented little fingers are doing.

They’re working the button of my jeans with surprising dexterity, and my hips buck up involuntarily, my cock greedy for whatever she’s willing to give.

I grab her wrists, pulling them away before I lose the last thread of my control. “Grace, if you keep touching me like that, I won’t be in control anymore.”

Her eyes find mine, her face flushed and pupils blown wide. “The longer we take, the more energy I lose. We don’t have time to play around.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

At least seventy-five percent of my brain is demanding we turn her around, rip off her panties, and fuck her until sunrise, but the other twenty-five percent is very clear on how dangerous this is. “No. We can’t.”

“We can,” she insists, yanking her hands free and returning them to my waist with a determined look on her face. With the amount of focus she has and knowing her eyes are right at my cock, who can blame it for jumping a little in excitement?

But I try again to bring reason back into the moment. I’d intended on some heavy petting, a lot of hickeys, and maybe finger-fucking her into bliss a time or two if she could manage it.

The cramped confines of the truck is not ideal. A bed would be better. Maybe an entire suite, with multiple surfaces to throw her on.

“It isn’t worth sending you to the hospital again,” I say, focusing on the more important issue. Fucking her on beds and tables is not as important as her health and wellness.

She huffs a little as her devilish hands succeed in unbuttoning my pants and sliding down my zipper. “Then hurry up, because time is our enemy here.”

Damn it, this is starting to sound reasonable, which means my cock is only getting harder and my rationality is slipping farther.

I’ll take over if I sense anything go wrong, Fenris offers with a sigh. It isn’t like I can even watch from over here.

Ignoring his mournful martyrdom, my hands defy my stalling brain to reach up and rip Grace’s panties in one fell swoop.

The dainty fabric is damp and shredded under my half-shifted claws, and she mutters, “You keep destroying my clothes.”

“I’ll buy you more.”

Her hands grip either side of my waistband and tug down awkwardly. “Come on, lift your hips.”

“Are you sure?” The question feels ridiculous in this situation, but some last sliver of decency in the back of my head demands I give her this final chance to back out.

“Get. Your. Dick. Out,” she hisses between sharp tugs downward.

My hand slides between her thighs as she tries to pull down my pants, and I tell myself her logic is sound.

The longer we take, the more energy is transferred. So if we do this fast and hard, she should be fine. She said she’s in more control, and so far we’ve been able to handle the consequences of our play.

My fingers circle her entrance, gathering her wetness before pressing one finger inside. She’s tight—too tight—and I force myself to go slow, even though the primal, rut-crazed half of my brain wants to plunge several fingers in to see just how far I can stretch her.

She moans, and I bite back the urge to tease and play, my neck aching with the force of holding myself back.

“So wet for me,” I murmur against her ear, adding a second finger, stretching her carefully. Her body grips me, muscles clenching as I curl my fingers forward.

She leans forward and bites my shoulder with a soft grunt, grinding down onto my hand. Then she mumbles, “Shove your pants down, damn it.”

In this tight space, her demands are mildly unreasonable, especially when my fingers are sliding inside of her. But I hold myself up with my free hand and lift my hips up, just enough for her to tug my jeans down an inch or two.

Just enough for my cock to spring free, sliding against the warmth of her as I pull my fingers out.

“Hurry,” she hisses, putting both hands on my shoulders as she awkwardly tries to position herself over me.

I grit my teeth as she misses by a freaking mile, sliding her wet pussy against my denim-clad thigh. “Hold on, Grace. I need to get—”

She groans. “You’re taking too long.”