Page 16 of Caged By the Stranger
The fact he knows one more bit of information that I don’t grates on my nerves. If that welcoming gesture and suggestion were meant to put me at ease, they didn’t work. I watch him disappear into his bathroom, leaving me alone in his temporary dwelling.
Exhaling, I pace past the bed, taking in the rest of the room. It’s tidy. Not a sight of luggage or clothing strewn anywhere. He’s either neat and already unpacked or stowed his suitcase in a cabinet when he arrived. The only personal items I find are three books and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. They conflict with the piecemeal image I have of him. A mischievous jokester who fawns over the garnish tray behind a bar and hands out sex-club cards doesn’t seem like someone who spends his evenings quietly reading in bed.
Not that I give a damn what makes him tick. I just can’t believe I let him dare me into following him here because he dropped the word, keymaster. Huffing, I sit down on the end of the bed, lest I look like I’m spying on his personal space when he returns. My ass no sooner touches the mattress than he breezes through the bathroom doorway with a black toiletries bag and washcloth tucked under his arm.
“Got it,” he calls, walking over to an ottoman that’s stowed underneath the desk. Sliding it out, he gives it a push with his foot toward me and straddles it. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here.”
He could lose the chipper air. It’s not like we’re buddies. I can’t believe he’s cool with this. The more I can’t believe it, themore I hate how uptight that must make me seem. Rolling my eyes, I rise and clench my teeth. Reaching for my zipper, I focus on my fingers and not on the fact I’m about to show my caged dick to another man who’s just mere inches away from it. I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable if he doesn’t seem to give a shit. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been semi-naked in front of someone if it wasn’t for sex. Maybe it’s because I can smell his scent, and it’s not a terrible scent. Maybe it’s because I know he’s into guys, too.
None of that matters, though, I decide. I’m uncomfortable because someone slapped a cage on my cock and this feels like a bizarre doctor’s appointment. Still, it will be better than an actual doctor’s appointment. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and shorts, I hold my breath and shove them down over my ass. It lowers them to my upper thigh, just enough that I’ll be able to show him the mess that I’m in. My shirt is still hanging down, covering me up, but I can feel the air on my exposed skin. The lines at the corners of Rory’s dark eyes show he’s poised, patiently awaiting the big reveal.
God help me.
Letting out a breath, I pinch my eyes shut, grab the hem of my shirt, and lift it. My heartbeat flutters erratically. The combination of feeling naked and exposed with my eyes closed is like being back in that room. Except, this time it’s not pleasure that awaits me. It’s judgment. I wait for laughter, a snort, something that will make me further regret following this eccentric man into his cabin.
A low whistle splits the silence.
“That’s a nice model. Top of the line.”
It’s the last thing I expected to hear, forcing a disbelieving puff of laughter from my throat. “Thanks. I get that all the time.”
“I bet you do.”
Before I can process how that oddly sounded like flirting, he rests his bag on his lap and tugs my shorts lower, making them fall from my grasp. Instinct has me wanting to bend to catch them as they slide down my legs, but standing between Rory and the bed makes that difficult.
When they reach my ankles, he steps on them with one of his flip-flops. Reaching down, he wraps a hand around my calf like he wants me to lift my leg and step out of them.
“Uh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I complain, letting my shirt fall and doing my best to stay rooted to the carpeting.
Clicking his tongue, he chides, “I need room to work. Sit down, will you?”
Fucking hell. Why can’t I be as blasé about this as him? It’s not like I agreed to come in here just for a peep show. Gathering my patience, whatever the fuck is left of it, I grudgingly plop my ass down on the bed, holding my shirt down over my junk.
Should I have asked for a towel? Is it rude to sit bare-assed on someone else’s bed?
I feel my leg lifted, only realizing too late that sitting took my weight off my feet. Every fiber in me wants to be a prude and protest that him freeing my foot from my shorts and underwear was not needed, but I’ve already made a big enough crybaby of myself today. I’m aware I can’t sit here with my knees locked together. To look at his face, you’d think this was as mundane a task as filling out a travel reimbursement voucher, telling me I’m the only one freaking out. I need to get a grip.
I try not to go rigid when he leans into my space, wondering what the hell he’s doing. His skin is warm against mine, where his leg hair brushes against my shins. I covertly let out my breath when I see that he’s just setting his bag down on the bed next to me. He sure has no problem with personal space. His hair is nearly brushing my cheek. It’s so thick and healthy looking, not a strand of gray. I’m curious how old he is, but not enough toask. There’s something in the way a man’s muscle tone sits on him, though—the way he ages into his physique, built but tawny—that makes me think he’s a few years older than me. Mentally, I begrudgingly award him more points for aging well.
His cotton shirt feels like a bed sheet rubbing against my bare knee as he unzips and rifles through his bag while I try to focus on a spot on the wall. I feel something fall onto the comforter next to me but refuse to look when looking would put our faces closer together than necessary. Something grazes the side of my ass cheek, sending a shiver up my spine. It was only for a split second, and I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, but I’m fairly certain it was the back of his fingers. I’m trying not to squirm, but everything in me wants to come up with some polite way to decline this ludicrous offer of assisting me. What the fuck can he do that I haven’t already tried?
Sitting back, he pops the lid on a sizable bottle of lube. This cruise is only three nights. Who would need that much lube for a three-night work cruise? Curiosity has me glancing down at his toiletry bag now that he’s not digging in it. My throat goes dry as though I’m viewing Pandora’s box.
A thick black dildo takes up the length of the bag. It’s veiny and ribbed close to the tip. But that’s not even the showstopper. It’s the entirety of the bag’s contents. There are two different sizes of anal plugs and a spiky silicone cock ring. What in the hell was he planning to get up to on this trip? There’s only one overnight stop scheduled, and I’m pretty sure all the other salesmen are straight.
“Whenever you’re ready.” His low voice snaps my attention back to the matter at hand.
I’m clutching the hem of my shirt down over my cock again like a virgin, completely at odds with my bare ass on his bed. I came here of my own accord, and now it’s go time. Right.
At least looking at my contraption will keep his gaze off the shade of red that’s probably coloring my face. Lifting the fabric, I fold it in on itself to stay in place against my stomach as I watch him squeeze a bead of lube onto his index finger.
His bare foot slides along the inside of my ankle, making me tense when his knee follows. It presses against mine, urging it outward. My eyes dart to his with the new knowledge of what a can must feel like when it’s being pried open.
“Easy,” he soothes. “You need to spread your legs more so I can see what I’m doing.”
“I think you’ve seen more than most already,” I huff, shifting on the bed but widening my legs a fraction.
He lets out a breathless laugh, scooching forward. It brings his knee higher up the inside of my thigh. I feel slick skin against skin on the sensitive flesh around my sac where the cable is pressing—his fingertip…covered in lube. The air in my lungs forms a painful bubble. He’s…basting the tender skin there. His touch, gentle…soothing, even.
