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“How can I when I don't know what you're going to say,” he counters, trapping me in the sand like last night, and lifting my hand, he drops a kiss on my fingers.
“Pinky swear.” I hold my little finger up, and he wraps his larger one around it. I search his gaze, and when he doesn’t speak up, I shake our joined hands, forcing a verbal response, my heart pumping erratically in my chest.
“I, Cain Cactus Carson-Ivory, pinky swear not to say it back.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh at his choice of phrasing. My lips go dry, and so I lick them. With my heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I voice the one thing I never found hard to say to anyone else, and I realise that it’s because this time, it really means something—not a sweet endearment or a parting goodbye to a close friend. Not the kind of love I felt for Martin when our friendship grew more intimate and I fancied myself in love. This has ensnared me, and I’m intoxicated by how completely real it is. “I’m in love with you, and I know that might change things. I hope it doesn’t, but I needed to say it so you know where I stand,” I blurt, panic and sincerity crisp in my words.
There is a moment of surprise in Cain’s eyes, but it is quickly softened when he smiles lazily at me. His gaze runs over my face, and his lips quip at the side. A big hand cups my chin and he leans in. “It won’t change things. Being with you makes me happy, and I’ve not had much of that for a long while.”
“Okay. Good.” My breath fans his face, and then he is kissing me. Slow and sweet, and it makes my soul cry. He didn’t say it back, as I asked, but there are times like now, when he is kissing me like he is in physical pain, that I wonder if those feelings aren’t reciprocated. Times like the morning I left his penthouse after he imprinted our time onto his sofa and the way in which he says things that could make the hardest of hearts break.
We don't mention it again, not when we head back on the small boat, and I excuse myself to take a shower, and he works on his laptop, or over dinner, when we chat about a show we have both seen. It seems normal and, like he says, unchanged. I feel lighter for confessing but heavy with the thought of returning to our normal lives. The tension that has quietly radiated off Cain since we arrived is still present, and I know returning to deal with Royce is something he is both eager for and apprehensive about. Kat has been in daily contact, and although she is playing it cool, Perry has mentioned several times that she isn’t dealing with it well.
That’s where Cain is now, out talking to Perry as I sit up in bed reading my book. The door is open, but I can't hear what is being said, only the deep comforting rumble of his voice and how that small action alone makes my heart swell. I try to concentrate on the words, but they don’t register. I just keep reading over the same sentence.
Cain steps through the door and drops his phone on the chair before tugging his shirt off and ridding himself of his shorts. He’s not wearing boxers, and his cock hangs heavy and proud between his thick thighs. I get the silly girlish notion of being smug that he is mine. “What's that smirk for?” He sounds tired, and when I look up, he has circles under his eyes. He’s not sleeping. Not since everything with Royce happened. It’s like he is on tenterhooks waiting for it to all blow up in his face. He tugs the sheet up and gets in, plucking my book from my hand and dropping it on the bedside table.
“Hey! I was reading that.” I pout.
“You’ve not turned the page in ages,” he drawls, hooking his arm to pull me beneath him and pressing my arms above my head. “What’s it about?” he asks, casually tugging at my silk shorts and pushing them down my legs. I kick them the rest of the way off.
“It's a romance,” I answer breathlessly.
“Oh, is it better than this one?” His tone is low and intimate. He’s speaking about us. He moves to hold the top of the camisole in both hands. My eyes plead for him not to do what I think he is about to, but he grins, and with a steady jerk, he rips it right down the middle. I gape. “So, is it better?” he asks, cupping my breast and then leaning to drag his tongue up under the curve and flicking it against my peaking nipple.
“No,” I whimper.
“Because you love me?” he questions quietly. Cobalt blue eyes lift from where his chin is now resting on my sternum, blowing a stream of air along my skin.
“I do.”
Nodding, he drops his face, and I feel his lips widen against my skin. My confession may have been a surprise to him, but it's a small bud waiting to grow between us. I want to stretch my roots and tether them to him. When we walked along the beach tonight, I caught Cain staring at me a few times. Sometimes, he would pull me in and kiss me, and then others, he would simply look away. I know he is digging through his own feelings—trying to reconcile his feelings about us and his relationships with his parents—the pain of losing one and hating another. Loving Cain is easy, but I know for him, whatever this is, this is all he can give right now, and I'm okay with that. When he looks up, he is moving to capture my mouth, and I feed off of the sense of belonging he brings me. It's slow and sensual, and he kisses me as though he has all the time in the world and not enough hours, both at once.
My fingers delve into his hair, and he knots his own in my damp strands. I arch, anticipating his movements to become more dominating, more frenzied, but instead, his hand kneads my bottom and his cock presses at my entrance. “I’ve heard plenty of people say those words to me over the years.” The rough confession wisps across my mouth. I hold his gaze. “Today was the first time I believed them.” He sinks in slowly, the thick, smooth ridge of his erection filling me until his hips are flush against mine. My lips part, my eyes glitter, and he slowly pulls out and swallows, his eyes discerning as they pour heatedly into mine. His body sinks back in. Soft, slow and caring. I choke out a sweet moan.
“I believe them because you're the only woman I want to hear say them.” His hips swivel, drag back and then return to send a wave of heat gliding through me. I hum as his cock hits deeply, and his mouth moves towards mine. “I don’t deserve them, but I promise to keep making you feel like you can say them,” he professes solemnly.
I nod, my lips twisting with emotion as my eyes pool with tears. I blink, and hot salty tracks run into my hair. It's not a confession of love, but his quiet acceptance to respect my feelings and not take advantage somehow means more. He kisses my tears, whispers how beautiful I am, and then spends the night giving me more than enough reasons to keep telling him.
* * *
When we hit the tarmac and wait for the pilot to announce we can disembark, Cain's phone starts pinging with multiple notifications. We kept our phones off, deciding to enjoy the quiet for one last stretch before we went back to pretending we weren’t secretly dating. I switch my own on, and a string of notifications and missed calls pop up. Amberley’s name bounces across my screen, along with my parents. “What’s going on?”
“Fuck!” Cain snaps, scrolling through his phone. He answers his phone the second it begins ringing. “I want names, Justine!” he demands and rubs at his forehead. “I don’t care! How the fuck did this go to print?”
“Cain, what's going on?” He’s furious, and my stomach plummets when my phone pings again. My attention goes to my mobile, and I unlock it.
“NO!” Cain roars, jumping out of his seat and ripping it from my hand. “Don’t look.” Panicked eyes meet mine, and I jump in shock.
“Why?”
“Fuck, because it will break your heart, and I can’t fix it. I’m sorry.” His jaw sits taut, angry. His chest heaves, and I clutch at my throat, anxiety sending white spots behind my vision as my imagination runs wild. Fix what?
I try to snatch my phone back, but he holds it out of reach. “Cain!”
“They know, Lauren. It’s everywhere. There are images of us all over the internet.” His flat tone hits like a train going full speed.
I sag back in my chair. “What? But you said… What images?” My mouth goes dry, bitter with the burn of acid.
