Greymoor Academy: I Accidentally Bonded With Four Lycan Royals! novel Chapter 176

Chapter 176: 176. Definitions

Maisie

"Uh..." I hid the clothes behind me. "Nothing."

His eyes narrowed. "You are very obviously stealing my clothes."

"Stealing?" I scoffed dramatically. "What’s yours is mine, remember?"

"How convenient that you remember that now of all times," he said. "Why do you smell like that?"

"Like what—hey!"

The rest of my protest vanished into a yelp. He crossed the room in three strides, and then his hands were on my waist and I was leaving the floor, my feet dangling uselessly as he lifted me to his eye level.

"What are you—"

He was hardly listening. He was sniffing me. His nose pressed into my hairline, dragging down toward my temple. Then my cheek. The hinge of my jaw. The soft skin just beneath my ear. Then he made a sound somewhere deep in his chest, a vibration I felt before I heard the purr, like a cat that had been stroked.

"You were out," he said against my neck.

My grip on his clothes was loosening. "Yes."

"Looking for me?"

His hands began to move. Down my arms. Spanning my waist. Skimming up and down my ribcage. Like he always had to be touching me somehow. The touch sent heat blooming under my skin and left goosebumps in their wake.

"Yes," I sighed. "You left and I was worried that what I said—"

"No," he said softly. "It was a lot to take in, but I shouldn’t have left like that. You were only trying to help. I’m sorry."

When he added, "I’ll have it looked into," I knew he also didn’t believe that the Queen might have done it. He was possibly saying that to pacify me, but his hot breath, his body crowding mine, and his hands... It was distracting.

My head fell back against the closet door on another soft sigh and he took the invitation.

His nose traced the column of my throat, up, down, up again, and each pass pulled another thread of rational thought loose from my head and I forgot about how freezing it was outside and the injured man in the woods.

The clothes fell and pooled on the floor by our feet.

My spine curved. I was arching into him like a drawn bow, and I could feel the shape of his mouth hovering just above my pulse point. His hands found my waist again. Tightened. Released. Tightened. Like he was fighting himself and losing.

"I’ve been trying all evening." His voice had dropped an octave. Rough at the edges. "To get rid of it. I’ve tried everything. Cold baths. The treadmill. Working. Meditation. I ran forty miles. But nothing works, and I just feel..." Another inhale, deeper this time, and his fingers pressed divots into my hip bones. "Hungrier and... needy."

"N-needy?" I echoed.

He took my hand from my side and pushed it under his shirt, flattening it over those rock hard abs that made my mouth go dry instantly. "There." His face flushed a stunning red. "Would you..." Even redder. "... please touch me."

My fingers curled against his skin. He was burning up. "Y-you have a fever," I stammered.

His hands found the hem of my top. "You know, fever is just another name for heat."

The first brush of his knuckles up my bare stomach knocked the air from my lungs. We both glanced down to watch him hike up the small top, until it was inches away from the down curve of my breasts.

"And it surely doesn’t help that I can smell you," he murmured.

My heart was beating in my throat.

His head lifted and I saw the fine tremor in his jaw. The way his pupils had blown so wide that only a thin ring of violet remained around the edges, like eclipses.

He looked wrecked. He looked hungry.

He looked exactly how I’d been feeling all evening.

My nails dug into his skin. "Soren," I breathed. I didn’t know what I was asking for. My voice came out thready and thin.

His hands slid higher. The pads of his fingers skimmed the underside of my breasts, and his nostrils flared when I whimpered, my core clenching. He groaned and his hips rocked forward against my thigh.

The hardness there made my vision swim.

Something nagged at the back of my mind. I was forgetting something—

"Tell me you didn’t come here for this. Tell me you don’t feel it too, and I’ll--I’ll stop. I’ll let you go..." He was trembling with restraint. He looked and sounded miserable.

My hands slid up his chest and he moaned, rocking harder into me. And then, his mouth was on my throat. Claiming me in hot open-mouthed kisses that made my toes curl and sent lightning straight down my spine.

And then I was tugging his shirt over his head and he was crushing me into him, and my fingers twisted into the dark, silky strands of his hair. He groaned against my skin when I pulled, and the sound vibrated between my legs.

I felt every line of his body aligned with every line of mine, and I could feel everything. The planes of his chest. The narrow taper of his waist. The insistent ridge of his cock grinding against my hip without rhythm.

Another moan tore out of me and I rolled my hips to meet his.

He cursed. And then laughed hoarsely. "Fuck," he said. "I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps his head when everyone else is losing theirs. That’s my job. That’s my identity. And here I am, rutting against you like a teenager, and I can’t—I can’t fucking stop—"

His hips kept moving. Rolling. Pressing. The friction was maddening through layers of fabric, and I could feel how wet I was, how ready, how every single nerve ending had migrated to the place where his body met mine.

"Then don’t stop."

"Only tonight?" he asked me, eyes tracking mine, and the question posed felt deeper than it should’ve. What are we doing? Where are we in our relationship? What are we? Always? Definitions.

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