Bloodbound to the Lycan King

Chapter 271: Grace: Let There Be Dragons

Okay, yes, I have power. Massive power. The power to bring a Lycan King to his (metaphorical) knees and give up a ridiculous explanation I really need to hear more of and give me the most amazing kiss of my lifetime, in a dead tie with pretty much ever other kiss we've shared.

But.

But.

Why. Does. My. Luck. Suck?

Granted, I knew the food was coming. Knew. And yet…

Caine's face pushes against my hand, his nose between my middle and index finger, making him look both smushed and sexy with the way his eyes gleam. Yeah, I know. I have a problem. He'd probably look sexy to me covered in mud.

Anyway.

Dinner.

This supposed dinner where my value is rated.

"Someone's here," I insist again, using my free hand to point at the door.

He grunts like a caveman, apparently incapable of wording, and a small thrill flushes through my veins. Yep. I did that. Grace Power.

But more importantly, our food is at the door.

"Shouldn't you go check?"

"They'll drop it off," he mutters, even though the pressure on my hand eases as he moves back an approximate millimeter.

His reasoning is tempting. So very, very tempting. Plus, we're already hot and heavy and I no longer have to deal with the sheer mortification of trying to figure out if I'm supposed to be clothed or not.

In the end, though, I know how hard he's worked at making this perfect for me, and I don't want his effort to go to waste. And what girl doesn't like being romanced?

Not me.

I place both palms on his chest, doing my best not to think about how rock-solid his muscles are, and push.

He doesn't move.

I push harder, digging my heels into the ground, until my arms shake. My hands slip across his still-damp skin but I recover and shove with everything I've got.

He moves. Barely. It's an entire generous half-step backward.

"Go," I tell him, pushing again, high on the euphoria of making him move a little. Grace Power, part two. "Get the food."

What girl doesn't like an indulgent man?

Not me.

Another begrudging step, then another. His eyes go from me to the door and I swear I can see calculations manifesting in the air, probably figuring out how quickly we can eat without it feeling like he's rushing me.

Eventually we're at the door, one pushed step at a time, and his hand reaches for the handle. That's when my eyes drift down and I realize the man's only wearing a towel.

What if the person delivering is a woman?

"Stop!" I shriek, reaching out to grab his arm.

Only Caine's head turns as he looks down at me. "You don't want to eat?"

"You can't open that door," I respond, now immersed in pulling him away. Far away. Man or woman, who wouldn't be tempted by him practically naked at the door?

"Why."

It's crazy; I can hear the period in place of the question mark.

"Because you're—" I gesture at the whole situation. All of it. The towel. The abs. The V-line disappearing into suggestion. "You're naked."

He stares at me without blinking. Then he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling.

Did you know throats can be sexy?

His is.

Especially with the tattoos.

I lick my lips, watching his tattoos writhe. Yep. Definitely moving. It isn't like I haven't seen it before, but it's still… strange. And I can't figure out why they move and why they stop.

Could probably ask, but have other priorities.

He swallows and my mouth goes dry.

Then his chest expands with a breath so deep and patient I know I've maybe gone a little too far with my Grace Power princess delusion, but somehow it's more funny than anything else.

I press my lips together because if I laugh right now, he'll either kiss me or combust, which would… well, end up in a kiss anyway. So basically, regardless, we end up kissing.

Which is… tempting.

Very tempting.

But I fight the temptation like a damn gladiator, staring at him so hard I can feel my eyes drying out.

Several seconds pass.

The ceiling offers him no salvation, and he heaves out the deep breath in one loud whoosh of air.

"I'll get it," I say hastily, not wanting to push his patience any longer. "Just let me—"

"No," he says, sounding so even-keeled I'd think the man was of gentle temperament.

My dry eyes finally get relief as I blink at the man, an extra time for good measure, to show my confusion.

He doesn't seem to notice, pivoting sharply on his heel to stalk toward the shopping bags he'd set aside earlier. His shoulders are a straight, tense line of barely contained frustration, and I'd feel bad… if I weren't so distracted by the view from behind.

It's fantastic.

Then the towel drops to the floor.

I should look away.

I don't look away.

Every single inch of him is carved and deliberate, muscles shifting under his tanned skin as he bends to step into a pair of slacks, forgoing underwear for sake of efficiency, I think, not that I'm complaining.

He pulls them over his hips, fastens them without a belt, and turns to head back to the door.

That's when I see them.

Dragons.

Silver dragons embroidered down each leg, their sinuous bodies coiled from hip to ankle in ostentatious design. Scales, claws, wings unfurled along the outer seam like they're mid-flight, unapologetically loud dragons.

On the Lycan King's pants.

I press my knuckles to my mouth hard.

It's so deeply wrong. A wolf with mythological lizards screaming down his legs.

He's already heading for the door, barefoot and shirtless and dragon-clad, checking the peephole before pulling it open.

Why dragons? The man is a wolf. The apex wolf, the Lycan above all others, their king.

And he chose dragons.

Can't laugh. Don't laugh. Jesus Christ on mountains high, don't laugh.

The hallway is empty, thank God, saving us from an awkward moment where our delivery person salivates over Caine's chest. He leans out, glances both ways, then bends to collect something from the floor. When he straightens and turns around, his face does something I've never seen it do.

I'm not entirely sure how to describe it.

It's just all wrong, half up and half down.

My gaze drops to his hand and the golden arches proudly displayed on the brown paper bag. In his other hand, a large drink—one of those waxy cups with a plastic dome lid, condensation running down the sides.

McDonald's.