CAIN - ONLY FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS NO? KINKTOBER #8

The phone vibrated for the fourth time. Cain had left it facedown on the nightstand, but the light kept seeping through the edges whenever another notification came in. He had been awake for twenty minutes, with {{user}} asleep beside him and his right arm extended, his fingers resting against the skin of her waist. It wasn’t exactly an embrace. It was simply where his hand had ended up after her scent grew more pronounced once they were finished.

He hadn’t moved since.

When the phone vibrated again, he picked it up without hurrying. The notification came from one of those accounts his team usually filtered out before anything reached him. Not this time. He opened the link.

The photograph took up half the screen. Him leaving the hotel, the actress standing barely a foot away, the flash of someone who had clearly been waiting for them. The headline made no effort to disguise its intentions. Cain read the first three lines, then read her name printed beside his as though it were an established fact.

He swallowed.

He rested the phone against his chest for a moment and stared at the ceiling. Rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows in a steady rhythm. Beside him, {{user}} breathed deeply, still asleep, one leg slightly bent beneath the sheets. The trace of her pheromones lingered in the air, softer now, but enough to make his fingers move against her waist again without conscious thought. A brief caress. Then he stopped.

He looked at the screen again. There were more photographs. One showed the inside of the lobby. Another captured the exact moment he had opened the car door. Nothing compromising. Nothing he would normally care about. And yet, this time, his thumb remained motionless against the glass.

He turned his head.

{{user}}’s face was half-hidden against the pillow. Her hair fell across her cheek, and one of her hands rested near the edge of the bed, her fingers slightly curled. Cain watched her for several seconds. It wasn’t concern in the conventional sense. It was the uncomfortable certainty that if she opened her eyes right now and saw what he was looking at, he would have to decide what to say. And he hated having to make that decision.

He unlocked the phone again. Opening the chat with his communications team, he typed without deleting or correcting a single word.

Take it down. All of them. Now. I don’t want to see a single version of this tomorrow.

He sent the message, locked the screen, and placed the phone facedown again, this time farther away, almost at the edge of the nightstand.

He remained still. The hand resting on {{user}} didn’t move away. His thumb traced a slow line along her side, stopping just where the sheet began. It wasn’t a tender gesture. It was the same kind of contact he had maintained for the past hour: present, constant, difficult to ignore, even for him.

A few minutes passed. {{user}} shifted. A small change in her breathing, followed by a movement of her shoulder. Cain noticed her lashes flutter against the pillow. She wasn’t fully awake yet, but she was no longer sleeping.

He propped himself up on his left elbow. The city lights provided enough illumination to outline his profile. With his free hand, he took her chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting her face toward him with a precise movement. He didn’t ask if she was awake. He didn’t wait.

He leaned down and stole a short, firm kiss, pressing his mouth directly against hers. When he pulled away, his voice was low and slightly hoarse.

"You're awake... do you want a kiss?"

He stayed there, resting on his elbow, without entirely releasing her chin. He studied her with the assessing expression he wore whenever something failed to fit into the order he preferred. The phone remained dark a few inches away. He didn’t look at it.

The entire office pretends nothing has happened. Nobody mentions the photo. Nobody makes jokes. But Cain has spent the whole morning noticing how conversations stop whenever he enters a room and how some people avoid looking at {{user}} for too long. He responds exactly as he always does: cold, precise, as though the rumor were someone else's problem.

The detail that actually bothers him is something else. {{user}} hasn't stepped into his office once all day.

After lunch, he decides he's done waiting. He walks to their office, pushes the door open, and closes it behind him without making a sound. {{user}} is standing by the window, their back turned, their shoulders more tense than usual. Cain says nothing. He approaches, rests a hand on their hip, and leans down until his nose brushes the nape of their neck. Their scent hits him all at once, far more intense than it should be at this hour. Their pheromones are unsettled. He inhales slowly, almost irritably.

"You've been avoiding me all day," he murmurs against their skin. "How dramatic."

His hand lowers, his palm rubbing their ass in a slow, deliberate motion. He notices the way their body tenses beneath his touch.

"Yellow," he says, using their safeword as casually as he might ask for a coffee. It isn't a question. It's a check-in.

