His finger pushes deeper, hitting a perfect, toe-curling spot inside me.
I can’t think, can’t breathe—can only feel. The energy between us rushes like a freaking tidal wave; it’s become millions of threads, impossible to contain as it overwhelms every rational thought.
He curls and drives his finger just right, dragging moans out of me with every slow grind, and it’s absolute madness in my head.
My hips buck against his hand with a will of their own. I’m grinding down, chasing the pressure, the friction, desperate for more. The golden threads connecting us pulse brighter with each movement, multiplying until they’re all I can see behind half-closed eyes.
"Do you have control, Grace?"
Fuck. I was supposed to be focusing.
His voice is strained, as if he’s hanging onto his restraint by a thread.
Me, too.
I shake my head—wildly, desperately, honestly. The confession burns my pride, but lying now would be catastrophic.
I’m trying—I swear I’m trying—but every time he curls his fingers—fuck—my brain goes blank.
He growls, the sound rumbling through the room and straight to my clit. His free hand grabs my chin, fingers digging into my jaw as he claims my mouth again—wet, open, demanding. His tongue sweeps inside, commanding rather than asking, and I surrender willingly.
The energy surges between us, doubling in intensity. I feel it everywhere—not just where his finger works inside me, but racing along my skin, crackling through my veins, setting fire to every nerve ending and diving into him at every goddamn opportunity.
His finger curls, pressing hard against a swollen spot deep inside, and I cry out against his mouth. He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me, working me with ruthless precision.
I arch. I can’t not. My back arches hard, and I clutch the sheets as if they’ll anchor me. I can’t even tell what I’m reacting to anymore—the pressure, the tension, the way everything slick and perfect keeps winding me tighter, or the magic racing wild beneath my skin.
I should be doing something—anything—but my brain’s gone completely sideways.
No control.
No thought.
Just sensation, heat, pulse, and more. Too much and not enough all at once. I think I’m panting. Or maybe whimpering. Goddess, he’s going to kill me with this.
The golden threads in my mind’s eye are so bright I can’t look directly at them anymore. They’re searing white at the center, blinding, overwhelming. I try—really try—to grasp them, to contain them, but it’s impossible.
It’s like trying to hold onto an orgasm on the edge of freaking heaven, and I might actually explode if I try. But also I might die if he doesn’t...
No.
It’s too much.
I have to tell him...
Fuck, it feels so good. The way his fingers slam inside, how his thumb rubs at my clit, the way my entire body’s coiled and about to—
"You have to stop," I gasp, tearing my mouth from his. "I can’t—it’s too much—"
He pulls away like he’s been burned, yanking his hand back and rearing up on his knees above me. "Fuck!" The curse rips from him, his chest heaving as he stares at me like a wild man.
It’s awkward.
Of course it’s fucking awkward.
I was a literal half-second from glory and he hasn’t even gotten a hint of release yet, and I slammed the brakes right in the middle of my whimpering puddle of almost-orgasm.
For a moment, he just stares down at me, eyes wild. Then he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and slowly, deliberately licks them clean, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
My core clenches painfully at the sight. It’s a claim, pure and simple. An ownership of my pleasure, my taste, my desire.
Shit.
I want him to do it again.
I’m wrecked beneath him—thoroughly undone, breathless and flushed. My shirt clings where it shouldn’t, and my whole body feels like it’s been rung out and left wanting. I throb in all the wrong places, desperate and unsatisfied.
The broken current between us leaves tingles skimming over my skin. Magic jitters in my veins, sparking and seeking release, trapped just beneath the surface as it makes my fingers twitch and my legs weak..
He probably feels the same. Maybe even worse, judging by how the bulge in his pants strains.
My gaze flicks up to his face, only to find him now staring directly between my thighs. The heat in his eyes could melt steel. Shit. That’s hot, too.
Everything about him has me on fire.
He holds out a hand silently, offering connection again. I hesitate only a second before reaching up. Our fingertips brush—and a spark slams through me, forcing reconnection. My body jerks on the bed, back arching involuntarily, but I force myself to maintain contact.
It’s not a rush anymore, but a steady stream of a few threads. It’s fine. I can do this.
I need to get control of this. Need to understand it. Need to master it.
Slowly, we link our fingers again, palm to palm. The arcane surge builds once more—slower this time, but no less intense. Strong. Erotic. Inexorable.
I try again to control it, focusing on pulling the energy back toward me, trying to yank it into submission. Nothing happens. The flow continues unabated, moving between us, a current I can’t redirect.
Caine’s face is tight with strain, his body trembling. His knuckles are white where he grips the sheets with his free hand. I’m not doing any better—my body’s tight as a bowstring, every muscle clenched in anticipation.
I want more.
Need more.
A kiss can’t be that bad, right? I should be able to handle a kiss without losing control completely.
"Kiss me," I whisper, the words escaping before I can think better of it. Stupid idea. Bad Grace. I can’t even handle holding hands, what makes me think I can handle a kiss?
But I want it.
"No," he growls, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut tight. The tendons in his neck stand out like cords. "If I do—I’ll lose control."
Damn him and his responsibility and smart choices. Must be nice.
Frustration and arousal build in equal measure. I shift on the bed, wiggling just slightly to ease the ache between my legs.
The effect on him is immediate and devastating.
Caine groans, his head tilting back to expose the strong column of his throat, his hands fisting in the sheets beside my hips. "Don’t move like that," he rasps. "Don’t smell like that."
I freeze, but my mind races, desperate for a solution. Pulling didn’t work. Maybe...
This time, I stop trying to pull the energy back. Instead, I imagine squeezing it—like gripping a garden hose to slow the water flow. I focus on compressing the golden threads with my mind or whatever the fuck I’m using, applying pressure rather than direction.
The energy flow slows. Not stops—but definitely slows. My eyes widen. Holy shit. It’s working.
Caine’s reaction is immediate and visceral. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. A low snarl escapes him, primal and uncontrolled.
"Whatever you just did—" he pants, eyes flying open to fix on mine, "—don’t do that."
I stare up at him, chest heaving. "What if I do it again?"
His eyes narrow in warning, but I’m not deterred. I squeeze again, applying more mental pressure to the energy flow.
This time, Caine drops to all fours over me, his face buried against my neck, his body caging mine. The snarl that vibrates against my skin is barely human.
And then he bites me.