𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍 [ 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐧 ]

Cain definitely wouldn't call himself crazy. Maybe slightly rough around the edges, but not crazy. He was always in control, never was there a moment when Cain was not one step ahead of his opponent. Yet, he found himself feeling slightly unhinged as he lay in his bed. He lay facing the ceiling, one hand on his stomach and one folded under his head. It was already a small bed, made to fit only one person. Put another adult on the same bed and it became slightly difficult to exhale without touching them.

Layla lay curled next to him, facing the wall so her back was to him. Maybe she thought she was minimising the space she was taking up by curling up into the foetal position, but it only pushed her rear end further onto him. Cain wanted to rip out his hair and scream to the high heavens, repent for whatever sins he had committed, for no punishment was as cruel as having her mere centimetres next to him. All he wanted to do was hold her tight so she was unable to leave, keep her pressed up against him so she was aware of him at every waking moment of her life.

She let out a soft sigh as she tightened her grip around her blanket. He was made all the more aware of her femininity by the soft sound. God, she would be his ruination.

Cain didn't think she was asleep, at least not yet. Her breathing was irregular and she was not quite still, her shoulder would twitch every few minutes and her body was too tense to fake the facade of languid sleep.

"Layla?" He whispered. "Are you still up?"

"Obviously." She replied to the wall. "Why, what's wrong?"

What wasn't wrong in this situation? How could he explain the inherent wrongness of the lack of contact between them? The wrongness of the simple action in which she turned her back to him and slept. The wrongness of his body's reactions to her every sound.

"Nothing, I just wanted to see if you were awake." He muttered.

A small pause. And then, "Well, I am. I cant sleep yet."

"Me neither." He admitted. "It's a bit uncomfortable, isn't it?"

He turned his head to her, soft strands of her hair prickling at his cheek like thousands of tiny needles. He gathered it with a hand and placed it onto her shoulder, pausing as she freezed up.

"Why are you touching my hair, Cain?" She huffed, gathering all her hair and placing it over her shoulder. "Did I say you could touch my hair?"

"It was touching my cheek, so I moved it." Cain deadpanned. "May I please have permission to touch her esteemed highness's hair? Or would it be too degrading to have a peasant like me touch you?"

"Touch me?" She turned her head at that, a slight grin blooming across her face.

His cheeks flushed.

"Yeah, real funny." He scowled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

It was in his head now. Damn her, for now the seed of lust had been planted and was blossoming into a beautiful, depraved, tree that flowered thoughts of carnal hunger and passion. And how would it feel, to cup the nape of her neck and pull her into him? To trail a hand down the curve of her back and trace the dimples on her backside, the small dip in her satin skin. Was it possible to memorise the outline of someone, the shape of them? To cup every soft crevice of her body and memorise every single blemish and imperfection. Alas, imperfections didn't exist with Layla. How could an imperfection exist if it existed on her? It wouldn't be an imperfection then. It would just be a part of her.

Cain was quiet, wondering whether it would be morally bad to raise the thermostat to watch her sweat. Maybe he could use other means to get her to sweat.