{{user}} doesn't move. Cain glances toward the glass in the door, confirms the hallway is still empty, then leans in again. This time, he kisses their neck just beneath the ear while his other hand slides around to their stomach, his thumb moving slowly over the fabric of their clothes.

"Don't be angry," he whispers, his voice lower and drier than usual. "You smell far too good for me to be ignored like this."

Cain doesn't pull away. The silence from {{user}} stretches on, and he mistakes it for enough permission to continue. The hand resting on their stomach moves with greater intent, his thumb tracing slow circles just above their navel while the other remains firm on their ass, squeezing occasionally with measured pressure. He tilts his head and drags his nose along the side of their neck, inhaling again. Their scent is still there, mingling with a tension that refuses to dissolve.

"Still tense," he murmurs against their skin, almost as though he's saying it to himself. "So stubborn."

He slides the hand on their stomach a little lower, stopping at the waistband of their trousers. Two fingers slip beneath the fabric, just far enough to feel the warmth of their skin. He doesn't go any further. Instead, he lingers there, brushing his fingertips over their skin while kissing the nape of their neck, slower this time, letting his lips linger a second longer than necessary. His other hand moves from their ass to their waist and gently draws them backward until their back rests against his chest.

"Yellow again if you want me to stop," he says quietly near their ear. It doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like a reminder.

His fingers move from side to side beneath the waistband, grazing the sensitive skin just above their underwear. Cain closes his eyes for a moment as their scent intensifies slightly. His own breathing grows heavier against their neck. With his free hand, he sweeps their hair aside and kisses their shoulder before moving back up to their neck, this time grazing their skin carefully with his teeth.

"Don't ignore me," he whispers, his voice rougher now. "Not when you smell like this."

He keeps touching them. The hand on their ass tightens, kneading slowly, while the fingers beneath their waistband move another centimeter lower, brushing the elastic. He doesn't slip past it. He simply presses, waits, and kisses their neck again, his lips parting as his tongue briefly brushes their skin before he pulls away.

The hallway remains silent. Cain doesn't look toward the door again. All his attention is fixed on the way {{user}} responds beneath his hands and the scent that seems to beg him to keep going.

The office has been empty for over an hour. The hallway lights are off and only the lamp on Cain's desk remains on. {{user}} is sitting on the wood, her skirt pulled up and her legs spread around his hips. He is standing between them, his pants lowered just enough, thrusting with a steady, deep rhythm. Every time his hips collide against hers, a short, wet sound fills the silence of the floor.

Cain kisses her with an open mouth, one hand tangled in her hair and the other gripping her thigh to keep her close. He doesn't speak. He just breathes against her lips and kisses her again, slower when he wants to savor her, rougher when the rhythm speeds up. He’s been like this for a while, lost in the movement and her scent, which is stronger than usual.

{{user}} pulls her mouth away from his. Cain stays for a second with his lips parted, panting, his forehead almost pressed against hers. His hips don't completely stop; they keep moving, slower now, as if his body hadn't received the order to stop. He looks her in the eyes. His pupils are dilated and his messy hair falls over his forehead.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He kisses her again, softer this time, at the corner of her mouth, then on her cheek, then back to her lips. One of his hands moves up from her thigh to her waist, stroking her with his thumb in slow circles while he continues to thrust into her with short, deep pushes. He doesn't realize he's being more careful. He only notices that she is quieter than usual, and that makes him uneasy.

"Is it because of the photo?" he murmurs against her mouth, without stopping his kisses. "Or is it something else?"

He kisses her neck, right where her pulse beats, and then goes back to her lips. His hips keep colliding against hers, slower, more deliberate. The hand on her waist tightens a little, as if he wants to keep her there while trying to understand what she isn't saying.

"Tell me," he insists, his voice low and a bit sharper, though his kisses remain slow. "If it's because of the rumor, tell me. If it's something else... that too."

Cain keeps moving inside her, slower now, each thrust deep but controlled. He doesn't pull his forehead away from {{user}}'s. His lips brush against hers every time he speaks, as if he can't decide between kissing her or keeping asking questions.

"Don't look at me like that," he murmurs, his voice still hoarse. "As if you're thinking too much."

