Chapter 9 Revelation, Rewritten
Chapter nine
Revelation, Rewritten
Iwake up in heaven.
Not the pearly-gates, angel-choir type. No, this heaven smells like warm skin, whiskey-soaked cedar, and something darker—something male. This heaven is wrapped in thick, soft blankets and swallowed in a bed that could fit my whole broken life and still have room for more.
Cain’s bed.
The realization seeps in slowly, like honey drizzling through my chest. I don’t bolt. I don’t panic. I just… breathe.
For once.
The sheets are warm. The pillow under my cheek still carries the weight of his head. I think I slept on his side—his everything’s bigger, even the damn mattress. I’m drowning in softness, and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I have to swim.
His arm is still around me.
Heavy. Anchoring. Possessive in the way a thunderstorm claims the sky.
Cain sleeps on his side, back to the door like a shield. Like if the world comes knocking again, he’ll be the one to answer. I’m tucked into the curve of him, spine to chest, his breath steady against the crown of my head.
Safe.
I barely shift, and his hold tightens instinctively—his forearm curling around my waist like a vow he never said out loud.
I whisper his name. “Cain.”
He grumbles something low and unintelligible against my hair, all gravel and sleep and heat.
Then he pulls me tighter. No hesitation. Just instinct.
His nose brushes the curve of my neck, and he exhales there like it’s his favorite place to breathe. A soft kiss follows—lazy, unhurried. Just the press of warm lips against skin that shouldn’t still be trembling.
But I am, not from fear.
From him.
“Mm,” he murmurs, voice slurred from sleep. “Still here.”
“I didn’t run.”
“Damn right you didn’t.”
Another kiss, lower this time. His stubble drags in the best way. I bite back a sound that definitely isn’t holy.
He shifts behind me, the weight of his thigh draping over mine, like he’s trying to fuse our bones together. Like he wants to soak me in safety until I forget what danger feels like.
His breath skims the back of my neck, warm and unhurried. Morning sun cuts through the blinds in lazy slats, striping the sheets, the wall, the bare skin at my shoulder.
“I should let you sleep,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move. His hand flattens across my stomach, fingers splayed like a brand. “But then you breathe like that and I forget how to be good.”
I twist slightly beneath the press of him, heart thudding in a rhythm I swear he can feel. His nose brushes behind my ear. The tip of it is cold. The rest of him? Furnace-hot. Cage-of-a-man heat.
“Revelation,” he says, low and gravelly, like it’s not a name but a prophecy. “That’s what you are.”
I suck in a breath, but he keeps going, voice dragging through sleep and sin and something almost like poetry.
“Didn’t see you coming. Didn’t ask for you. But now, you’re all I see. Like some holy reckoning wrapped in soft skin and sharp edges. My Revelation. Mine.”
He rolls me gently onto my back, and I go because I’d follow that voice into fire. His hand trails up under my shirt—slow, reverent, like worship.
I arch when his fingers find bare skin. When they trace the swell of my hip, the edge of my ribs. When he finally cups my breast through the thin fabric and sighs like he’s touching salvation.
The kiss that follows is deeper. Still slow. Still desperate. But it carries teeth now. A groan in his throat. My name like a curse.
And when his hand slips lower, when his fingers slide beneath the band of my underwear, I swear the heavens tilt.
He doesn’t rush. Just explores. Learns me. Murmurs praise into my skin like he’s memorizing each broken breath I give him.
“You’re not broken,” he whispers, mouth against my jaw, my neck, my pulse. “You were just waiting for the right hands to put you back together.”
And then he wrecks me.
Quietly. Completely.
His mouth on mine, his fingers inside me, and every shattered piece of me finally slotting into place.
I shatter, then rebuild all at once. The world goes white at the edges, and I'm gasping his name into the hollow of his throat. My fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor me as the pleasure crests and breaks.
When I come back to myself, Cain is watching me with those dark eyes. They're hungrier now, pupils blown wide, a flush high on his cheekbones. He looks like a man who's seen something sacred.
"Good morning," he says, voice rough like he's the one who just fell apart.
I laugh, breathless. "Is it always like this with you?"
"No." His answer is immediate. Certain. "Never like this."
He shifts, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress. I can feel every hard plane of him, the evidence of his want heavy against my thigh. But he doesn't rush, doesn't demand. Just looks at me like I'm something he's afraid might vanish.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, "and I will."
