13. Chapter Thirteen #2
When I pull back, our breath is ragged. Shared. Claimed. Synchronized like the prelude to violence. I rest my forehead to hers again, and this time, the words come softer, but not weaker.
“You called a monster.” I breathe. “And I answered.”
Then quieter, like a secret sealed in flesh: “You’re not alone anymore, Camille.”
I let it hang there, bare and brutal, not the kind of thing said in light. The kind of thing whispered in blood. “Every breath you take from this moment forward… is protected.”My fingers tighten just slightly on her chest, reminding her I’m still here, still real.
“Every night that you sleep without screaming?” A pause. “It’s because I silenced the thing that made you scream.”
She closes her eyes. Just for a second. But I don’t miss the shift.
The way her jaw sets a little harder. The way her fingers stop trembling. The way her spine starts remembering it has steel in it.
That’s not hope.
That’s alignment.
Camille
When I wake, everything is dark.
The room smells like him. Woodsmoke, cedar, soap, sex. I’m tucked under a heavy duvet, limbs tangled in something solid and hot and alive.
Kane.
One of his arms is wrapped beneath my neck, the other possessive around my waist. His thigh is hooked over mine, his chest against my back. I’m surrounded by him.
Owned.
I lie there for a long time, just breathing in his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his sleeping body.
And then I move.
Slow. Careful.
I shift until I’m facing him, careful not to wake him. His face is softer in sleep. Less steel. More boy. Less predator.
My fingers trace his collarbone, his shoulder, the line of ink that cuts across his chest. I map him like a territory I’ve only walked at night…slow and reverent. My touch follows the script in Spanish inked along his ribs, down his side, over scars I don’t ask about. Not yet.
I kiss one.
Then another.
A slow press of my lips, like punctuation marks to a story only I’ve been allowed to read.
I keep going.
Slow, soft kisses press gently along his ribs, tracing the script inked permanently into his skin. Each scar, each tattoo, each carefully crafted line tells a story, and my mouth moves like I’m learning the language of him. Slowly. Carefully. Intimately.
His breath stays steady, but deepens, just a little.
He’s waking up. Gradually. Beautifully. Allowing me this quiet moment to explore him without interruption.
My fingertips trace downward, over the taut ridges of his stomach, muscles that flex slightly beneath my gentle touch.
His body is pure power and ruthless strength, every inch sculpted by discipline and violence.
But beneath my lips, right now, he feels like velvet and warmth. Like quiet reverence in the shadows.
I follow the trail of soft hair below his navel, and his hips shift subtly beneath my exploring touch.
My heart beats harder, anticipation and heat unfurling low and liquid between my thighs.
Desire coils tighter, hungrier, as my fingers slip lower still, brushing the sensitive skin just above where he’s already thickening for me.
My mouth follows slowly, breath warm against his flesh.
A low, soft sound escapes him, almost a growl, when my lips press gently against his hipbone.
His fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, knuckles going white with restraint.
He’s awake now, fully, achingly awake, but he lets me set the pace, silently surrendering control to me, just this once.
“Camille,” he murmurs, voice dark and rough, barely audible in the heavy silence of the room.
“Let me,” I whisper softly, my breath grazing his skin. “I want to taste you.”
He doesn’t answer with words, just exhales sharply, and the muscles in his abdomen tighten in anticipation. His hand slides gently into my hair, not pushing or guiding, just anchoring.
My fingertips curl around him, slowly, reverently, learning the heavy weight of his cock, feeling the thick length pulse and swell beneath my touch. A low groan escapes him, soft, strained, and desperately restrained.
I lift my gaze to his face, finding his eyes hooded and blazing in the dim light, watching me intently. His jaw is tight, breath hitching in quiet surrender.
I don’t look away.
Slowly, deliberately, I lower my head, brushing my lips against the sensitive tip of his cock. The taste of him, salty and masculine, floods my senses, sending heat spiraling low in my belly. My tongue flicks out, softly teasing, savoring the way his breath hitches again, ragged and urgent.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice tight, raw. His hips shift instinctively, but still he holds back, waiting for me to choose.
I take him deeper.
Slowly, achingly slow, my mouth slides down over him, tongue tracing the thick, rigid length of him, tasting every inch, claiming every shuddering breath that escapes him.
