Chapter 2 – Rhiannon
Not using each other’s names has created an interesting dynamic, one that makes this whole thing feel like a game.
I’m not sure what to call him, or what to call this, as we stretch out on the blanket that Leo left me, tucked near the edge of the lawn beneath the dark canopy of trees that swallow most of the city light.
“I call this the make-out section,” I tease, nodding toward the clusters of couples scattered nearby. Some are tangled under their blankets, limbs barely hidden. Others just sway together, watching the movie like the world outside doesn’t exist.
“I can see why,” he says.
I smile, leaning up on my elbows to face the screen. The movie’s halfway through now, right at the steamy part, and I can’t help thinking it’s a perfect kind of poetry.
“She’s so fucking pretty,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
It’s been forever since I’ve had the energy to enjoy something this simple. Most nights I’m dead on my feet by this time, work, bills, survival before I crash face first into my bed. I can’t remember the last time I let myself just exist and enjoy my evening.
“Yeah,” the stranger murmurs. “I’m definitely into blondes over brunettes. Especially ones with blue eyes. And my name’s Cain.”
I roll onto my side, biting back a smile when I realize what he’s doing. I catch the hint of a grin curving his mouth. At least he’s playing along, though he just broke our no name rule.
Two lies and one truth. Cain. The name fits him. Dark, dangerous and biblical.
“Yeah, blondes do it better, don’t they?” I say, twisting a strand of my dark brown hair around my finger.
He smirks. “I certainly don’t like hazel-eyed girls with pink, full lips either. I like the color green on you.”
I laugh. “You’re pretty good at this. Have you ever been here before?”
“No. First time.”
That surprises me. He looks like someone who owns this city—like he belongs to every rooftop bar, every corner booth, working the crowd and getting sales or whatever the hell it is that he does in that suit. But we’re still playing two lies and a truth, and I’m pretty sure that was the truth.
“You’re freakishly tall,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says without missing a beat.
“I wasn’t finished,” I shoot back. “That might’ve been a lie.”
He laughs easily. “It wasn’t. I’m tall.”
“Well, I’m not a fan of your arms. Way too veiny. And your glasses? Hate them. Not my thing.”
He leans closer, eyes catching the faint light from the screen.
“Good to know. Can’t stand how your tits look in that dress.
They look like they'd be too large for my hands.” He lifts his palms and holds them out in front of my chest like he’s measuring.
“Yep. Wouldn’t fit at all. But I’d like to try. ”
Two lies and a truth.
I swallow, heat curling low in my stomach at the direction this is headed.
“Your feet don’t even fit on the blanket.
You look like you’re wearing clown shoes.
” Okay, that’s the truth. “They’re way too large.
Would be a total pain in the ass to buy shoes for you.
” Lie one. “Can’t imagine what else is large.
Would hate to find out.” Lie two. “I’ve never made out on the lawn at Bryant Park before. ” The truth.
He grins. “Neither have I. I’d hate to do it. Especially with you.”
My heart stutters as his fingers slide to my hips, slow and deliberate. The movie fades into a distant hum. There are still couples around us, but none of them care about what we're doing, and the dark feels like permission to pretend they can’t see.
Cain reaches for the extra blanket at our feet and drapes it over us. His legs are too long, his dress shoes still stick out, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I shift closer until our pelvises are touching, chests brushing against each other. He's already hard, pressed against my thigh like steel.
“That’s my dick in case you weren’t sure,” he murmurs, tone heavy with desire. “And it’s definitely not hard because I was thinking about touching you from the moment that I saw you at the food truck.”
His fingers trail up my jaw, feather-light, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth before he tilts my face toward him.
“Thinking about how it’d feel to take this mouth.
How it’d feel to have your body pressed against me.
Fuck.” He curses before brushing his thumb across the seam of my lips. “I’d hate to kiss you right now.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, the space between us charged with anticipation.
“I’d hate that too,” I whisper. “Please… don’t.” I lean in closer. “Touch me.”
His face lowers until there’s only a breath between us, and when his lips finally brush mine—soft, testing, like he’s not sure I’ll let him—something inside us snaps.
He groans, the sound low and raw, before pressing harder.
His mouth moves over mine like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding back for hours when it's only been minutes.
My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt against my lips and pull me closer. The heat between us is instant, impossible. I press my chest to his, his solid frame against mine, and every inch of me comes alive.
His tongue sweeps over my lower lip once before sliding deeper, tasting me, claiming. He doesn't kiss cautiously; he kisses the way I imagine he works. With no apology. Ruthlessly.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth when he finally pulls back, breathing hard.
But I don’t want him to stop. I chase his lips, sealing my mouth back over his as his hands slip around my waist. My body moves before I can think, rolling my hips against him, grinding just enough that my clit finds the hard ridge of his cock through his thin dress pants.
Every brush of friction sends sparks through me. My nipples tighten, my pulse stutters, my body is begging for more. He groans again, this time lower, rougher, as if he’s fighting for control.
He presses his forehead to mine, his eyes dropping between us under the blanket. The world outside has disappeared—the crowd, the movie, the city. It’s just us and the slow, steady rhythm of my body rubbing against his, chasing relief.
My fingers trail down his stomach. It's hard and apparent that this guy works out. And then I find him through the silk of his suit pants. I cup him gently, feeling the hard length of him straining beneath the material.
I can’t tell where he starts or ends, only that he’s huge and the thought of what he'd look like out of these only makes me want him more.
“How much do these pants cost?” I ask, my hand still stroking what I can of him over the fabric.
“You don’t want to know.”
“One thousand dollars?” I guess.
