Grace of a Wolf - Chapter 226

Chapter 226: Grace: Like a Good Girl
I twist against Caine’s grip, desperately trying to force my hips down. The sensation of him barely inside me, stretching me to full-but-not, has me freaking feral with each ragged breath I take.

But my mate’s oblivious to my torment, holding me up with the steel bar he calls an arm, refusing to finish the job. His thumb continues its relentless circles against my clit, making my thighs tremble, but it’s not what I’m searching for.

“You’ll cry if I give you what you want,” he growls against my jaw. “Be good.”

“I won’t,” I insist, even as my body clenches around the small part of him I’ve managed to take. “I’m not afraid of the pain.”

We’ll just pretend my little panicked interlude never happened, okay? I’m over it and want to know what all the romance books are talking about. By the way all my blood’s surged down below, I’m throbbing and aching and going to explode if he doesn’t help me out a little.

Is there a vaginal equivalent of blue balls? If so, I have it.

And the longer this torment goes on, the more energy he’s sucking out of me—more or less literally at this point—and I’d rather not have to jump out of the car with a tuck and roll and no panties just to avoid going unconscious.

With my luck, I’ll hit my head on some sharp rock and end up with a traumatic brain injury.

But, all these thoughts happen in a flash, here and gone again in between pulses of frantic, let-me-grind-onto-your-damn-cock-already, frustrated passion.

Caine pulls his hot mouth back, just enough for me to see his storm-gray eyes flash dark. “Such a greedy girl,” he murmurs, his fingers rubbing faster. For whatever reason, it’s his breath getting more shallow, like he’s getting as much pleasure as I am.

Or maybe it’s the practice squeezing I’m doing. I’m not sure I’m doing it right—everything feels strange and overly full and I’m starting to think I don’t have a proper brain-vagina connection.

“Stop playing with me,” I beg shamelessly, trying to angle my hips down again. He jerks a little, and I whimper as his cock goes in deeper. But then it’s back out again, which is so fucking frustrating, I might scream.

“The first time should be in a bed,” he says calmly, like his dick isn’t already partially inside of me. “With candles and shit.”

A broken laugh escapes me. “I don’t care about candles and shit.” Seriously, I have literally thrown myself onto him, and he’s over here trying to be Prince Charming when he’s already inside me.

It occurs to me I might have set myself up for failure. Wasn’t I the one demanding we take things slow and get to know each other?

Maybe our bodies should just get to know each other first. They seem to know what they want; my brain, on the other hand, seems to be suffering from whiplash.

His fingers press harder, moving faster, and a preposterous laugh dies in my throat, replaced by a moan that doesn’t sound like me at all. The pressure inside me builds, threatening to shatter me completely, and I roll my hips forward, hissing a little at the mix of pain and pleasure, whining a little when he jerks me back.

Caine leans forward, his teeth scraping my jawline, and my thighs clench. He groans against my skin. “Stop fighting,” he growls, his breath hot and heavy. “Come for me, Grace. Come all over my cock like a good girl instead of trying to be a naughty one.”

His words send a shiver through me so intense it borders on pain as everything shatters. The death grip I have on our energy falters, and the resultant surge is white-hot and overwhelming.

Waves of pleasure. Tense heat. And a strange, new sensation down below as he stiffens and curses, his already-hard arm tightening further.

The force of it steals my breath, my vision, my thoughts—everything narrowing to the points where our bodies connect, where his cock suddenly jumps inside of me, pulsing with its own heat.

I’m still dazed and confused when I suddenly hear him say, “This is not our first time.”

Well, no shit. It is definitely not the first time he’s had me boneless after orgasm. I think I might be developing an addiction.

“Just consider it a trial run,” he mutters, far more talkative than normal as I lean forward to collapse against his chest. Both of his hands are on my hips now, still holding me up, even though I’m dead weight.

Trial run of what? Truck sex? I think I like truck sex. It’s a little awkward and hard to manage, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“You can still consider yourself a virgin,” he adds, and it’s only then I realize the man sounds… nervous.

With his dick still right there.

I blink against his neck, wondering what the man’s on about. If P meets V, I’m pretty sure it equals sex. Ergo, not a virgin. Even if I didn’t manage to get all of him inside me—though it isn’t like I didn’t try.

A lot.

Maybe half a virgin, then. Is there such a thing as a half-virgin?

Seriously, if he was already inside me, he could have done the gentlemanly thing and gone all the way in…

But then again, I did kind of make a hysterical fool out of myself in the middle.

When Caine slides out of me, I feel strangely empty and unfulfilled. But those feelings disappear with a sudden surge of mortification.

Something’s dripping out now that he’s not, er, plugging the hole.

My thighs clench.

Ohmygod, don’t leak all over his lap.

Holy shit.

Why is there so much?

Am I a waterfall?

Caine doesn’t seem to notice as he lowers me onto him, completely oblivious to the absolute puddle I’m oozing out. Of course, I don’t have the bravery or self-esteem to announce it’s happening. Too busy trying to emulate an ostrich.

“Grace? Are you upset?”

His hands travel from my hips to my back, doing an awkward pat, followed by gentle strokes, trying to soothe me from whatever he thinks I’m feeling.

“No,” I mumble, stiff as a board and wondering if he brought spare clothes.

Oh, wait. I did laundry. Whew. Crisis semi-averted, except the part where I have to tell him what my vagina’s done and then know he’s going to live the rest of his life remembering this moment.

Fuck. Is it possible to knock him out and dress him against his will and without his consent?

“I’m sorry. I should have had better control…”

He’s still talking.

And his control was just fine, damn it. A little too fine. And now he’s blaming himself, but my memory is still unfortunately intact and I am very clearly remembering who jumped on who and who instigated what.

Spoiler: It’s me. All me, one hundred percent verified.

“Um…”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

He sounds so damn sweet and encouraging and worried, and my brain’s still stuck on the puddle I’m puddling in his lap and whether or not I’m half-virgin or if such a thing even exists, and why he thinks I give a damn about it.

“I think I’m leaking on you,” I mumble against his neck.