Cain #2
I kiss lower, across the flat plane of his stomach, the dip of his navel, the sharp cut of one hipbone.
Every time I uncover more skin I watch his face.
I want him to see that I am here with him, not processing him.
When I finally get his jeans open I do it slowly, pulling them down his legs along with his boxers, letting the cool air hit him and then replacing it with the heat of my hands.
He is already hard, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.
I wrap my hand around him first, stroking once, slow and firm, just to feel the way his thighs tense and his breath catches.
“Look at me,” I say quietly. “Stay here.”
His eyes find mine. They are hazy but focused.
I keep stroking him, thumb dragging over the head, spreading the slick there, and I do not let him look away.
When his hips start to rock up into my hand I lean down and take him into my mouth.
He makes a choked sound and his fingers tighten in my hair.
I work him with tongue and hand, taking him deep, then shallower, learning the rhythm that makes his thighs shake and his free hand scrabble at the sheets.
I do not rush. I want every sensation to land in his body, not float somewhere above it.
When he starts to drift, when his eyes start to lose focus and his breathing turns too shallow, I pull off just enough to speak against the head of his cock.
“Aven. Eyes on me. Breathe. Feel this.” I take him back in, slower this time, and he obeys.
His gaze stays locked on mine even while his body trembles.
I reach for the small jar on the nightstand without breaking the thread between us.
The balm is cool when I coat my fingers.
I settle back between his thighs and press one slick finger against his entrance, holding there, letting him feel the steady pressure and the low, anchoring hum of blood magic beneath it.
He is tight. I wait until he nods, until his knees fall open a little wider, and only then do I slide the first finger inside.
I work him open with the same deliberate patience I have used on everything else tonight—slow, steady, one finger becoming two when his body starts to yield.
He grips me, hot and tight, breath catching on every careful stretch.
I keep my other hand on his cock, stroking him in the same rhythm so the pleasure does not get lost in the preparation.
“You’re beautiful like this,” I tell him, voice low. “Open for me. Choosing this. Letting me feel how much you want it.”
He makes a soft, wrecked sound and pushes down onto my fingers.
I add more balm, scissoring gently, stretching him until he is taking three fingers easily and his cock is leaking steadily over my fist. Only then do I pull my hand free and slick myself.
I line up, the head of my cock pressing against his heat, and I sink into him slowly—inch by careful inch—watching his face the entire time.
He takes me, body clenching and easing by degrees around the stretch, until I am buried deep.
The heat of him is almost overwhelming. I have to close my eyes for one breath, forehead resting against his, before I trust myself to move.
“Here,” I say against his mouth. “Because you asked me to be.”
I begin to move with deep, controlled thrusts that keep us close, my chest brushing his with every roll of my hips.
I keep one hand laced tightly with his, pinning it to the pillow beside his head.
My other hand stays braced beside his ribs so I can watch his face.
When he asks for more, his hips lifting, the broken sound he makes when I angle into him just right, I give him more.
The pace deepens because he asks for it with his body, with his hands, with the way he clamps down around my cock.
I stay present with him, the blood magic staying steady enough to hold the dead at the edges without swallowing the room or making any part of this decision for him.
When his orgasm builds I feel it in the way his body tightens around me in rhythmic pulses, in the way his free hand grips the back of my neck like he needs the anchor. I do not speed up to chase it. I keep moving, letting the pleasure crest between us until there is nowhere else for it to go.
“Aven,” I say, voice rough against his mouth. “Come for me. I’m right here with you.”
He comes with a sharp, broken cry, his body clenching hard around my cock as his release spills hot between us. I follow him seconds later, hips stuttering as I empty inside him, the pleasure sharp enough to drag a low sound from my throat.
Aven lifts his hand to trail lazily through my hair. He's exhausted, eyes half closed, sweat drying at his temple, but the haunted look has loosened around the edges. For the first time since he came to my door, he feels deeply, honestly quiet.
"You're annoyingly good at that," he mutters, voice rough. "Making terrible, life-altering decisions feel physically convincing. It's an unfair tactical advantage."
A laugh leaves me before I can stop it, soft against his hair. I pull the duvet up over both of us and tuck it around his shoulders with a tenderness I no longer feel the need to disguise.
"I'll put it in the incident report," I murmur.
His mouth twitches against my chest. "Good. I want documentation."
"Of course."
He doesn't answer after that. He shifts closer instead, tucking his head into the crook of my arm and slinging one leg over mine.
Within minutes, his breathing deepens, while I stay awake, holding him in the dark.
He chose the bed tonight. Chose my hands.
Chose the quiet while knowing what it cost and what it gave him.