Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 129: Lyre: His Dominance

LYRE

My mouth tastes like shit and disappointment.

Not literal shit—though after what just happened, I’d need to think about it. Arcana transfer through sexual contact always leaves a distinct flavor of shame, regret, and something unpleasant. Like... licking a subway pole after a rush hour commute.

Never a fun time.

Who the hell set the metaphysical laws of arcana transfer to porn logic, anyway? Probably Chaos. It’s always Chaos. Some bored cosmic entity sitting on their multidimensional ass, thinking: "You know what would make power exchange more interesting? If they had to suck dick for it."

I resist the urge to spit again as Aaron’s forehead presses against mine, his breath hot on my face. His bare chest radiates heat, and his hands still grip my shoulders from slamming me against the door. The wood presses into my back.

I’m still buzzing from the transfer—power crackling beneath my skin, ready to snap and burn everything it touches. It would be so easy to push him back, to remind him who’s really in control here.

But I’m curious.

"Well?" I ask, keeping my voice cool and casual. "You watched me suck someone else’s dick. Are you gonna do something about it, or what?"

His shoulders shake with laughter, though there’s nothing amused in the sound. It’s rough, gritty, like it’s being dragged out of him against his will.

"So this is your idea of being submissive?" He looks down at me, pupils blown wide, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

I shrug, stretching my neck and arching my back slightly—a deliberate, catlike movement, brushing my breasts against his chest. "It’s harder than it looks, alright? Take it or leave it."

His eyes track the movement, lingering on the exposed line of my throat. Good. Let him think about sinking his teeth there. Let him imagine what I’d do to him if he tried.

"Hurry up and slam me down, big bad alpha." I curve my lips into a taunting smile. "Show me what a real wolf can do."

He groans. "I’m just a beta, remember? Wouldn’t want you too disappointed."

The man’s got jokes. We both know he’s an alpha-strength Lycan, but he’s desperately clinging to his humor to keep himself under control.

Time to make it snap.

"So you disappoint a lot

His scent spikes

the hard length of him through his jeans. His cock jumps beneath my hand, hot even through the denim. Even if his technique sucks—and I’m sure

up at him through my eyelashes,

very well. I’m not great at it. As

say, giving him a light squeeze. "My

his throat, vibrating through

at being submissive," he

his gaze

his eyes—a switch flipping. The playful tension disappears, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His grip on my shoulders tightens for a fraction

body crowding mine, forcing me to retreat step by step toward the bed. For once, I allow myself to be moved. I could stop this—could drop him

But I don’t.

dilate. The flush creeping up his neck. The careful control

voice dropping to something low and dangerous. Normally, alpha posturing doesn’t do much for me. His? Sends

release my wrists only to plant firmly on my

creaking beneath my weight. The landing isn’t hard—he’s measured his strength, thrown me down with enough force to claim space but not enough to

from my chest, breathless and excited despite

we go," I say, propping myself up on

through me. It’s the language of intention—metal against cheap

foot of the bed, fingers hooked in his belt loops, jeans hanging low on his hips. His expression has hardened into something cold and

"Strip."

word. No embellishment. He’s

to the hem of my shirt, pulling it up inch by agonizing inch. His gaze tracks every movement, hungry but controlled. He wants to rush me—I can see it in the flex of his jaw, the tight

Good boy.

to the side. His nostrils flare slightly. The room suddenly

flushed at the tip. He kneels at the end of the bed, wrapping his fingers around his length

My turn.

my underwear. Every movement a silent challenge,

straighten, letting him look his fill. His eyes have turned molten gold, wolf bleeding through as he strokes himself. The room fills with his scent, and I can imagine him