My pulse pounds, body humming with power, heat, and the intoxicating thrill of finally having control over a man who controls everything else.
I begin to move, gentle, rhythmic strokes, taking him deeper each time, my mouth warm and wet and perfectly fitted around him. His hips begin to rock gently into my mouth, his fingers tightening carefully in my hair, guiding without force.
I feel every tremble, every barely restrained growl vibrating through him, and it ignites something fierce and primal within me.
“Camille,” he groans again, louder, rawer, filled with a deeper vulnerability he never shows.
I look up at him again, his eyes locked on mine, dark, intense, and stripped bare in the most beautiful, dangerous way. I hold his gaze, lips sliding deliberately along his length, drawing a strangled, desperate sound from deep in his chest.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers roughly, thumb stroking my cheek with aching reverence. “Fucking perfection.”
And in this moment, he’s mine.
His words, fucking perfection , settle in my chest like a brand.
I keep my rhythm steady, slow, letting my tongue trace the underside of his cock on every pass, letting him feel the softness, the devotion, the absolute hunger blooming in my mouth. His hand stays in my hair, not controlling, just there, tethering.
He groans again, a raw, broken sound, hips rising involuntarily beneath me, chasing the ruthless, relentless rhythm of my mouth.
“Camille…fuck,” he rasps, voice wrecked, shattered, every careful layer stripped away by my tongue and lips. His grip in my hair tightens without restraint, trying to anchor himself, to hold onto a shred of control, but I don’t let him have it. Not this time.
I move faster, deeper, tears slipping down my cheeks, heat pooling violently between my thighs as I feel him pulse harder against my tongue. His abs ripple beneath my fingertips, body tensing, muscles flexing, teetering right on the edge.
“Camille,” he growls, almost a plea now, the sound so raw, so human, it sends another wave of slick heat flooding through me.
“Knees up here,” he grits out, his voice rough, urgent.
I blink up at him, swallowing slowly as I release him from my mouth with a soft pop. “What?”
“Get up here.” His voice is a command now, deeper, guttural. “Now.”
I crawl up his body slowly, purposefully, straddling his hips, and the second I settle over him, his hands grab my thighs, holding me down. He’s still so hard, still slick and glistening from my mouth, resting heavy between us.
“You did that on purpose,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing my jaw. “You wanted to see me fall apart.”
I smile and lick my lips. “Definitely.”
He growls low in his throat, and it vibrates through me.
“You want control?” he whispers. “You’ve got it. Take what you want from me.”
It undoes something in me. That offer.
That surrender.
I reach between us, line him up, and slide down slow, so slow, I feel every inch stretch me again, thick and deep and perfect. My eyes flutter closed, breath catching in my throat as he fills me completely, my body locking down around him like it remembers.
And his eyes never leave me.
There’s no rush. No roughness. Just the sweet, brutal rhythm of two people who have nothing left to hide. His hands stroke my thighs, over my waist, my ribs, my breasts. He watches every reaction I give him like he’s cataloging it, like he’s learning me better this time.
“You feel like home,” he says, voice raw, almost broken.
I lean in, my hands on his chest, breath shaky.
“You are home,” I whisper.
He holds me there, not just with his body but his eyes, his everything.
And when we move together, slow and aching and full, it feels like the truth we’ve never dared to say out loud is finally breathing between us.
We were never made for soft love.
But this…this is ours.
And I’ll never survive anyone else again.
***
It should’ve scared me, the things we whispered in the dark, the truths we carved into each other’s flesh, the fierce, quiet promises made between ragged breaths.
It should terrify me, how easily the lines blurred between the monster and the man.
How effortlessly Kane Rivera stripped me bare not just physically, but in every other way that mattered.
But it doesn’t.
Right now, in this perfect quiet, there’s no room for fear. Just a slow, steady hum beneath my skin. A calm after a storm, like breathing clean air after choking on smoke.
The morning is lazy, soft, spilling sunlight across the sheets tangled around our legs.
We lie together, still naked, still warm.
My body curled into the hard curve of his, my head resting gently against his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear strong, real, reassuring in a way I never imagined possible.
Eventually, I shift slightly, careful not to disturb him.
His grip tightens around my waist instantly. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, a little amused, and far too tempting.
“You’re clingy when you’re satisfied,” I tease softly, stretching against him like a cat in sunlight. “I like it.”