Chapter 114: The Boy Who Prayed at My Altar

Chapter 114: The Boy Who Prayed at My Altar –Deanne– My little sightseeing trip with the kidnappers? A thrill ride in designer heels. They were good—razor-sharp, the kind of predators who could make you disappear without leaving even the warmth of your shadow behind. They didn’t kill me because they thought I was a pawn they could trade for whatever Livana had. But Livana? She’s the kind of woman who could sell ice to the Arctic and make you feel it was your idea. Her lies glide like silk, catching no snags, leaving no wrinkles. Even I don’t know if she told the truth about destroying that device. My instincts say no. Livana never burns her last bridge—she builds secret ones behind the curtain. Her contingencies run from A to Z... then she starts numbering them in Roman numerals. I watched her and her husband slip into their bedroom, their retreat as seamless as a stage curtain falling at the end of an act. The mess from earlier? Vanished. Livana’s people erase chaos faster than a match dying in the wind. "Need a massage or something?" Caine asked, scanning the penthouse with the calm focus of a sniper. He was still checking how they broke in—clean lock hack. At the time, he and I were in my bedroom, tangled in that lazy, half-serious kind of kissing you only do when you’re not sure if you want it to go further. I sighed, tilting my head toward him with mock boredom. "So... Do you want to continue~~our unrequited love-making?" He grinned, eyes glinting. "What do you suggest?" "Aren’t you feeling numb or something?" I asked, my fingers curling around the champagne bottle, condensation slick and cool against my skin. "Nope." He shook his head, leaning back like a man with all the time in the world. "Let’s just watch porno or whatever." He shrugged, as if the fate of the night depended on whether Netflix had a ’Rated X’ section. I narrowed my eyes. "Wow. Be still my beating heart." The door beeped, cutting off whatever sarcasm I had lined up next. Caine’s gun was out before the sound even finished, his body a coiled spring. Then Kai sauntered in, ruining the tension with his usual carelessness. That’s Kai—absent for anything important, but if there’s a strip club within a fifty-mile radius, he’ll find it like a bloodhound on champagne fumes. "Hey, where were you?" Caine asked, lowering the gun but not the glare. "Man! Did you know I had to take orders while you were knocked out from chloroform?" "Ohh." Caine just nodded like that was a weather update. "Now I miss Sophia. They left so fast." "Join us," I said, raising the champagne bottle in invitation. "Grab another bottle while you’re at it." He slumped onto the couch beside me, his cologne mixing with the champagne’s crisp scent. I poured, the golden fizz climbing up the flute like it had somewhere to be. "So, what happened, Deanne?" Kai asked. "Why’d you take out those assassins instead of waiting for backup?" They were high-class killers, no doubt—polished edges and expensive appetites. But they weren’t going to touch me. Not when they wanted Livana’s prize. They were expecting Laura instead, but that girl’s practically a fortress. Two Bishops and three Knights guarding her 24/7. Knights for up-close brutality, Bishops for silent, surgical shots. Me? I’m my own cavalry. But I’ll admit, I was impressed. Damon’s Shadows moved like water flowing uphill—unnatural, seamless, and quiet enough to make you question if you ever saw them at all. ***** Kai and Caine were making their rounds in the penthouse, checking locks and corners, while I slipped into my bedroom and made myself comfortable. The sheets were cool against my skin, smelling faintly of jasmine and champagne—a combination that clung like a memory you can’t quite wash out. I turned on the television, letting the low murmur fill the space, not for company, but to blur the silence while I waited for Caine. He’d show. He always does. Years we’ve known each other—hovering in that strange no-man’s-land between acquaintances and friends. A territory we don’t name but we both know how to navigate. The door opened without haste. He stepped in, wearing that Cheshire grin, the kind that could be trouble or temptation—sometimes both. He closed the door with a soft click, sealing us in. "I already heard Damon whining at Livana," he said, his grin deepening as he moved toward me. He crawled onto the bed, slow and certain, bracing his arms on either side of me. He didn’t lean in. He waited—like he wanted me to make the first move. So I did. My hand slipped to the back of his neck, pulling him down. His lips met mine, and as always, he let me start it. Caine’s never the one to