“Again,” he orders harshly, his breathing becoming strained. His fingers dig into my hips, forcing me to move how he wants. “You feel that? God, you’re perfect.”
My body answers for me, pulsing and tightening, and when his name I wasn't supposed to learn slips from my lips— “Cain”—it’s a broken whisper against his strong, stubbled throat when I reach my climax. His answering groan vibrates through me.
He grips me harder, taking over and guiding me faster, our rhythm spiraling into something that’s reckless and messy. The blanket’s sliding off, the cooler night is touching my exposed legs, and I don’t even care.
I’m coming in the middle of Bryant Park, my body shaking, every nerve lighting up at the same time his release warms through the fabric between us, melting against the silk and onto my underwear.
When it’s over, I collapse against his chest, still shaking. He pulls the blanket back over us. His chest rises and falls under my cheek, and his fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin, like he’s memorizing me. Then he chuckles.
“That’s a first for me.”
I lift my head, hair sticking to my face. “What, dry humping in Bryant Park?”
He smirks. “No. Dry humping, period.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Haven’t done that since high school.”
I laugh. “Oh my god, you’re missing out. The tease, the anticipation, and there’s no risk of STDS with dry humping.”
His brows lift, eyes gleaming. “Is that something I should be worried about with you?”
I snort. “No. I haven’t had sex in a very long time.”
He hums, rubbing his jaw. “Define long.”
“Years.”
His brow furrows, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or this is part of our game. I’m not. It has been years. But I let him wonder.
I roll off him, tug my dress down under the blanket, and then glance back. “You want to get out of here?”
He reaches up, tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear, and presses a soft kiss to my shoulder. “And miss the end of Vanessa Mayers’ movie?”
“I thought you didn’t like her.”
“I don’t,” he says, eyes catching mine and becoming more serious. “But you do. And it's your birthday.”
That stops me cold. It’s a reminder that somehow, he already knows too much about me.
My guard slides back in place as I shake my head, pulse still unsteady.
He smiles. “Let’s get out of here, birthday girl.”
Chapter 3 – Rhiannon
Cain and I make the short, five-block walk from Bryant Park to Leo’s apartment in mostly silence. Not because I don’t have questions—because, trust me, I have plenty—but because I don’t want him knowing a single thing more about me.
Well, that, and I’m starving. So. Freaking. Hungry.
And maybe it’s because he’s already watched me come once tonight, and I’m pretty damn sure we’re barreling straight toward round two, that I finally decide to eat. Both hot dogs I ordered, and every last fry from the basket of loaded, cheesy, bacon-covered heaven that’s now gone cold.
I don’t care. It’s worth it.
The cheese sauce drips down my fingers, sticky and salty, and I lick it off like I haven’t eaten in days. Cain doesn’t say a word, just eats his burger as he walks and watches me withan unreadable expression, hands in his pockets, stride lazy and relaxed.
I let out a satisfied sigh. If this is just a one-night thing, a short, temporary moment with an impossibly attractive stranger that I’ll never see again in this city of millions, then why bother worrying about how I look right now?
