Chapter 9 Revelation, Rewritten #2
"But you're—"
"This isn't about me." He kisses each of my fingertips, one by one. "This is about you, little rabbit. Only you."
"That doesn't seem fair," I whisper, even as my body still pulses with aftershocks.
Cain's smile is slow, predatory, but gentle around the edges. "Who said anything about fair? I want to make you feel good. I want to make you come apart again and again until you forget every man who came before me."
His words send a fresh wave of heat through me. The intensity in his eyes steals my breath—like he's memorizing every detail of my face, every freckle, every flaw.
"You deserve to be worshipped," he whispers, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "And I may not be worthy, but I'm going to spend every moment trying."
He dips his head again, pressing his lips to my throat. I feel the gentle scrape of teeth, the warmth of his tongue. My body, still sensitive from before, responds instantly.
"I'm not good," he confesses against my skin, the words vibrating through me. "I've done things I can't take back. Things that would make you run if you knew."
His hand trails down my side, following the curve of my waist, my hip. Reverent. Careful. Like I'm made of something precious.
"But with you," he continues, voice rough with emotion, "I want to be better. I want to be the man you deserve."
I cradle his face in my hands, but he captures my wrists and pins them gently above my head. His eyes lock with mine, something primal and possessive flashing behind them.
"Not done with you yet," he murmurs, lowering his head to trace his tongue along my collarbone. "Not even close."
When his mouth travels lower, I arch instinctively. He worships every inch of my skin with lips, teeth, and tongue, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Each touch is deliberate, unhurried, like he's memorizing the map of my body.
"Cain," I gasp as he settles between my thighs again, his shoulders spreading me wide.
He looks up at me from beneath hooded lids. "I could live here," he whispers against my inner thigh. "Right here, making you feel good."
This time when his mouth finds me, there's no hesitation. He devours me like a man starving, his tongue exploring every sensitive spot until I'm trembling, my fingers clutching the sheets. The pleasure builds faster now, my body already primed from before.
"That's it," he murmurs against my skin. The world grows hazy around the edges, time slipping through my fingers like sand. I lose track of everything but sensation—his mouth, his hands, the way he looks up at me with those dark eyes burning.
The sunlight shifts across the room, painting new patterns on the wall. Minutes blend into hours as Cain worships every inch of me. He takes his time, patience infinite, drawing pleasure from my body again and again until I'm limp, breathless, utterly undone.
"Please," I whisper when I can form words again, reaching for him.
He shakes his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his kiss-swollen lips. "Not yet, little rabbit. I'm not finished."
And he isn't. Not by a long shot.
He brings me to the edge and over it more times than I can count, each orgasm washing over me in waves that leave me trembling. My throat grows hoarse from crying his name. My fingers ache from clutching the sheets, his shoulders, his hair—anything to anchor me as he sends me flying.
Between each peak, he holds me, whispers praise against my skin, tells me I'm beautiful.
The world fades to soft-focused edges, time slipping through my fingers like water.
Nothing exists beyond this bed, this moment, this man.
Cain's hands, his mouth, his whispered words against my skin become my entire universe.
The morning stretches endlessly as he loses himself between my thighs, dedicated and relentless in his worship. Each time I think I can't possibly take more pleasure, he proves me wrong, drawing sensations from my body I never knew existed.
"Please," I beg when I can find my voice again, "I need—"
"Shh," he murmurs against my inner thigh. "I know exactly what you need."
And he does. God help me, he does.
Sunlight crawls across the wall, shadows shifting as the hours pass. I surrender completely to him, to this, to us. My body no longer feels like my own—it belongs to the pleasure he creates, to the rhythm he establishes.
When I can no longer tell where I end and he begins, when my throat is raw from crying his name and my body trembles with exhaustion and ecstasy, only then does he finally rest his head against my stomach, pressing a gentle kiss there.
He pulls the blanket over us like a shield, one arm curled beneath my head, the other tracing idle patterns along my spine. My body feels like it’s been rewritten in his script. Every nerve ending humming with a different kind of awareness.
Cain doesn’t speak for a while. Just breathes with me. Anchors me.
But when he finally does, it’s soft. Like a vow.
“You weren’t made for pain,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my temple. “You were made for fire. For fury. For rebirth.”
I don’t have the strength to answer, so I let my hand find his chest, resting over the scripture inked across his heart.
It’s steady beneath my palm. Solid. Real.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m falling.
I feel like I’ve been caught.