Chapter 8 – Cain
If you’d told me that the woman from my one-night stand seven months ago would end up in my hotel bed—middle of the afternoon, sunlight pouring through open blinds, legs spread wide, naked and waiting for me to put on a condom and fuck her again—I’d have said, well fuck, I must be the luckiest bastard alive.
Probably would’ve stopped for a lottery ticket on the way home, too.
Because after that night spent with Rhiannon, nothing, and no one has scratched the itch that she left behind.
I hadn’t even gotten her name that night, though I’d tried. I woke up the next morning sprawled out naked on her friend’s fancy couch, bare ass stuck to the fabric, still half-drunk, with my boxers missing and her long gone.
Her friend hadn’t exactly been chatty either. I’d tried, started to ask about the pretty brunette who I’d fucked into his carpet and given my knees some nasty rug burn to remember the night by, but he’d thrown up a hand before I could get a word out.
“Don’t even ask me about her. I won’t tell you a thing. Get your shit covered and get out of my apartment.”
Fair enough.
I couldn’t remember what Rhiannon had said his name was anyway, but it didn’t matter. One night. That was the deal. A blur of lies and half-truths all bleeding together into the best fuck of my life.
A week later, the rug burns had faded and I knew it was for the best. I don’t have time for dating. You don’t get to have lasting, strong relationships when you work the kind of hours that I do.
I bill my time like it’s oxygen and I'm constantly fighting to prove myself to a father who expects me to someday take over his company. It’s the kind of life that leaves no room for anyone else and no one would understand.
To the outside world, and to beautiful women like Rhiannon, I look like a suit. And the truth is that might be all there is to me anymore when you peel back the expensive fabric and throw away the fancy watches. I don’t have hobbies or friendships. For fun, I like to win cases.
So, yeah. That night had been easy to let go of. Until now.
“What’s taking you so long?” she teases. Her body's soft but her eyes tell a different story.
I glance up from where I’m standing at the edge of the bed, condom still in hand, watching her like she’s a work of art and I’m at the museum or Rhiannon.
We’d barely made it through the door of the Hartford suite that I’m staying in, closer to the client meetings I have this week and easier than commuting back to the city just for the night before she'd started stripping.
No hesitation. Just peeled off those tiny denim shorts that barely covered her ass, that white tank that did nothing to hide the hard peaks of her nipples, and then sprawled out on the bed like she'd slept here before. Like she owned me.
I won’t tell her this, but today she does.
“Give me a fucking second to enjoy the view,” I growl out.
She smirks, propping herself up on her elbows, legs parting even wider—inviting, taunting. The kind of look that makes a man forget where he is. I toss the condom on the bed beside her and drag my boxers down, fisting myself as I kneel between her thighs.
“Touch yourself,” I tell her.
No hesitation. Her white-painted fingers slide between her legs, spreading herself open, glistening in the light. Her breath catches when she circles her clit, the smallest shiver running through her.
“That’s not how you do it when you're alone, is it?” I murmur.
She shakes her head, teasing herself with a slow drag of her nail over the swollen bud before sliding a finger inside her wet pussy.
“Put another one in,” I grit out.
She obeys, and I watch her move, hips rocking, chest rising. I lean down, take one of her nipples into my mouth, flick my tongue against it until she gasps. Her hand tangles in my hair, the other working between her legs, and for a second, I forget we’ve barely said ten real words to each other.
“Have you thought about that night since?” I ask her.
Her fingers find my neck, nails scratching lightly, and fuck me, my cock twitches from just that. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve let anyone touch me.
She pulls me closer, lips brushing my ear, whispering, “Every time I touch myself.”
Fuck.
I catch her wrist, pull her fingers out, then drag her slick digits to my mouth, and suck them clean. Her eyes go dark as I taste her, and I can’t help the groan that leaves my throat.
I’ve missed her taste. I’ve missed her scent. I’m not sure how it’s possible to miss someone you’ve only met once before and still don’t know, but it’s true.
“I’m going to take my time with you today, okay?” I tell her, voice a promise and a threat all at once.
She smiles like she knows I'm about to come already, and whispers, “Two lies. One truth.”
I growl, the sound rumbling from my chest. I hate that game. But as I stare down at her, spread out and smirking, sunlight gleaming off her skin, I know I’ll play it anyway.
