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186 Caine: Control (Or Lack Thereof)
186 Caine: Control (Or Lack Thereof)
Grace’s shoulders subtly hunch in defense, and I feel like a goddamn heel for not speaking more gently.
Damn wolf.
Hot. Sweaty, Relief.
She was… washing herself, right?
I’m not some sex–deprived virgin.
Taxes. Rogue disputes. Jack–Eye’s dissertation on scat identification when we were pups. All topics to cool the fire burning in my loins, and yet–0
She sways forward, the space between us shrinking, and I remind myself she’s not in control. She’s as much of a victim to this mate bond as I am. Perhaps more, as she’s a mere human against the force of it.
My lips hover near her ear, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin without touching. 1
“I’ve learned a little,” she whispers, “but not enough.”
“It f–feels good,” she whispers in response, her voice trembling.
When I turn back, she’s looking over her shoulder with her wide, grass–green eyes. Then she jerks her head away to look straight ahead, and I feel a little empty.
My hands twitch.
“I wasn’t really washing,” she says softly. “I was just… hot and sweaty. Trying to get a little relief.”
The thought sends even more blood rushing south so fast I’m dizzy with it.
I can control this level of desire.
Her breath hitches.
My mouth goes dry.
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186 Caine: Control (Or Lack Thereof)
My hand slides around to her side, the washcloth gliding over her ribs and dipping beneath the curve of her breast.
I mentally kick myself. She’s already been through so much. The last thing I should be doing is pressuring her with my own lack of control.
I want to drop to my knees. Press my mouth to that exact spot. Let my tongue trace back up her spine, tasting every inch of her skin.
Fuck.
“I meant the energy transfer.” My fingers flex beneath the damp cloth. “Does it happen even when I’m touching you with this?”
Focus.
I step closer, close enough for her scent to overwhelm everything else. Then again, I’d blocked out all other scents since the moment I walked in here.
“How much control do you have over the energy transfer now?” My voice comes out husky and rough with need.
But he’d mentioned one crucial point: it didn’t require touching.
I’m a king. The fucking Lycan King. I’ve been in battlefields soaked in blood without flinching. I’ve sentenced traitors to death without remorse. I can stand in a tiny bathroom with my near–naked mate without losing my goddamn mind.
My eyes darken as I curse the me of yesterday, too impatient to deal with Jack–Eye’s perverted ramblings while I worried about bringing my frail mate back to the pack she’d escaped.
My cock jumps. Hard as granite now, aching with the need for friction, for her heat. I clear my throat, trying to reclaim some semblance of rational thought.
Against my better judgment, my hand reaches out. The pathetic square of cloth peels away from its clinging embrace, baring the whole of her breasts to my view.
The first touch of cloth to skin has us both inhaling sharply. I drag it across the back of her neck, where tiny blonde hairs cling to her damp skin. Water beads at the nape, then slides down her spine in thin rivulets, gathering at the small dip at the base, above her underwear.
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186 Caine: Control (Or Lack Thereof)
A good mate would keep his damn hands at his sides and step back.
I force myself to take a step back, putting precious inches between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
Nothing works. Not with her standing there, droplets sliding down her skin, wetness darkening the waist of her thin panties.
It’s okay to help out.
But Grace parts her lips, running her tongue over her bottom lip, and blood rushes to places it shouldn’t.
But I’m not a good mate.
Fuck.
But Grace turns, pulling her unnaturally blonde hair over her shoulder and presenting me with her bare back.
Her voice has a pouty quality, and her expression matches–a sultry little downturned mouth I’m desperate to taste. Either that or I’m utterly depraved, painting her with seduction when she’s just standing there.
But I’m weak to the temptation wrapped in her skin, to the overwhelming scent of blueberry muffins in this space, and to the indecent fantasies taking up most of my thoughts.
The attraction of a mate bond is brutal for any wolf, but this–this is torture beyond what I imagined possible. Every day I’ve kept my hands off her deserves a goddamn medal. The longer we go without feeding the bond, the worse it gets, like an addiction crawling beneath my skin. 2
“Can you feel anything?” My voice is so low it’s hardly recognizable.
Not like this, ogling my mate when she’s still weak and exhausted.
I barely keep myself from groaning.
Jack–Eye said he learned a new trick, Fenris reminds me.
“It’s there,” she says. “But not very much at all. It’s hard even to notice.”
CAINE
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186 Caine Control (Or Lack Thereof)
You’re not supposed to touch her, my blasted wolf reminds me. S
Running cold water over the washcloth and feeling an irrational surge of jealousy over the inanimate fabric she’d run across her body, I take in a deep breath, and wring out the excess until it’s merely damp.
Disappointment flashes across Grace’s face, a quick furrow of her brow I probably wouldn’t have caught if I weren’t staring at her so intently. But then she shakes her head and takes her own step back.
I shouldn’t be here.
My mind assents, but my body…
I hadn’t paid much attention at the time, and now I regret it. I’ll have to ask Jack–Eye for more details. The thought of asking him for details of his sex life is… not appealing.
My cock throbs painfully against the confines of my jeans. Every word out of her mouth might as well be foreplay. I turn to the sink and adjust myself.
I take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to clear my head. The scent of her fills my lungs instead, making my cock twitch and my control fray.
She’s silent for a beat, and I watch the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she
breathes. Then a small nod.
“Where else are you hot?”
Then my damned mouth opens on its own. “Do you need help?” I gesture with the washcloth I’m still holding.
Satisfaction rumbles in my chest, and her nipples tighten in the humid air.
That sound. The smallest catch in her throat sends fire racing through my veins.
“Where’s your soap?” The question comes out through gritted teeth, and I hope she doesn’t think I’m angry.
Control yourself. Fenris’s voice rumbles through my thoughts, unusually serious.
Sure you can.
Instead, I run the washcloth along her shoulders, over each vertebra, mapping the contours of her back with calculated precision. The washcloth barrier between my
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186 Caine: Control (Or Lack Thereof)
fingers and her skin is the only thing keeping me from completely losing control.
She exhales, a shuddering little breath, and it instantly drags out memories of her flushed beneath me, responsive to my every touch.
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