initiate—not with me. He knows too much about the landmines in my head. Knows that with most men, a touch is enough to send me recoiling. Knows how many times I’ve seen those predator eyes sizing me up like prey. Beauty, they call it. But beauty is a blade—pretty until it cuts. Mine’s been a curse since the day I learned what it meant to be looked at like a possession. But with him, the sharp edges dull. Our mouths collide. His tongue finds mine, and the spark of contact is so much more than I ever expect it to be—deep, searching, like he’s trying to taste a secret. My nerves light up, one after another, until it’s hard to tell where my body ends and his begins. "Deanne..." he breathed, lips brushing mine. "You can push me off... but I really want to do something crazy." I tilted my head, almost smiling. "Hmm?" He took my hand in his, pressing his lips to my knuckles. There was a reverence in the way he did it, but also a promise—one that hummed low and dangerous in my chest. "I’m going to worship you." His voice was velvet draped over steel. The word made me picture him kneeling in front of me like some penitent saint. But the way his gaze dragged down my body told me his worship wasn’t going to be from a prayer book. He eased me back onto the bed, not trapping me—just guiding me, giving me every chance to pull away. His palm skimmed over my side, tracing the shape of me like he was learning it by heart. "I want to touch you more," he murmured, and even then, he waited. "I need your permission." "Yeah," I said softly, though my tone curled into a tease. "I’m curious how you’re planning to worship me while still nursing a chloroform hangover." That smirk—dangerous, unhurried—spread across his lips. "My tongue works just fine." The implication hit, and my breath caught. My mind supplied images I’d never thought I’d let myself imagine. His head between my thighs, his mouth... his voice calling it worship. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, close enough for his breath to brush my skin, letting the anticipation settle thick in the air until every second felt like it was winding me tighter. He didn’t break eye contact as his hands slipped lower, hooking into the waistband of my last layer. I felt my breath hitch, every nerve screaming awareness at the exposure. I was painfully conscious of it—of him seeing me there—but then his mouth was on my skin, scattering kisses down my hips, my thighs, each one making the air in the room feel hotter, heavier. He pulled the fabric over his shoulders like it was some kind of prize, tossing it aside before lowering himself between my legs. The first brush of his tongue made my spine arch. Hot, wet, deliberate—like he’d been starving for this. His moan vibrated against me, sending shockwaves that made my breath catch. I inhaled sharply, but the air felt thin, my chest tight with something between pleasure and disbelief. Then his hands cupped my bottom, kneading, pulling me closer as his mouth worked deeper. The sound of him—low, hungry—was almost filthier than what he was doing. I tried to push his head back when the pressure inside me started building into something unbearable. Was this that nearfeeling I’d heard women talk about? Or was I about to embarrass myself and pee on him? I didn’t know. But he didn’t stop. Then his hand slid lower, a single finger pressing into my tight, untouched entrance. My body tensed instinctively, but his touch was careful—slow, exploratory. He curled his finger and found a spot that sent my head tilting back against the pillows, my mouth falling open without sound. "Caine—" I gasped, my voice barely there. That heat inside me swelled, until I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. My body shook, my legs trying to clamp together, but he held them open with unyielding strength. The dam broke, and I... let go. Whatever that release was—it was raw, overwhelming, and messy. The sheets were damp under me, my breathing erratic. My muscles felt loose, my thoughts blurred. When I finally focused, he was looking at me with a boyish grin, his lips glistening like he’d just won the world’s most illicit trophy. He licked his lips slowly, almost savoring the taste, then leaned over me. "Deanne, you are driving me crazy." My voice came out sharp, still shaky. "What the hell was that?" He chuckled, low and wicked. "That’s an orgasm. A big one." He kissed me before I could answer, his mouth tasting faintly of me, his hands framing my face like I was something precious. "Now," he whispered against my lips, "I want to worship you until you pass out." This man... was he a sex god or just dangerously good at making me believe he was?