Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 187

Chapter 187: Caine: Restraint

CAINE

Grace whimpers, and I glide the washcloth over her breast, pinching her nipple with the rough fabric. She sucks in a deep breath, her body arching into my touch despite herself, and it takes everything in me not to just throw her to the floor like a wild man.

I’m civilized. Perfectly capable of holding back.

Even if every little shuddering breath of hers wants to rip my control to pieces.

"Where else are you hot, Grace? Here?" I slide the washcloth lower, over the soft plane of her belly.

My cock hardens painfully as she rises on her tiptoes, her body instinctively seeking more. Her legs part in wanton invitation, but I stop at her lower abdomen, hovering just above where she needs me the most.

"Here?" I whisper, my voice rough and breathing heavy.

She nods frantically, her pulse jumping visibly at her throat. The scent of her arousal is better than anything I’ve ever smelled before, and I want it on me every damn minute, every hour, every day of the rest of my life.

"I can smell it." The words are supposed to come out as more of a dominating growl, but it’s more like a needy groan as I hold myself back.

"Don’t say that," she whispers, her cheeks flushing crimson.

"Why not?"

"It’s d-dirty." Her teeth catch her bottom lip as she stares at the ground. Or my hand.

I hope it’s my hand she’s watching, but she’s so fucking bashful, it’s hard to tell.

My fingers press a little harder through the cloth, but don’t travel any lower. "But I can smell how hot you are. How much you want me to touch you. Want me to move a little further..."

Her legs tremble, the muscles in her thighs twitching. Every instinct in me demands I drop to my knees, taste her, claim her, fuck her until she’s breathless and messy and marked beneath me.

Fenris huffs. Keep yourself under control.

I am under control, damn it.

"How is it now?" I ask, fighting for control with every breath.

She shakes her head, her blonde hair falling across her face. I want to twist it around my fist, pull her head back, and devour her mouth.

"Is it too much? Too little? Can you handle this?" Each breath draws more of her scent into my lungs.

"More," she whispers, the word barely audible.

"More what? Grace, you have to tell me what you want." I need her to say it. Need to hear the words from her mouth.

If I can’t fuck her, I at least need the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much she wants me.

"I want you to touch me... more." Her voice breaks on the last word.

My control slips another notch. "But what about the energy, Grace?"

She sucks in a groan that shoots straight to my groin. Her fingers wrap around my wrist with surprising strength as she shoves my hand down farther.

"Let go, Grace. We can’t touch, remember?" My voice sounds strangled, my fingers tense as I fight back the urge to drop the fucking cloth and plunge them inside of her until she gushes all over this floor.

Her fingers spasm around my wrist before she releases me. Her hands fall to her sides, quivering as she jerks them one way, then another, as if not sure what to do with herself.

We’re going too far; my control’s slipping.

The feral half of me is clawing to get out, wanting to hear her scream my name until her voice gives out. I tighten my grip on the washcloth before roughly shoving my hand between her thighs, cupping her where she wants it.

Her hips buck, and I shove my cock more firmly against her with a groan.

If she keeps this up, I’m going to come in my pants before I ever get her to her peak.

I fight against the tide of lust that threatens to drown us both, holding onto the threads of my humanity by sheer force of will. "You’re not answering me, Grace."

"B-Because..."

She bites at her lip again and shoves back, whimpering as I rock my hand against her.

"Because it’s too much!" she gasps, her body trembling against mine. "When you say my name like that—it’s too much."

Her words pierce through the haze of lust that’s clouding my mind. Too much.

Her body’s too rigid, and she sounds panicked.

I freeze, my hand still pressed between her thighs through the washcloth, my chest heaving against her back. The washcloth drips onto the floor, each splatter loud in the sudden silence.

My cock throbs painfully, demanding I continue, but I force myself to pull away, removing my hand first, then taking a deliberate step back. Cold air rushes between us. My skin feels like it’s on fire while also feeling like I’ve jumped into an ice-filled lake.

"I’m sorry," I rasp.

And I am. Not for wanting her—never for that—but for pushing so hard when she’s clearly overwhelmed.

But then she looks over her shoulder at me, her green eyes dark and wide and so very confused, "Why did you stop?"