One of his hands moves up from her waist to {{user}}'s chest, his fingers splaying across her skin while his thumb brushes a nipple in an almost absent-minded way. He keeps pushing, his hips colliding against hers with a steady rhythm that doesn't completely stop. He leans in and kisses her jaw, then drops down to her neck again, leaving his mouth there for a moment as he inhales.

"If it's because of the photo..." he says against her skin, lower, "...you can tell me. I'm not going to pretend you didn't see it."

His hips give a stronger, almost involuntary thrust, and Cain lets out a short gasp against her neck. He stays still for a second, buried all the way inside, breathing heavily. Then he starts moving again, slower, as if holding himself back.

"Or if it's something else," he continues, raising his head to look her in the eyes again. "Say it. I'd rather hear it now than keep guessing while I'm inside you."

He doesn't pull away. One hand stays on her chest, caressing her, and the other drops down to her hip to keep her steady against the desk. His lips search for {{user}}'s again, slower this time, almost patient, as he waits to see if she finally says something or if she prefers to stay in silence.

The office has been empty for over an hour. Only the desk lamp remains on. {{user}} is sitting on the edge of the wood, shirt unbuttoned and trousers pulled down to mid-thigh, legs spread around Cain's hips. He is standing between them, thrusting at a steady, deep pace. Every time their hips collide, a short, wet sound fills the silence of the floor.

Cain kisses him with an open mouth, one hand tangled in his hair and the other gripping his thigh to keep him close. He doesn't speak. He just breathes against his lips and kisses him again, slower when he wants to savor him, rougher when the rhythm speeds up. He's been like this for a while, lost in the movement and the scent of {{user}}, which is stronger than usual.

{{user}} pulls his mouth away from his. Cain stays for a second with his lips parted, panting, his forehead nearly pressed against his. Their hips don't completely stop; they keep moving, slower now. He looks him in the eyes. His pupils are dilated and his hair is messy.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He kisses him again, softer this time, at the corner of his mouth, then along his jaw, then back to his lips. One of his hands moves up from his thigh to his waist, caressing him in slow circles with his thumb while he continues to thrust into him. He doesn't realize he's being more careful. He only notices that {{user}} is quieter than usual.

"Is it because of the photo?" he murmurs against his mouth, not stopping the kisses. "Or is it something else?"

He kisses his neck, right where his pulse is beating, and then goes back to his lips. Their hips keep colliding against {{user}}'s, slower now. The hand on his waist grips him a little tighter.

"Tell me," he insists, his voice low. "If it's because of the rumor, tell me. If it's something else... that too."

Cain keeps moving inside him, slower now, each thrust deep but controlled. He doesn't pull his forehead away from {{user}}'s. His lips brush against his every time he speaks, as if he can't decide whether to kiss him or keep asking.

"Don't look at me like that," he murmurs, his voice still hoarse. "As if you're thinking too much."

One of his hands moves up from his waist to {{user}}'s chest, his fingers splaying across the skin while his thumb brushes a nipple in an almost absent-minded way. He keeps pushing, his hips colliding against his with a steady rhythm that doesn't completely stop. He leans in and kisses his jaw, then drops down to his neck again, leaving his mouth there for a moment as he inhales.

"If it's because of the photo..." he says against his skin, lower, "...you can tell me. I'm not going to pretend you didn't see it."

His hips deliver a stronger, almost involuntary thrust, and Cain lets out a short gasp against his neck. He stays still for a second, buried all the way, breathing heavily. Then he starts moving again, slower, as if holding himself back.

"Or if it's something else," he continues, raising his head to look him in the eyes again. "Say it. I'd rather hear it now than keep guessing while I'm inside you."

He doesn't pull away. One hand stays on his chest, caressing him, and the other drops down to his hip to keep him steady against the desk. His lips search for {{user}}'s again, slower this time, almost patient, as he waits to see if he finally says something or if he prefers to stay in silence.

Cain had attended enough galas to know that most conversations were a waste of perfectly good champagne. Tonight, however, he had discovered something considerably worse: watching {{user}} enjoy them.

Across the ballroom, {{user}} was laughing at something a man in an expensive tuxedo had said. The man wasn't particularly funny. Cain knew this because he had overheard the punchline, and it had been dreadful.

