Chapter 22 – Rhiannon #2
His gaze drags over me, slow, consuming, reverent in a way that makes my skin feel too tight to contain everything inside me.
“No bra?” he asks with a brow raised.
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t fit under the costume.”
He lowers his face and drags his tongue over one nipple, circling it then sucking before pulling off.
My fingers fall to his neck as he tilts his face up to me.
“That’s because you have the best tits.”
Then he drags my simple, black thong down and leaves it with the rest of the clothing on the floor until I'm completely naked, stretched out on my bed.
“Perfect.”
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask as he lifts the duster in his hands again. His eyes glint mischievously as he spits on the tip then lowers it, dragging the plastic directly over my clit. “Oh, fuck.” My back arches off the bed involuntarily, thighs snapping closed around the handle.
“Open up for me, Rhiannon,” he says.
My knees fall open cautiously as he smiles down at me and then lowers the handle again. The coolness of the plastic, his saliva, all mix as he presses it harder, dragging it up and down over my clit and across my pussy.
“How does that feel?”
“Amazing,” I say without hesitation. He rubs it there a few more times, building my orgasm higher until he quickly withdraws it and lowers his face, pressing a wet kiss right across my opening before using his tongue to part and taste me.
“You’re soaked.”
I nod. “Yes.”
He pulls back, flips the duster handle around, now using the feather side to tickle across my chest. I press my breasts together, giving him better access as he teases them.
“Yes, Cain. That feels so good.”
“Your nipples are so fucking sexy. They get so hard for me.”
And fuck, I love how much he loves them.
He uses his free hand to part my pussy, and then slides two fingers inside my opening, making the come here sign and rubbing that part I can never reach while he continues to tease my chest with the duster. Then he moves it lower, across my stomach, until it’s dancing across my clit.
My body arches, my legs shake and I’m practically falling off the bed with how good it all feels. The soft, the rough, the firmness.
“Fuck, Cain, I’m so close,” I moan.
“Not yet,” he says. He removes his fingers from me and flips the duster around again, this time sliding the smooth, cool plastic of the handle a little inside my pussy. “Is that okay?”
I nod, watching the way his eyes darken as he looks between my legs.
He pumps it in and out a few times carefully, then slides it in deeper.
My body clenches around the intrusion and I let out another moan.
He lowers his face, flattening his tongue right across my clit with firm pressure and a satisfied hum.
“You have no idea how fucking sexy you are right now. How much I love playing with your body.”
I arch into him as he picks up pace, fucking me with the end of the duster, his fingers and mouth working against my clit in wet, sloppy sucks and kisses until it’s all too much and I’m coming.
“Yes!” I moan out, grateful that neither of my siblings are home to hear me. If they only knew I was in here getting fucked by a feather duster to the point of the most insane orgasm of my life, who knows what they’d think.
Cain continues to kiss and pump the handle inside me a few more times, working me through it until I finally come down. When I still he pulls back, his gaze locked on mine, his eyes completely heated.
“Was that too much for you?”
I shake my head, still a little breathless. “No, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at my cleaning supplies the same way again.”
He smiles and kisses my lips, softer this time. We lay like that for a few seconds, gently making out until I can feel his erection grinding against my hip. I press my palm there and squeeze through his pants, earning a loud groan from him.
“Rhiannon,” he warns.
“Lay back.”
“If you’re too drunk—"
I shake my head, stopping him. “I’m not drunk. Just lay back. Let me take care of you.”
He does as I say—leaning back against the headboard, stretching out like a man who knows exactly what’s coming. There’s a lazy sort of ease in the way he watches me climb onto him until I’m straddling his thighs.
The soft drag of my palms against his chest makes his breath hitch and abs clench, and then I’m moving lower, unzipping the pants I’ve never seen him in before. I tug them down, along with his briefs, until his cock springs free, thick and flushed, stretching up against his stomach.
I wrap my hand around his shaft and start to pump, loving the way he stiffens and grows heavier in my grip.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his hands finding my breasts, kneading and teasing until I bat them away with a smirk.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur, leaning forward just enough for my nipples to fan over his skin. “I love your cock.”
He grins, one arm drapes behind his head like he’s posing for me. “Tell me more about how much you love it.”
I give him a serious look. “It’s the only dick I’ve been with this entire year. Well, longer than a year.”
His grin widens into something feral. “I fucking love hearing that. Tell me more about how I own your pussy.”
And I don’t know why I say it, but I do. Maybe it’s self-sabotage for the good things I don’t think I deserve in life. “You’re possessive over something that’s not yours.”
The humor drains from his face, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to sincerity. “If it’s not clear, I like you, Rhiannon. A lot.”
That has me freezing. “I…”
He exhales, laying back again, his cock still twitching in my hand. “Not the response I was hoping for.”
“I like you too,” I admit.
That makes him smile—bright, boyish, unguarded. Which only makes what I have to say next harder. “But I don’t want to date you. I mean, I don’t think we can do anything more than this.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons.”
“Give me one.”
“We’re not very compatible.”
He scoffs. “We’re too much alike. You said yourself we have similarities.
” He doesn’t elaborate, just watches me with that sharp, lawyerly stare that feels like he’s dissecting every breath I take.
“Look, I get that neither of us have much time, but I can’t get you out of my head and I don’t think it’s chance that we keep running into each other. ”
“We didn’t run into each other tonight; you drove out here.”
