Chapter 15 #2
“I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how fucking powerful you are. Not just in this bed—but especially in it.”
And then… then he worships like only a sinner could—mouth hot with vengeance, hands soaked in reverence, and a promise stitched into every breath: You are power. You are mine. And I will burn the world for you.
Cain spreads my legs like he’s parting scripture. Reverent. Filthy. I’m bare before him—body, soul, every wicked thought I’ve ever buried clawing to the surface under his gaze.
“You want to be strong?” he growls, voice molten as he kisses the inside of my thigh. “Then let me show you what power feels like.”
His hands hold me wide, steady, grounded—and then his mouth finds me.
And Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s not just his tongue. It’s the way he worships—like every moan I make is a prayer, and he’s dying to collect each one on his tongue and offer them to the devil himself.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, voice soaked in devotion and sin. “Such a good girl. Look at you… already shaking for me. My little rabbit.”
He groans like it’s him coming, like tasting me is a goddamn holy experience.
“I’ll kneel for you every night if you let me.” His mouth is relentless. “I’ll pray with my tongue. I’ll make you scream hallelujah.”
My hips roll, chasing every stroke of his tongue, but he pins them down with his inked hands, spreading heat and power through every inch of my skin.
“You hear that?” he says, licking up slowly, lips shiny with me. “That’s you. That’s what divinity sounds like.”
My thighs shake. My hands clutch the sheets. I’m unraveling, and he’s smiling—wicked, beautiful, mine.
“You gonna fall apart for me, little sinner?” he whispers. “Give me one more. Be a good girl and let go. Let your hellhound catch you.”
His tongue flicks. His fingers slide in—slow, deep, perfect. And it’s everything. Too much. Not enough. I’m crying out his name like it’s scripture, trembling on the edge of something unholy and infinite.
“Good fucking girl.”
And when I come? It’s not quiet. It’s not polite.
It’s a goddamn sermon.
My legs still tremble with aftershocks as he rises above me, his eyes burning with dark intent. Before I can catch my breath, he flips us, his strong hands gripping my hips as he positions me above him.
"Ride me," he commands, voice thick with desire. "Take that power back, my little sinner."
I stare down at him, breathless, his cock hard and ready beneath me. The realization hits me like lightning—he wants me to control this. To own it. To reclaim what was taken from me tonight.
"I don't—" I start, uncertainty flickering through me.
"Yes, you do," he growls, his hands steady on my hips but not forcing, never forcing. "You're not small. You're not weak. You're fucking divine, and I want you to feel it."
I lower myself slowly, taking him inch by inch, a gasp escaping my lips as he fills me completely. His eyes never leave mine, intense and reverent.
"That's it," he breathes, his fingers digging into my thighs. "Take what's yours."
I begin to move, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.
I find my rhythm, moving over him with growing confidence.
Each roll of my hips sends electric currents through my body, lighting up places I didn't know could feel this good.
He fills me completely—stretching, burning, blessing me from the inside out.
"Holy fuck," I breathe, my head falling back as I take him deeper.
"Look at you," Cain growls beneath me, his hands gripping my waist but letting me set the pace. "My little saint riding me like sin was made for her."
His words wash over me like holy water, cleansing away every moment of weakness. Every flinch. Every doubt. I am transcendent above him, powerful and divine.
"That's it," he praises as I grind down harder. "Take what's yours, Mags. Show me how strong you are."
I feel like a goddess, worshipped by the most beautiful sinner. His eyes never leave mine—dark, reverent, full of awe as I move over him. The way he looks at me makes me feel worthy of devotion.
"You feel so good inside me," I confess, my voice breaking as he hits that perfect spot. "Like you were made for me alone. Like I was carved from your rib and you from mine."
His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples as I ride him harder, faster. I'm chasing something—not just release, but redemption. Power. Vindication.
"There she is," Cain growls, voice thick with worship and dark promise. "My vengeful angel. My divine destruction."
His eyes blaze like hellfire as they fix on mine, pupils blown wide with desire. I feel him throbbing inside me, stretching me, filling every empty space.
"I would burn down cathedrals for you," he confesses, words spilling from him like unholy communion. "Desecrate every altar. Tear down the gates of heaven if they tried to keep you from me."
I'm lost in the rhythm now, the slick slide of our bodies creating a sacred cadence. His blasphemy becomes my gospel, each word stoking the fire building low in my belly.
"The only god I worship is between your thighs," he rasps, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "The only prayer worth saying is your name.”
I'm drowning in him, in this moment, in the pure blasphemy of his words. Each syllable feels like fire on my skin, burning away everything that came before.
"You're a fucking revelation," Cain growls, his hands gripping my hips harder as I ride him. "Eve's temptation made flesh. The apple that damned mankind was worth it if it tasted half as sweet as you."
His words shouldn't affect me this way—this unholy mixture of religious imagery and carnal desire—but they're intoxicating. I feel powerful above him, watching his control fracture with every roll of my hips.
"I'd crucify myself on your altar," he continues, voice like gravel soaked in honey. "Bleed out slow just to taste the salvation between your thighs."
I can barely think, barely breathe. The friction where our bodies meet is divine torture, and his blasphemous worship wraps around me like smoke.
"Look at me," he commands, and I do, my eyes meeting his. "I want to see your face when you come for me. Want to watch divinity break apart in my hands."
His fingers find where we're joined, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves that's already swollen and slick. His thumb works in tight, relentless circles while I ride him, and it's too much—too perfect.
"Cain—" I gasp, my rhythm faltering as the pressure builds impossibly fast.
"That's it," he growls, his eyes never leaving mine. "Show me. Show me how powerful you are when you fall apart."
The pleasure crests like a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming.
My body seizes, back arching, thighs trembling as I shatter completely.
I cry out his name like salvation, like damnation, like everything holy and unholy wrapped into one devastating sound.
Waves of ecstasy pulse through me, each one more intense than the last, leaving me breathless and trembling.
"Fuck, Mags," Cain groans beneath me, his hands gripping my hips with bruising intensity.
His control snaps as he watches me come undone, and with a few final, desperate thrusts upward, he follows me over the edge.
His body tenses, jaw clenched, veins standing out on his neck as he empties inside of me.
We collapse together, his body still joined with mine, our hearts thundering against each other. His arms wrap around me, holding me tight against his chest as we both struggle to breathe. I can feel him softening inside me, but neither of us moves to separate.
"Don't you ever," he whispers against my hair, voice raw and unguarded, "pack a bag in my house again."
I nod against his chest, the heat of him sinking into my skin, bone-deep and blistering. His heartbeat pounds beneath my ear—loud, erratic, alive. Like mine.
Like us.
We stay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. Holding the pieces together with nothing but sweat and silence and the phantom echo of everything we didn’t say.
Eventually, Cain shifts just enough to reach for the towel draped over the edge of the bed. He moves slow, careful with me like I’m something breakable. Maybe I still am. But in his hands, I don’t feel like glass—I feel like flame.
He cleans me gently, reverently. Mouth brushing my shoulder, my knee, my hipbone. His lips leave little benedictions in their wake. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the weight of his thoughts in every soft stroke, every lingering kiss.
When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside, pulls me back into him like I belong there.
And God help me, I do.
I tuck my face into the hollow of his throat, where he smells like sweat and salt and salvation. His arms tighten. One last breath shudders through both of us.
Sleep settles in slowly, like dusk.
And when it finally claims me, I don’t dream of running.
I dream of him.
Of vengeance wrapped in devotion.
Of the sinner who worships me like I’m holy.
And for the first time in a long time…
I believe it.