He helps me with his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The sight of him—inked, scarred, bare—robs the air from my lungs.
I trace the lines of him with my eyes first. The scripture inked across his chest. The ghost of a bruise blooming at his ribs. His breath stutters when I touch him, fingers light as prayer.
He bows his head, resting his forehead against mine.
“You undo me,” he whispers, like a confession. “Every time. Just… undo me.”
His mouth finds mine again, slower now, all tongue and heat and quiet reverence. He kisses me like I’m something holy he’s terrified to break. Like he’s never had something soft last in his hands before.
His hand slides back down, slips beneath the waistband of my panties. I gasp—high and breathy—but I don’t pull away. I arch into him.
“Say it,” he murmurs against my jaw, his fingers stroking slow, unhurried circles that have me unraveling beneath him. “Say it’s okay. Say you want this.”
“I want this,” I whisper, voice raw, wrecked. “I want you.”
He groans like it hurts. Like he’s holding back the storm.
When he sinks his fingers inside me, it’s not about power. It’s about something deeper. His eyes don’t leave mine. He watches every flicker, every tremble, like he’s memorizing the blueprint of my pleasure.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful like this,” he growls. “Fucking revelation.”
He murmurs it again and again—Revelation, mine, sweet girl—as he pushes me higher.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs against my lips, his voice a benediction that makes me tremble. "My little rabbit, trembling under my touch."
His fingers continue their slow, deliberate rhythm, curling inside me with each stroke. I arch beneath him, desperate for more, for everything he'll give me.
"Please," I gasp, my voice barely recognizable.
Cain's eyes darken, his smile turning predatory. "Please what, Mags? Tell me what you need."
The nickname sends a fresh wave of heat through me. It’s intimate, like something only he gets to say.
"I need… I need…"
"Shh," he whispers, pressing kisses down my throat, across my collarbone. "I know what my sweet sin needs."
His mouth travels lower, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He pauses at my breast, tongue circling, teeth grazing until I'm writhing beneath him. All the while, his fingers maintain their torturous pace.
"Divine thing," he breathes against my skin. "Fucking miracle."
When he shifts lower still, his shoulders pushing my thighs apart, I know what's coming. My heart thunders in my chest. He settles between my legs, eyes flicking up to meet mine with a question in them, even as his breath ghosts over my center.
"Yes," I whisper before he can ask. "God, yes."
His smile is wicked as he lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue makes me arch off the bed, a gasp tearing from my throat. He holds my hips steady with those big hands, anchoring me as he tastes me with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Christ," he groans against me, the vibration sending shivers up my spine. "Sweeter than sin."
He takes his time, exploring every inch of me like he's mapping territory he plans to claim forever. His tongue traces patterns that make me see stars, circling and flicking before he sucks gently, drawing a broken cry from my lips.
I thread my fingers through his hair, not guiding, just holding on as he devours me. His stubble scrapes the tender skin of my inner thighs, the slight burn only heightening every sensation.
"Cain," I pant, my voice his name like a mantra, a desperate plea. My hips buck against his mouth as tension builds, coiling tighter with each stroke of his tongue.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes molten with desire. "Not yet," he murmurs. "I'm not done worshipping you."
When he dips back down, it's with renewed purpose. His hands slide beneath me, cupping and lifting, changing the angle until I'm seeing stars. My fingers tighten in his hair as pleasure builds again, impossibly higher.
"Cain, I can't—" I gasp, teetering on the edge.
He lifts his head, lips glistening. "You can," he promises. "And you will. For me."
His fingers replace his mouth, working in tandem as he moves up my body. He watches my face with reverent attention as he pushes me closer to the precipice.
"I could spend forever like this," he confesses, voice raw with emotion. "Just making you feel good. Watching you come apart."
When his mouth closes over my breast again, I shatter completely. The pleasure crashes through me in waves, each one more intense than the last, until I'm gasping his name like a prayer, my body arching off the bed.
As I come down, trembling and breathless, Cain kisses his way back up my body, his touch gentle now, reverent. When our eyes meet, I see something raw and vulnerable in his gaze.
"I could stay right here forever," he murmurs, brushing my hair from my face. His erection presses hard against my thigh, but he makes no move to seek his own release.
I reach for him, my hand sliding down his chest toward the waistband of his boxers. "Let me—"
"No." He catches my wrist, bringing my fingers to his lips instead. "Not yet."