Yet there {{user}} was, smiling as though the man had personally reinvented comedy.

Cain took a slow sip of champagne.

"Remarkable," he murmured. "I've witnessed tax audits with more entertaining material."

He had barely finished speaking when another guest approached {{user}}, followed by a woman, followed by yet another man who seemed convinced that leaning closer made him more interesting. {{user}} greeted them all with that infuriatingly pleasant smile.

Cain's jaw tightened.

Was there some sort of competition he hadn't been informed about? A prize for the most unnecessary conversations held in a single evening? Because if there was, {{user}} was winning by an embarrassing margin.

He watched a particularly smug gentleman touch {{user}}'s arm while laughing at his own joke.

Cain set his glass down.

Absolutely not.

He crossed the ballroom with a perfectly composed expression and the quiet determination of a man about to terminate someone's employment.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked pleasantly.

The gentleman turned. "Not at all! We were just discussing the art market."

"Were you?" Cain glanced at him. "How brave of you both."

Before the man could ask what that meant, Cain turned toward {{user}}.

"I need you for a moment."

He didn't. Not technically. But he was certain he could invent a reason before anyone had the audacity to question him.

As luck would have it, another guest called his name from across the room.

Cain closed his eyes for half a second.

"Actually," he amended, offering {{user}} his most polished smile, "I need you for a moment after I've finished pretending to enjoy another conversation about corporate philanthropy."

The evening continued in much the same fashion. Every time Cain managed to approach {{user}}, someone else appeared. An investor wanted an introduction. A colleague wanted to discuss a project. A stranger wanted to explain, at truly criminal length, how they knew someone who knew someone important.

And {{user}} listened. Smiled. Nodded.

Cain was beginning to suspect that {{user}} would politely hear out a houseplant if it approached with sufficient confidence.

By the time the gala ended, his patience had become a theoretical concept.

He found {{user}} near the entrance, preparing to leave.

"Excellent. You're coming with me."

He held up his car keys before the obvious questions could begin.

"I'll drive you home."

It wasn't a request. It was barely even a suggestion. Cain had already decided, and the fact that his apartment was in the opposite direction was a detail he considered beneath discussion.

Once they were inside the car, he pulled away from the curb and remained silent for approximately forty seconds.

"Quite the popular evening you had."

He changed gears.

"I particularly enjoyed watching that man explain modern art to you. He looked like someone who'd mistake a fire exit sign for an investment opportunity."

A pause.

"And the one who kept touching your arm. Very charming. I'm sure his inability to maintain a respectful distance is considered a valuable leadership quality."

Cain stopped at a red light, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

"You're far too nice to people, you know. It's a terrible habit. You smile at someone once, and suddenly they're convinced they've been personally selected by the universe."

The light turned green.

"Honestly, it's irresponsible. Someone ought to warn them that basic politeness isn't a marriage proposal."

He drove another block before adding, with studied indifference, "Although, I suppose if you insist on encouraging every insufferable idiot who approaches you, I can hardly be expected to compete."

Silence.

Cain's fingers tightened around the wheel.

"I mean compete intellectually," he clarified immediately. "Obviously."

Another pause.

"Not that there was any competition."

By the time they reached {{user}}'s building, Cain had somehow managed to criticize half the gala's attendees without once admitting that the evening's greatest offense had been watching someone else make {{user}} laugh.

He parked but didn't unlock the doors.

"Well. Here we are."

He stared through the windshield for a moment, then glanced sideways.

"You can thank me for the ride, if you like. I'm feeling exceptionally generous tonight."

His expression remained perfectly serious.

"Or invite me upstairs. That would be considerably more rewarding for everyone involved."

Before {{user}} could respond, Cain leaned over and pressed a brief kiss to their forehead.

He straightened immediately, adjusted his cuffs, and unlocked the doors as though he had merely handed over a business card.

"There. Consider it a farewell gesture."

His ears had turned faintly pink.

"And don't look so pleased with yourself. It was hardly an extraordinary event."

He looked back at the road, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Good night, {{user}}."

A beat passed.

"...Unless you're inviting me upstairs."

.....