He laughs, his voice rough. “They cost much more than that.”
I can’t tell whether it’s a truth or a lie anymore, but the idea of ruining them, of him coming in them because of me, helpless and undone in those perfect, expensive pants, sends a dangerous thrill through me.
Before I can second-guess it, I move. Rolling on top of him, straddling his lap, his surprised laugh vibrating through his chest underneath me as he gazes up at me.
“Fuck,” he exhales, eyes darkening. “I really hate this view.” His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer, guiding me across his cock as I start to move. He tugs the blanket higher, shrouding us both from the outside world. "Dammit. This feels terrible.”
I glance around just to make sure no one’s watching us. Everyone is wrapped up in the movie, meanwhile the only show I want to see is Cain underneath me.
"Shit," he hisses.
I grind against him again, my sweater dress riding up until it’s bunched around my waist. Only the thin barrier of my underwear separates me from the smooth fabric of his silky pants now. It feels too good—the friction, the heat, the slow drag of the material against my skin.
“Shit,” he sighs, biting the corner of his mouth as I roll my hips harder. “You’re gonna make me come.”
“Good,” I whisper.
He lets out a disbelieving laugh, his brows knitting together like he’s torn between stopping and begging for more.
“You want me to come in my suit pants?”
“No,” I lie easily, voice soft, teasing. “That would be terrible. Completely unsatisfying for me.” Another lie. I press down harder, dragging my pussy back and forth against his length. “What I do want is you touching me.”
He leans up on one arm, watching me with a heated gaze that makes me feel completely naked despite still being covered. My rhythm falters when his other hand finally moves sliding from my hip to my thigh, up, up—until his thumb brushes against the damp fabric covering my clit.
“Say please,” he murmurs.
“Please,” I breathe out, already trembling.
He still doesn’t move.
“It’s my birthday,” I whisper, finding his eyes again. A truth. “And the last thing I want is to come on your cock right here.” Lie. “I’m certain I can’t do it. Probably impossible for me to come like this.” Another lie.
His brow lifts, amusement flickering in his expression as he tries to decide which one’s the truth. Then, finally, mercifully, he gives in. His hand moves, his fingers finding the spot he’s been avoiding. He presses firmly then tugs the thin strip of fabric against me until I can’t breathe.
And when I moan, he grins like he’s won something he’s been playing for all night.
“Fuck, touch me harder. Please,” I whisper, my voice cracking, breathless.
I fold in half against him, my chest pressed to his, like maybe if I melt into him, he’ll give me what I want.
My hips roll against him, grinding and searching.
His free hand slides up the back of my neck, threads through my hair, and grips, tight enough to sting, tight enough to hold me there as he pulls my head up just enough to look in my eyes.
“You’re so pretty when you beg.”
He tugs the scrap of my underwear harder, dragging the fabric against my clit in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes my knees shake. My hips move before my brain catches up, grinding into his touch, chasing it.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the words hot against my mouth, “just like that. Take what you want from me.”
The friction burns in the best way. I roll my hips again, a firm, needy drag that has me gasping. His breathing quickens, and I feel the twitch of his cock against me through his expensive, about-to-be-ruined dress pants.
“You wanted me coming in these,” he groans, his lips ghosting mine, “and you’re about to get your wish. Do that again.”
I do. Harder this time. I grind down, dragging my soaked panties against the length of him until I can feel every ridge, every inch straining to get free. I hope my arousal leaves a mark on the silk. I want him to wear this home coated in me.
“F–fuck me,” he groans softly, head tipping back. His jaw flexes, eyes pinched shut like he’s losing the battle to stay in control.
The sound of his voice turns me on even more.
“Again,” he orders harshly, his breathing becoming strained. His fingers dig into my hips, forcing me to move how he wants. “You feel that? God, you’re perfect.”
My body answers for me, pulsing and tightening, and when his name I wasn't supposed to learn slips from my lips— “Cain”—it’s a broken whisper against his strong, stubbled throat when I reach my climax. His answering groan vibrates through me.
He grips me harder, taking over and guiding me faster, our rhythm spiraling into something that’s reckless and messy. The blanket’s sliding off, the cooler night is touching my exposed legs, and I don’t even care.
I’m coming in the middle of Bryant Park, my body shaking, every nerve lighting up at the same time his release warms through the fabric between us, melting against the silk and onto my underwear.
When it’s over, I collapse against his chest, still shaking. He pulls the blanket back over us. His chest rises and falls under my cheek, and his fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin, like he’s memorizing me. Then he chuckles.
“That’s a first for me.”
I lift my head, hair sticking to my face. “What, dry humping in Bryant Park?”
He smirks. “No. Dry humping, period.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Haven’t done that since high school.”
I laugh. “Oh my god, you’re missing out. The tease, the anticipation, and there’s no risk of STDS with dry humping.”
His brows lift, eyes gleaming. “Is that something I should be worried about with you?”
I snort. “No. I haven’t had sex in a very long time.”
He hums, rubbing his jaw. “Define long.”
“Years.”
His brow furrows, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or this is part of our game. I’m not. It has been years. But I let him wonder.
I roll off him, tug my dress down under the blanket, and then glance back. “You want to get out of here?”
He reaches up, tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear, and presses a soft kiss to my shoulder. “And miss the end of Vanessa Mayers’ movie?”
“I thought you didn’t like her.”
“I don’t,” he says, eyes catching mine and becoming more serious. “But you do. And it's your birthday.”
That stops me cold. It’s a reminder that somehow, he already knows too much about me.
My guard slides back in place as I shake my head, pulse still unsteady.
He smiles. “Let’s get out of here, birthday girl.”