“I don’t want to kiss you,” I say. Lie number one.
“I loved watching you touch that idiot at the shoot today.” Lie number two.
Her mouth curves into a smile. “And I’m going to make you come so many times that you’ll fall asleep in my bed here and won’t be able to sneak off again until I get your phone number. ”
Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the hazel color of them until they’re practically black.
"Oh, I can't wait to see that."
I like that she's confident. I like that she isn't shy.
That there's no hesitation when it comes to expressing what she wants.
In a career where I'm constantly surrounded by liars and deceivers, Rhiannon may want me to tell her lies, but there's nothing about the way she expresses her needs, the way she gives into the pleasure.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve got her face in my hands and my mouth on hers. I bite her bottom lip, suck her tongue, take her breath until she’s gasping into mine.
It’s wet and messy and a fucking desperate kiss, something I never let myself feel, but that’s what she does to me. She strips me down to the most primitive version of myself. A version that isn't composed and in control. Not clinical and organized, looking for threats.
I’ve never felt anything close to this, and I don’t know how to deal with it, so I decide to stop trying and just roll with it.
When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. Her lips are swollen, her chest heaving, and between us, I can feel her rolling her hips against my cock. It’s bare, hard and wet for her, the condom discarded next to us.
Her pussy slides against my tip and we both watch when she rolls again, coating me in her slickness, going a little bit deeper.
“You’re close. Aren’t you?” I ask.
She manages a ragged breath. "Yes."
She rolls her hips again, this time the tip of me slipping further into her opening. We both freeze.
“Rhiannon," I groan. "You’re playing with fire.”
She only hums. “I haven’t had sex since that night.”
That makes me still. “What?”
She nods, lashes fluttering as she moves again, slow and teasing. She drops her hips down, leaving my tip empty and it takes everything inside of me not to slide inside her. Not to take her bare the way that my fucked-up mind wants to when I know the risk.
“Haven’t wanted to.”
I stare at her, heat and disbelief tangling inside me.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Sharp cheekbones, slim nose, big, round hazel eyes, dark, thick hair that shines in even the dullest lighting, and curves so full I get hard just looking at her.
Her chest is flushed, those lips swollen from me, and she’s telling me she hasn’t been touched by another man in months?
Not since me.
Something primal takes over at that. The idea that I was the last person to taste her, the last to be inside her—it’s fucking intoxicating.
I like being in control. I like staking my claim.
I love owning and possessing. But Rhiannon's one person I can't control.
She's someone who isn't interested in more.
And perhaps that's what makes me want her so fucking badly. Maybe knowing I was the last to have her, has me thinking insane thoughts like maybe this could be more. Maybe she’ll stay the night and give me her phone number in the morning, and we can do this again.
My fingers slide down, parting her soft pussy, finding her clit and circling until I feel her thighs shake.
She keeps moving, and I know I should stop long enough to grab the condom, to be smart, but shit—she's perfect, and it feels too good. I don’t want to rush this. Don’t want to ruin the slow, simmering ache that’s building between us.
I kiss her lips again, slower this time. Less hunger, more meaning. Like I’m memorizing the taste of her, the sound of her breath softly against my mouth.
Her hands flatten on my chest, fingers tracing every ridge and muscle before dragging down my abs. Her nail scrapes over my stomach, light but sharp enough to make every muscle tense.
“Fuck,” I groan and lift up a little. “Do you want me coming on your stomach or what?”
She laughs softly. “No, but could you put your boxers back on first if you’re going to? I need to add some more to my collection.”
I shake my head, smirking. “You’re a sick fuck.”
She squeezes my cock in her fist, her smile playful. “You love it.”
"What did you do with them anyway?"
She laughs. "I sometimes sleep in them. They're soft."
I groan, imagining her sleeping in my cum soaked boxers for the past seven months.
"I know. I miss them."
She smiles, rolling her hips up against me as I hold my cock outright for her. Giving her something to rub her pussy against.
"What's lucky about them?" she asks.
"Hm?" I hum absentmindedly, pressing my tip to her clit and rubbing it there. It wouldn't take much to slide inside her now. She's wet and warm, and so fucking ready for me.
"You said they were lucky."
"Ah," I rub her harder, loving the way her hips keep tempo with my cock. "That would mean telling you the truth."