Page 108 of Grace of a Wolf 1
"Shh." Caine's doesn't even pretend to care about my reaction as his large hands grip what remains of my shirt and shovethe fabric down my arms in one smooth motion. The tattered remnant of my shirt pools at my feet, leaving me nearly naked from the waist up.
"W-Wait. What are you…"
My words die in my throat as Caine yanks his own shirt over his head in a single fluid movement, revealing a torso mapped with intricate tattoos. They curl and wind across his skin like ancient text.
Fuck.
His muscles are fabulous.
His shirt joins mine on the floor, looking like the steamy leadup in to a sex scene in basically any romantic comedy ever made.
My brain ditches sanity.
I'm supposed to be protesting, telling him he can't just tear my shirt off. Instead, my eyes linger on the tapering line of hair leading from his belly button and trailing down to—
No, no. His eyes are attached to his face. Not down there. Have some decency, Grace. Don't bethatgirl.
Caine pulls me against him again with a soft groan. My bare skin connects with his. My intelligence retires. My body sells its soul.
And my hands press flat against his chest, caught between us as he shoves his face into my neck again, breathing like he's oxygen-deprived.
Jesus. I'm standing here naked against my will and letting a man salivate all over my neck. I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be enjoying this.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" My protest is more of an obligation than what I really want, and my hands curl against the hard planes of muscle they're shoved against. So warm.
"Breathing," he murmurs, puffing out hot breath with each syllable.
Oh. Yep. I like that a lot, too.
Shouldn't.
Can't.
Mustn't.
But I do.
His hands span my lower back, pressing me against him, but they don't wander. They stay firmly in place, almost... respectful in their stillness.
Despite, you know, literally stripping me without consent.
"Need this," he says, grazing his teeth against my skin. "Need you."
Caine inhales deeply, over and over, like a drowning man finally breaking the surface. Each breath sounds desperate and ragged.
Chapter fifty-six
Grace: I Can't Let You Go
We stay like this for what feels like forever.
Desire once boiled in my veins, but now simmers, left untended. Mundane issues shove away the fog of arousal and obsessive cataloguing of each breath he takes.
My back hurts.
He's got me partially bent over his arm, and the unnatural position leaves me off-kilter, my balance thwarted and my core muscles begging for a gym membership.
I pat Caine's back gently at first. A tentative tap-tap against rigid muscles, warm and soft beneath my hands. No response. His face remains buried in the crook of my neck, his breathing deep and ravenous, like he's inhaling me into his soul. Sometimes, I almost feel like he really is—like something inside of me is being absorbed into him. But it's just my addled imagination going haywire.
