Bloodbound to the Lycan King

Chapter 268: Grace: Romance (III)

His smile fades. Returns. Fades again.

I sit at the edge of the bed, my hands pressed flat against the duvet and rose petals crushed beneath my palms, staring up at Caine and his fascinating changes of facial expression.

A little awkward when he was clearly ready to tear my clothes off a few seconds prior? Sure. But a lot less awkward than him sniffing me when I haven't showered yet.

His jaw tightens. Then relaxes. His lips twitch upward. Then down.

I clear my throat hesitantly, but he doesn't respond.

Nothing.

Oh—he's probably talking to someone in his head.

"So I'm gonna..." I gesture vaguely toward the bathroom door. "Shower?"

He blinks at me a few times, then nods once, slow and deliberate. I purposely do my best not to notice how his eyes drag down my body before doing so.

This is the most drawn-out sex scene of my life—not that I've had any—and I have no idea how to handle it.

Except, you know, to shower. So it can… proceed.

Ahem.

And then Caine doesn't move, still standing there without a single word, blocking my way to smell-good freedom.

I wait.

He stands there, still staring at me, smiling/frowning at intervals.

I wait longer.

He breathes.

Arousal's long since taken a nap at this point, waiting until I've washed away embarrassment and awkwardness for the fun bits, and Caine is… not helping. Okay.

Fine.

I rise, almost falling backward when my chest bumps into his.

The damned man still doesn't move, though his storm-gray eyes definitely darken.

Then I squeedaddle my way past him with an awkward (word of the day?) side shuffle, breathing out in relief when I finally make it around his body.

And then, because I have no pride and a whole lot of feelings to work through, I dash to the bathroom without another word and slam the door behind me.

I sag against the wood, pressing my spine flat against it.

Silence from the other side, thankfully. No chasing Lycan here.

Thank.

Fucking.

God.

If he'd suggested showering together, I might have imploded.

My body chooses this moment to completely malfunction as my embarrassment hits peak levels, my brain running through all the little interactions we've had since he smothered me in his embrace after escaping the weird parallel place with Ellie von Murderess.

I kick my foot out twice. My fists ball up and shake at my sides in a full-body cringe so violent my shoulders hit my ears. Then I press both palms over my face and emit a sound only bats could appreciate, rocking forward onto my toes before snapping upright and stomping my feet against the tile like I'm marathon-running, but… you know, in place.

What is wrong with me?

The woman who'd climbed across a truck console and kissed him like the world was ending? So not me. And yet I did it. I did it. And now we're here and it's obvious we're going to have sex and not like, fingers, but actual sex without stopping midway and oh my God, how the fuck am I supposed to start this conversation after I get out of the shower?

Hi, sexy, I'm all clean, come lick me?

Uh, no.

Deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I drop my hands and face the mirror.

Then I shriek, a sharp, strangled thing of sound before I kill it with my palm, ignoring how much it stings to slap my own mouth.

Jesus Christ and all babies born in mangers.

The woman in the mirror looks like she crawled out of a collapsed building. My blonde hair is sticking up in like, six different directions, with a giant mat on one side. It looks like I have running mascara, only it's dirt. Probably graveyard dirt tainted with the grumpy soul of my adopted pack's ancestors.

God. How on this vast green earth did Caine manage to stick his tongue in my mouth?

In his shoes, I would have shoved me away and asked very politely for me to shower first.

He saw this. He looked at this and said he wanted to mark me tonight.

The man is either blind or insane. Or both.

Didn't I once think he's a psychopath? Yeah. That opinion's returning, even if it's for different reasons now.

I yank a bedraggled leaf out of my hair and flick it into the sink. Then, not sure if leaves contribute to plumbing issues, I pull it out and flick it disdainfully into the waste basket by the toilet.

Oh, by the way, total and utter meltdown of what little pride I've retained aside, the bathroom itself is gorgeous—slate-gray tile, a fancy-looking square showerhead mounted high like I'm showering in a rainforest but, you know, without leaves… except the one I brought in. Hah, hah.

God, I'm going nuts.

I need to shower before I lose what sanity I have left.

My clothes hit the floor in two seconds flat, and I almost trip trying to kick off my pants. Then I turn on the water, which takes a lot more time because seriously, why are there so many knobs?

Water on, water hot. That's all I need. But no, there isn't a label to be seen, as if daring me to take my chances.

But eventually I get it figured out—I think.

While waiting for the hot water (I hope) to make its way to my room's pipes, I open several packages of disposable whatnots, grateful when one of them holds a wide-tooth comb.

Then I hack at my tangles with vicious and single-minded intent.

I will not look like I've escaped a war zone when losing the last half of my virginity, thank you very much.

A strange whiff hits my nose and I pause, cautiously lifting one arm and tilting down my nose for a cautious little sniff.

Oh, thank God.

It isn't me.

Relief floods through me so hard my knees soften. He'd been breathing on me. Nose buried in my neck like it was his personal oxygen supply. If I'd smelled like a gym locker after the day I've had… I cast a baleful glance at the pile of clothes I've kicked into a corner before returning to the tangle-hacking.

Then, suddenly, the bathroom door clicks open because God forbid I use my brain and lock the damn thing.

I freeze, arms half-raised and mouth wide open, naked as the day I was born.

Caine fills the doorframe.

His hand grips the doorknob, knuckles flexing once. His eyes—storm-gray and dark as slate—land on my face for exactly one second before they drop.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Down the column of my throat, across my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. Lower. All the way to my bare feet on the warm tile, then back up with the same devastating patience.

Steam curls between us. Water hammers the empty shower behind me. Good for me; I found the hot water after all.

My skin prickles everywhere his gaze touches, heat blooming in its wake, and I don't move. More accurately, I can't move.

My hands still hang awkwardly above my head because covering up now would require acknowledging not only that I'm naked, but that he's looking and—

His eyes find mine again. He's absolutely calm as he asks, "Did you want to eat after your shower?"

My brain flatlines. Then he asks, still unaffected by the fact my entire body is on display, "And would you prefer to eat out, or eat in?"

Eat—

Me?

Oh my God, shut up, brain.

I swallow.

"In is fine." My voice comes out level. Even. Almost bored-sounding, which is a miracle of biblical proportions considering every nerve ending south of my navel just detonated.

But then Caine's lips quirk in a half-smirk and I start wondering if I sound as calm as I think I do.

"Hmm. I thought so."

His gaze holds mine for one more beat and I know I'm crimson from my head to my toes, damn it.

Then he says considerately, "Take your time. We have all night," and closes the door.

Whoosh.

My knees buckle. I hit the tile floor with a graceless thud, legs folding beneath me, and the groan I release is shaky and pathetic and entirely earned.