Page 109 of Grace of a Wolf 1
"Caine," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the aggressive drone of all three of the RV's air conditioning units.
Another grunt. He nuzzles closer, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin below my ear. A shiver runs through me, desire spiking sharp and hot before fading back to a dull throb.
My pats turn firmer. More insistent. The gentle rhythm becomes an urgent drumming against his broad back.
"Caine." Louder this time, my voice steady even as my legs tremble beneath their demand. "Caine, please."
But he's lost somewhere I can't follow. His grip tightens fractionally, and I feel the hard planes of his chest press against mine with each breath he takes. A tremor passes through him, and an answering shiver of want flares dangerously low in my abdomen.
And then it's gone again, doused by the growing ache in my spine.
"You're going to snap me in half," I finally gasp, shoving against his shoulders. I'm desperate for relief. "Please, let me go. My back hurts!"
His entire body goes stiff.
For one blessed moment, I think he's heard me. That he'll release me and let blood flow back into my cramping limbs and ease my body's muscle failure.
Instead, his arms constrict further, an iron vise crushing me against him. His grip becomes almost painful, bordering on desperate.
"No." His denial is hot against my skin. "I can't let you go."
The anguish in his words is enough to stem my rising irritation. This isn't the terrifying Lycan King speaking. This isn't even the overbearing Caine who stormed into the camper moments ago.
This is another him entirely, something broken and vulnerable. My chest hurts hearing him.
Reluctantly, I wrap my arms around him again, patting his back gently as I sigh. "At least let me stand up straight."
When he first ripped off my shirt, my mind had gone straight into the gutter, assuming a much more sordid situation to come. Unfortunately, he hasn't done a thing except… breathe. A lot of hot, heavy breathing.
Wait—did I just say that'sunfortunate…?
Caine grunts, which is not an answer to my question at all. Then his hands drop lower, fingers curving around my ass and pressing dangerously close to the sensitive area between my thighs.
My breath hitches.
He suddenly lifts me off the ground. Instinct kicks in, and I tighten my embrace around his neck, my legs flying around his waist on their own accord. A small shriek escapes my lips, echoing through the cramped camper.
But my back finally has the relief it was begging for.
"What are you—"
He doesn't answer, doesn't even look at me. His face remains buried in the crook of my neck, puffing out hot breaths as we walk the few steps to Lyre's daybed. Each movement jostles me against him, creating delicious friction.
The simmer returns to a boil.
My thighs clench tighter around him for stability, and he lets out a tortured groan.
"Stop," he growls against my skin, his voice rough like gravel. "Stop, or I'll lose what little control I have left."
The absurdity of his statement hits me. Hetore off my shirt.
"Control?" I ask blankly. "You consider what you're doing right now 'in control'?"
His only response is to tighten his grip on my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. The daybed creaks under our combined weight as he lowers us down, somehow managing to keep me straddling him. The position feels dangerously intimate, yet he still hasn't looked at my face even once.
"Caine," I try again, fighting against the fog of desire clouding my judgment. With the relative safety of the bed against my back, I slide my arms from around him and press my hands against his chest, attempting to create some space between us. "This isn't normal. You can't just burst in here and—"
"You're driving me crazy," he interrupts, pressing soft kisses against my neck.
