Chapter 11 Divine Intervention #2
“No, say it,” he demands, pulling back just enough to force my eyes to his. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m sure,” I whisper, and then louder, steadier—“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into mine. Papers scatter. A pen rolls to the floor. He kicks the chair out of the way and steps between my legs, grabbing himself through his jeans with a hiss.
His eyes are wild, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts. He fists himself, thumb dragging along the head, already slick and leaking.
“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on mine. “I need to feel you.”
I blink, breath catching.
He leans in, crowding me on the desk, pressing his forehead to mine again like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Please,” he rasps, and the word sounds broken. “Let me feel you, Mags. No barrier. No fucking rubber. I need—” He swallows hard. “I need to be inside you. Just you. Nothing between us.”
“I—” My voice trembles.
“I’m negative,” he says quickly, like he’s afraid I’ll run. “Haven’t been with anyone. Not since I opened that damn door of the bar.”
I suck in a breath. “I’m on the shot,” I whisper. “And negative too.”
He exhales like a man being forgiven.
Then I nod.
Just once.
That’s all he needs.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, dragging his cock through my folds, coating himself in me like he’s painting a masterpiece in ruin and want. “You’re soaked, little rabbit. Already dripping for me.”
He presses in, slow and relentless, his eyes glued to mine as he breaches the tight heat.
“Holy fuck,” he groans. “You feel like heaven. Like salvation. Like hellfire wrapped in silk.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to mine, breathing like he’s been starved for this—for me. One hand grips the edge of the desk like a lifeline, the other cups my face as if I’m some sacred thing that might shatter if he’s not careful.
“My girl,” he whispers, voice guttural. “My little rabbit. You were made for me, weren’t you?”
He pulls back just enough to thrust in again—deeper, harder. I cry out, and he groans like it’s a prayer.
“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Take me. Take every inch. Good fucking girl.”
His hand slides down, gripping the back of my thigh to hike my leg higher around his waist.
“Just like that,” he murmurs. “Wrapped around me like a prayer I don’t deserve to have answered.”
I whimper, fingers clawing at his back.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says through gritted teeth. “Tight. Warm. Holy. You feel like redemption.”
I shake beneath him. “Cain—”
“Look at me.” He stills inside me, just enough to force my eyes open.
“You’re not allowed to look away when I worship you. Got it?”
I nod, trembling.
He thrusts again, hard and slow, like he’s carving my name into his soul.
“Give me another,” he growls. “Come for me again, baby. You’re such a good girl—I know you can do it.”
I cry out as my body tightens, my orgasm building fast, reckless.
“That’s it,” he rasps, watching every twitch of my face like it’s divine scripture. “That’s my little saint. Let go for me. Give it to me. Be mine.”
And I do.
I shatter around him, screaming his name like a hymn, while he presses his forehead to mine and whispers, “That’s my girl. My revelation. My ruin.”
I’m still shaking when his hand fists in my hair, holding me to him like he’s anchoring himself to something real—something holy.
“Fuck, Mags,” he growls, voice tight and ragged. “You feel like salvation. Like sin I’d burn for twice just to taste again.”
He thrusts once, twice, hips stuttering, eyes locked on mine like he needs to see me fall apart again just to survive it.
“You gonna come for me again, baby?” he pants, jaw clenched. “You gonna let me fill you up? Mark you from the inside out?”
I nod, dazed and breathless, lips parted as I whimper, “Yes, Cain. Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He slams into me one final time, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as he comes—hot, deep, endless. His whole body trembles, every muscle tight, every breath stolen from his lungs as he pulses inside me.
“Holy fuck,” he chokes out, voice breaking. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
He buries his face in my neck, moaning like I’m the altar and he just gave confession between my legs.
“You ruin me, little saint,” he whispers against my skin, shaking. “You fucking ruin me, and I’ll thank you for it every damn day.”
His hands cradle my hips as if in worship, holding me there, locked to him even as the tremors roll through both of us.
And then, softer—barely audible—he kisses my collarbone and breathes:
“Blessed be the woman who saved the sinner.”
I’m still shaking when he pulls out, slow and steady, his hands anchoring me like I might slip away. The air feels colder now. My skin prickles with it. With him.
Cain doesn’t say a word.
He just breathes—low, rough, like he’s grounding himself in this moment, in me. And when he lifts me off the desk and carries me to the worn leather couch, I don’t protest. I couldn’t if I tried. My legs aren’t working. My brain’s still catching up.
He settles me onto his lap, pulls the soft plaid blanket off the back of the couch, and wraps it around me like I’m something breakable.
Like I’m something precious.
I curl into him, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the thunder of his heart as it slows.
It takes me a minute. But I say it.
“Thank you.”
He freezes.
Just for a beat.
Then I feel it—the low rumble in his chest, the shift of his muscles like he’s holding something back.
His voice is a rasp against my hair. “Don’t you ever thank me for loving you.”
My eyes sting.
I try to pull back, to look at him, but he’s already doing it—cupping my face in his calloused palm, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing it.
“You let me in,” he says, voice so raw it scrapes through me. “You gave me that. Gave me you. And you think I want a fucking thank you?”
He shakes his head slowly, dark eyes locked on mine. “You’re not something to earn, Mags. You’re a gift. You’re a goddamn miracle, and I should be the one on my knees.”
Then he is. He shifts, kneeling between my legs on the rug, and leans forward to press a kiss to my thigh. Another to the inside of my knee. Like worship. Like reverence wrapped in ruin.
“My good girl,” he murmurs. “My little rabbit. My fucking revelation.”
He looks up at me, and the heat in his eyes is something fierce. Something sacred. My breath catches in my throat. He kisses the inside of my knee again. Stays there, forehead resting against me like he’s praying. And I swear—
I feel holier than I ever have in my life. Even now. Even wrecked and worn.
I stand, legs unsteady, every nerve still buzzing. The couch creaks behind me as I step away, drawn by the quiet pull of the desk like it’s a confessional. Cain follows without a sound.
The air shifts—warmer, heavier—before I even feel him. His presence slides in close, a slow-moving storm.
I button my shirt slowly, fingers trembling, skin flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the air. Cain stands behind me, already zipped and smug, his breath grazing the nape of my neck like he’s not done yet—like he’ll never be done.
When I turn, he’s watching me like he wants to bend me right back over the desk.
“You good?” he asks, voice still low and ruined.
I nod. “Can you not look at me like that?”
“Like what?” His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smirk hiding under the shadows of what we just did.
“Like you’re two seconds from dragging me back down.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “You look like mine. That’s all.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless—I’m flushed down to my collarbones, legs still weak, lips kissed raw. And his shirt? It swallows me. There’s no hiding this.
He reaches for the door, and I hesitate. “They’re all gonna know.”
Cain glances over his shoulder, expression pure sin. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”
He steps closer, palm sliding along my jaw, thumb tilting my face up. “Let ’em look. Let ’em wonder. Let ’em know.” His mouth brushes mine, slow and possessive. “You’re mine, little rabbit. I want the whole fucking world to feel it.”
The door creaks open. The hallway hums with low music and voices. As we step into the bar, everything shifts—like static before a storm.
Hank’s already behind the counter. One look at us, and his brow arches as if he knows exactly what just happened.
Cain slaps a hand on his shoulder as he passes. “I’ll take the back tables.”
I slide behind the bar, cheeks warm but chin lifted. No one says a word. But they all know.
And Cain? Cain just smirks like he planned it that way.