Page 112 of Grace of a Wolf 1
He groans into my mouth, shoving his hips against my damp heat, grinding with deliberate pressure; a moan tears out of me, only to be swallowed as he kisses me harder, deeper, until I'm dizzy with want and ready to beg for more.
When he finally breaks away, we're both panting. His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the charged space between us.
"You taste like blueberries," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "Like something I could devour for eternity and still crave more."
Blueberries…
Something about his statement nudges at my memories, but then it's gone, whisked away as his mouth crashes back onto mine, all restraint abandoned. This isn't a kiss—it's consumption. Ravenous and desperate. His tongue plunders, teeth nip at my bottom lip, drawing out a startled gasp he exploits with ruthless precision.
His hand slides down my side once again, gripping my hip with bruising intensity before curving beneath my thigh, hitching my leg higher around his waist. The adjustment brings me flush against the hard length of him, and I arch my back, trying to gain enough purchase to grind against him.
Friction is delicious.
He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along my jaw, down my throat, teeth scraping over my collarbone. "I've killed for less than the torture of wanting you."
His statement should be horrifying, not thrilling. Liquid heat courses through my veins, pooling between my thighs, where his hardness presses insistently.
His head lifts, and our eyes meet. Something between us surges. My heart won't stop hammering, my chest almost too tight.
"Tell me you feel this too," he demands, pushing off me to grab both sides of my hips and lift them higher. He rocks forward again, a desperate tease of what's to come. "Tell me I'm not alone in this madness."
I can't say anything. Breaking his stare, I turn my face away, wishing my cheeks weren't so red. Wishing embarrassment didn't have me in a death grip, listening to what he says so easily. What he commands.
"Tell me, Grace."
My head shakes frantically.
His growl vibrates his body as his hand slides down my thigh, his fingers working their way beneath my shorts. My breath comes in soft pants as I squeeze my eyes shut.
His fingertips brush tantalizingly close to where I throb, but it isn't enough. Not nearly enough.
"I'll ruin you for anyone else," he murmurs. "After me, there won't be anyone else. Just ashes."
Chapter fifty-eight
Grace: Climax
Why does he keep talking? Every time he opens his damn mouth, it makes the throbbing harder.
Why does he keep talking? Every time he opens his damn mouth, it makes the throbbing harder.
"You want this."
Telling him I don't seems kind of… well, pointless. Because my body, my actions, my everything right now is giving him an entire different story. And he isn't wrong. Murderer or whatever, it doesn't change the fire he's bringing to my blood, the tenseanticipation which has me quivering as his fingers slip just a little bit closer.
"Say it, Grace," Caine demands. The words are so rough, his voice so deep, my hips jerk. "Tell me you want this."
I press my lips together. Some wanton part of me wants to do as he says, but the overwhelming majority denies his request, the embarrassment too much to overcome. Even with it flushing my cheeks, though, my body continues its responses. A shiver here. A sharp intake of breath there. A wiggle of my hips to entice his fingers further, until they finally reach the edge of my panties.
More.
Higher.
"Stubborn little human," he murmurs. "I can hear your heartbeat racing. I can smell your desire. It's so thick I could choke on it. Is that what you want, Grace? For me to die in your arms?"
How does he say things so easily? It just comes out like he doesn't feel any mortification at all. Meanwhile, I'm slamming my palms against my face, hiding behind them as if they might shield me from his shamelessly erotic words. As if covering my flaming cheeks might somehow cool the heat spreading throughout my body.
"Look at me."
