Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 57: Grace: I’ll Ruin You For Anyone Else

No way.

Even if he tells me to, I really can’t do it.

I keep my face turned away, staring at the faded flower pattern of the comforter. My pulse has spiked to the stratosphere, but I’m determined not to look at his face. If I do, I’ll be lost, dropping so far into the sinful depths of hell, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to return.

I’m not ready.

"Grace." His voice drops to a silken murmur near my ear.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Don’t."

But he doesn’t listen. Instead, warm lips press against my cheek, the contact feather-light and devastatingly sweet. My breath catches as he traces a lazy path across my skin, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world to map every contour of my face.

"Look at me," he repeats, his breath hot against my temple.

I shake my head, the movement barely perceptible. His answering chuckle vibrates through my bones.

"Stubborn," he whispers, the word not an accusation but something like praise. My hips undulate without permission, and he rocks forward in response.

I’m putty.

His mouth travels down to my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive shell before his tongue traces the delicate curve. A traitorous shiver wracks through me, and my fingers curl into the hard planes of his chest.

"I can hear your heartbeat, Grace." His lips brush against my ear with each syllable. "It beats for me."

"It’s supposed to beat," I choke out, ruining my attempt at seeming flippant and unaffected.

The wet heat of his tongue dips into the hollow beneath my earlobe, and a soft gasp escapes me before I can trap it behind my teeth. His satisfied hum tells me he caught the sound.

"Your body knows, Grace."

The camper suddenly feels too small, too hot. My chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, each inhale laced with his scent.

"Stop talking," I manage to say, my voice strained. The sound of his voice is unraveling every last millimeter of my control.

"No? I’d rather make you stop breathing."

My heart lurches, and I suck in a swift breath.

He chuckles. "Yeah. Just like that."

Asshole.

His lips trace down the column of my throat, pausing at the frantic pulse point beneath my jaw. He inhales deeply, and the sound is so animal, so wolf, that another shudder ripples through me.

I should be terrified. This man kills without hesitation. He tore through a pack like they were nothing. He told me I was his prisoner.

Yet here I am, melting beneath his touch as if the Goddess herself had handed me to him, wrapped in a pretty red bow.

Caine shifts his weight onto one arm, the movement pressing his hips more firmly against mine. The hard ridge of him strains against denim, and heat pools low in my belly. His free hand slides up my bare side, palm rough against my skin, fingertips charting a path of goosebumps in their wake.

"Your skin is softer than I imagined." His thumb slips under the tight band of my bra and traces the underside of my breast, a preview of his ill intentions. "And I’ve imagined it every night. Since I first caught your scent."

My breath whooshes out in shock. He could have fooled me, with all of his throat-grabbing and threats.

But he wins, because the admission drags my gaze to his face at last. His eyes burn into mine, pupils blown wide with desire, all pretense of control stripped away. The raw hunger I find there steals what little breath remains in my lungs.

"There you are," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. "I was beginning to think you’d never look at me again."

Words fail me. I can only stare, caught in the magnetic pull of his gaze as his whole hand finally sneaks up under my bra to cup my breast fully, his thumb brushing across the sensitive peak. My back arches involuntarily, pushing into his touch.

"So beautiful," he breathes. "So responsive. So perfect."

His hand leaves my breast to trail up my neck, tilting my face toward his. Time suspends as he hovers above me, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between our lips.

Anticipation races along my nerves, leaving them sparking and frantic.

"I’m going to taste you now, Grace," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. "And after this, nothing will ever taste as sweet."

His words keep wrecking me.

The first press of his lips against mine is gentle—a stark contrast to the predatory hunger in his eyes. Soft. Testing. As if he’s savoring the initial contact, memorizing the texture and warmth.

I remain frozen beneath him, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. My indecision lasts only seconds before his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry. When I yield—God help me, I yield—the kiss transforms.

Possession replaces gentleness. His tongue slides against mine, claiming my mouth with the same dominance he wields over everything else. His hand leaves my jaw to slide into my hair, fingers tightening as he holds me exactly where he wants me.

My fingers curl into fists against his chest before sliding up to grip his shoulders, anchoring myself against the tide of sensation threatening to sweep me away.

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."