Page 92 of Thirst
He rubbed his thumb over the sensitive skin between my thumb and index finger, slow and deliberate. Heat pooled low in my belly. My thighs tightened, and the spoon slid from my nerveless fingers into the bisque.
My heart thudded once, then again—like it was trying to speak for me. Send a message.
I stared at his slowly moving thumb.
This was bad for me—letting him touch me, and worse, enjoying it. I knew that. But I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.
I licked my lips. “You…” I trailed off, then tried again, louder this time. “You know that’s all it was.”
He kissed my hand and fished my spoon from the soup, wiping the handle before handing it back to me. “Eat—you’re still healing.”
I grimaced. There was my answer—a nonanswer. At least he hadn’t lied. I took another bite, the richness too heavy now, but I managed to eat a little more.
Cain waited until I put the spoon down, then took my shoulders and turned me toward him. “It wasn’t just sex for me. You remember me telling you it was real for me? That you were never a job?”
My heart constricted. Of course I remembered. “Please, don’t.”
His jaw flexed, but his gaze didn’t waver. “The time we had together was never enough. I couldn’t get you out of my head—kept thinking up ways to see you again. Please?—”
He exhaled roughly. Then his expression cracked wide open, leaving him unguarded, raw. “Give me another chance, firefly. You never have to tell me a single thing about your father again. I want you, not your intel.”
All the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. I closed my eyes, the burn in my chest begging me to give in, to believe.
But my trust had been all used up.
“I can’t,” I rasped, my voice breaking on the last syllable.
He stroked my upper arms, his thighs bracketing mine. “Look at me and say that.”
I forced my lids open, met his gaze squarely. “I can’t,” I said again, steadier this time. “I won’t.”
His Adam’s apple worked. He looked like he was in as much pain as I was, which couldn’t be true.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said lowly.
That word—enemy—struck like a lash. I flinched, and he instantly released me, his eyes bright with hurt.
I slid off the stool and backed away from him. “I want you to go now.”
His shoulders slumped, just a little. Then he got off the stool. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is. Yes.”
He nodded once, then just stood there, like he was waiting for me to take it back. When I didn’t, his chest heaved in an audible breath.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And Nyx? Whatever you need, ask for it—alright? I’ll make sure you get it.”
“Okay,” I managed, lips numb. I turned away, arms wrapped around my ribs as if pressure alone could keep me from coming apart.
Footsteps sounded, then the door opened. Closed.
Emptiness swallowed the room.
I stood there, hollowed-out and aching, reminding myself he had reasons—good ones—for lying to me. That I had to stand firm. That he absolutely was my enemy.
But he’d seemed different. Like he’d meant every word this time.
And he’d respected my request, left me alone the moment I’d asked, without pushing or trying to change my mind.
