Chapter 267
CAINE
The roses are a problem. Cloying and floral, when all I want to smell is blueberry muffins and the sweet scent of Grace’s warm skin. Especially at her throat when her pulse runs fast.
I inhale through my mouth instead, determined to show my gentlemanly side instead of throwing her onto the bed and burying my face in her neck to breathe her in at my leisure.
After all, I’d specifically ordered romance. I’ll survive the rose bombardment as long as it makes her happy, even if I’d expected atmosphere and not a goddamned botanical garden.
Grace stands by the dining table, her back half-turned to me. The overhead light catches the curve of her jaw. The dip of her collarbone. The way her blonde hair falls across the nape of her neck, exposing a strip of skin tantalizing me for the last twenty minutes.
It won’t be untouched for long.
As long as you don’t screw it up.
I clench my jaw. Fenris had been blessedly, uncharacteristically silent…
You were monologuing. I got bored.
I slam the mental door shut on him, my eyes falling to the strip of innuendo disguised as lace under her pile of clothes. A soft, approving hum escapes my throat, though I’m not sure she’d make it into public before I ripped them off her.
Then I haul my instincts back in line and toss the offensive shopping bags onto the sofa with more force than necessary.
My throat tightens. The image arrives uninvited and fully formed: that scrap of nothing stretched across her hips, the bow centered just below her navel, the black lace barely—
Grace glances over her shoulder.
I adjust my stance. The situation below my belt has been escalating since the truck, since she climbed across the console to sit closer, since her hand found my thigh and rested there. I am the Lycan King. I have fought wars. I have held entire packs in submission with nothing but my presence.
I am perfectly capable of not mauling my mate in a hotel room.
Grace turns around, oblivious to the way I’m sniffing the air to get even a hint of her blueberry scent under the roses, then points and says, “There’s a bedroom,” with a pink flush to her cheeks and an unnatural avoidance of my eyes.
We’re clearly on the same page.
Flimsy control snaps apart and I pivot.
Three strides and I’m there, suddenly awash in her scent, and I do what every Lycan does best.
I throw her sweet little ass over my shoulder.
My shoulder meets her stomach. I lift. She folds over me with a sharp exhale, her palms flat against my back, her legs kicking out once as her entire body goes stiff.
“Caine p>
The bedroom door is already open, the king-sized bed beckoning and covered in rose petals, and it isn’t until I’m one step from the bed when I process her struggle.
Reluctantly, I let her slide down from my shoulder until she’s sitting at the foot of the bed, her cheeks more flush than I’ve ever seen them.
Her grass-green eyes meet mine and I have to fight to keep from drowning in them. Since they’re so distracting, I avoid her gaze by burying my face in her neck and breathing in deep, fighting the urge to nibble. Instead, I rest both hands on either side of her thighs.
She’s as stiff as a board, probably scared of the pain. Hah. To think she’d acted as if she were prepared for the pain when I brought it up earlier…
The urge to maul her within the next ten seconds finally eases, and I manage a tender smile against her sweet skin as I ask, “What’s wrong p>
She somehow manages to stiffen even further. “Can you stop breathing on me p>
I exhale slowly. Empty lungs are great. All the more space to breathe in her heavenly blueberry muffin aroma. “No p>
“Oh,” she mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. Her left thigh brushes against my hand and she jerks as if shocked. “Can we, uh, hit pause for a second p>
She sounds so tentative and worried, but all her words do is tighten every muscle in my body, not sure how to explain how marking is intrinsically tied to the very act of mating.
And I have no intention of letting her out of this room without my mark on her neck.
It’s fine. She’s still, more or less, a virgin. The pain must have been excruciating. “Are you scared p>
She flinches as my hot breath caresses her skin, finally reaching up to shove my face away. “N-No p>
My sweet little liar.
“I just want a shower p>
Right. Of course. A shower.
I’d been so focused on the sweet scent of Grace I’d happily blocked out the rest of reality.
Less reluctant now, I pull aside as she shoves at my face again, more insistently. “Sure p>
The soft, relieved sigh she exhales is adorable. The way she tucks her tangled hair behind her ear is sweet. Her tongue flicking out to wet her dry lips is an invitation and—
Didn’t she say she wanted a shower?
Fenris’s voice is like a bucket of ice water, dousing the single-minded track my brain’s determined to traverse.
I clear my throat, for once glad of Grace’s oblivious nature. Tonight’s about her. She’s safe now, in my arms, and after tonight she’ll be marked.
It’s okay to wait a few more minutes.
And if she takes too long, I can always cut the supply of hot water—
Better yet, cut the electricity, Fenris supplies helpfully. The generators too.
Mentally nodding along, I wonder where the generators might be—
Seriously, you can’t recognize sarcasm when it’s in your own head?
My brows pull together immediately. You want her marked, too.
But if Grace finds out someone fiddled with her shower, and the electricity, just to get into her pants a little faster, how do you think she’ll react?
Ah.
The damned wolf has a point. For a human like Grace, she’d probably consider it insidious, not charming. She doesn’t react well to a display of strength; a display of cunning would probably be even harder to accept.
Mhm. Yeah. That’s the problem. You’ve got this. I believe in you.