He laughs and I squeeze his dick harder in my fist. “Please. Just think about it, okay? Don’t shoot it down right away. Don’t get stuck in your head coming up with all the reasons why it’s a bad idea to see me again and not just for a hook-up. I want to take you on a date sometime.”
I hesitate, searching his face for an out. Then I nod. Because tonight’s not about having the tough conversations with him. “Okay.”
His mouth curves into a smile. “Good. Now get back to sucking.” He presses a warm palm to the back of my head, nudging me downward playfully.
“Hey,” I laugh, but I oblige—licking across the tip of him, slow and taunting. He groans, deep and raw, so I do it again, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock while my hands work the rest of him. He’s too thick to take all of him into my mouth at once.
“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he rasps, as I sink down again, choking lightly around him while dragging my nails along his thighs.
I pull up, swirl my tongue, taste salt and skin and him. He groans. “Again.”
So, I do it again. And again. But even as my body moves on instinct, my mind drifts—to the last time I felt this close and comfortable with someone. The last time I was held. Hartford. Cain. Always, him.
The last time I let myself be vulnerable. When sex wasn’t about distraction, but connection. Also, Cain.
The last time I enjoyed giving as much as I received. Cain.
It’s maddening, how every good and carefree memory from this past year leads back to him. The man I told myself I’d forget after one night together. The man who I didn’t tell any truths so I wouldn’t get attached somehow knows more about me than anyone has since my parents died.
Yet there are still things I’ll never share. Not with him. Not with anyone other than my family. Because some things are too painful to rehash.
“Fuck, Rhiannon,” he groans, tightening beneath my palm. I feel the pulse in his cock, the tension building.
I suck harder, move faster, choking, gasping, spitting, the way I know he likes. He curses, stiffens, and then he’s coming, his body jerking beneath mine.
I take it all, swallowing, holding him until he’s spent and still.
When he pulls me up, he surprises me, cradling me against his chest, his breath hot at my neck. The tenderness catches me off guard. His fingers drag up and down my back, soothing me. It’s one of those soft moments that couples would do and not the behavior of two people purely in this for sex.
“Tell me a truth about you that sounds so crazy people would think it’s a lie.”
I lift up to look at him. He’s smiling at me. The tiredness from earlier in his penthouse long gone. I wonder if this is his way of getting to know me outside of sex.
And maybe I should make up a lie to keep some distance, but a part of me wants to give in.
Wants to say fuck it and just enjoy being taken care of by a man who’s wild about me.
Wants to have these simple, silly moments that couples have after sex when they’re laying together in bed, talking about their days and making up stories.
I’ve never had that with any past boyfriends, but I want it with Cain tonight.
“Growing up, Natasha and I were best friends because we were so close in age. When she was a baby, her parents realized that she was allergic to peanuts. Like deathly allergic.”
“Damn.”
I nod. “She always had to have an EpiPen on her and she had a few close calls the first couple years. Now, she’s just mindful about what she consumes and cooks for herself, though working in a restaurant can be challenging at times.”
“I can imagine.”
“So, since we were best friends, I boycotted peanuts too. So, for twenty-eight years, I’ve never tasted peanuts or peanut butter.”
He leans up. “You’re lying.”
I smile. “I’m serious. I just completely avoided it out of solidarity to her. I was afraid I’d like it too much and cause her to have a reaction.”
“We’re getting you some peanut butter cups right now. I bet we could flag a kid down on the street and steal a few from his bucket.”
I laugh. “No! What if I’m allergic to them?”
He shakes his head. “You’re not.”
“I have a feeling I won’t like it.”
“You’ll love it. Everyone loves peanut butter. Even dogs.”
I laugh. “I guess we’ll never know since I’m not going to taste it.”
“That’s wild. Twenty-eight years and no peanut butter.”
I smile. “What about you?”
He thinks for a moment. “These tattoos I got on my arm were not planned.”
“Really?”
He shows them to me, intricate designs and pattern work that looks like it cost a fortune stretch across his left bicep. They look good on him. It’s something I never thought he’d have but I like that he’s hiding that beneath his expensive suits.
“I got them out of spite for my dad one day which I know sounds immature, but I’ve always wanted a tattoo and my dad hated them. Anyway, I didn’t feel the needles the whole time it was happening.”
“You’re lying.”
He chuckles. “No. The guy who did them is a client of mine, a huge celebrity tattoo artist with a big following online who got sued a few years back. I helped him win his case, and he told me if I ever needed anything, to swing by his shop. So, one day I showed up after work, completely sober and he did the whole sleeve working through the night. No numbing cream and I didn’t feel a thing. ”
“How’s that possible?”
He shrugs. “Not sure. I figured I had some sort of condition that makes me numb to pain.”
I lay my head back down on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. “I don’t think you’re numb to pain. I think you just mask it well.”
He doesn’t say anything, just breathes deeply in and out. “You’re right. There’s one thing I know would hurt me.”
He doesn’t elaborate but we both know. It’s this. Because it could hurt me too.
“Just think about what I said,” he murmurs softly. “I don’t know how much I can offer either. I’m a workaholic. My schedule’s a mess. But the little time that I do have, I want to spend it with you. To give this thing a real shot before you write it off for good.”
I don’t respond. I just lie there, listening to his heartbeat, wondering if I’m capable of giving him what he’s asking for or if we’ll just end up hurt. I’m too guarded. Too tired. Too scared. Too broken.
Because the truth is, letting him in might hurt worse than keeping him at arm’s length ever could.