Page 33 of If Cain Were Able

“Come with me,” I whisper against his cheek.

“No,” he says weakly.

Instead of answering, I place my hands on his sides and gently push him away from me so I can grab his hand. He doesn’t fight me as I lead him up the stone staircase, nor as I pull him down the hallway. He’s still letting me lead him into my room and then my bathroom.

Afraid he’s going to bolt as soon as I let go, I press him into the wall, trapping him with my knee between his thighs.

“Stay,” I command.

He doesn’t nod or argue. He simply looks at me with fear, desire, and more than a little self-loathing in his brightly colored eyes.

I have a strange urge to stroke his cheek and have a soft moment with him, plead for him to stay with me, even if we do nothing more than sleep. But it’s too late in our lives to change our dynamic, and if he willingly followed me up here, it’s because he has certain expectations, and if I know how to do one thing right, it’s meeting Patrick Miller’s expectations.

“Strip. We’re taking a shower.” He stares at me for a full ten seconds, clearly debating with himself, but as soon as I bring my lips to his and whisper, “Did I stutter?” he jumps into action.

Chapter 20

Patrick

Ihate him.

I love him.

Both statements are true, but nothing is truer than the simple fact that I want him.

At his command and the brush of his lips, I can’t get my clothes off fast enough. I rip my shirt overhead and let it fall to the floor before grabbing the back of his neck, bringing his mouth to mine.

My hands move to his dirty scrub top, and when I pull, shit goes flying everywhere. I recognize a pen but don’t have time to care about the rest of it.

I fucking need him.

I need him the way I’ve always needed him.

The way twenty-five years can’t dull, dim, or touch. The way all the armies in the universe can’t stop, and the way no rational feelings can talk me out of.

“Don’t stop, please,” I beg.

“Don’t worry, Kitten. I know what you need,” he replies.

Fuck yes.

Cain tests the temperature of the water, deeming it to be acceptable, he pulls me into the shower with him. It’s spacious with two showerheads across from each other.

“How many people have you fucked in this shower?” I ask, my fingers kneading his shoulders, hating myself for needing to know.

“None,” he says, slamming my back against the stone wall.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious. You think I want the people I fuck knowing who I really am? Where I really live? How much money I really make? Please,” he scoffs. “I may save people, but I sure as fuck don’t trust them.”

I shake my head. “You always were so cynical.”

“I’m a realist,” Cain argues before wrapping his fist around my cock.

Conversation ceases after that.

With every touch, I feel myself falling faster and harder for the man who has owned me since the day I met him.