His hand moves to my cheek, his knuckles brushing theflushed skin. I lean into the touch without thinking, chasing the warmth, the memory of a man who shouldn’t be here.
His thumb slips down, tracing the line of my throat. I swallow beneath the weight of his touch, but he doesn’t stop. His hand travels down slowly, dragging over the hollow of my collarbone, the ridge of my shoulder, until his fingers catch on the fabric of my shirt. He tugs at it gently, exposing more of me to the moonlight, to him.
“You think pain is the only language we speak,” he says, almost to himself. “But I know the ache you carry. I see how you wear it like a second skin.”
I press my thighs together tighter, my body taut and humming. I don’t want him to stop speaking. I don’t want him to look away.
He circles the cage like a man considering whether to unlock it or simply enjoy the view through the bars. And maybe that’s what I’ve always been to him; a view. A temptation. A storm waiting to be tamed.
The key turns in his fingers, slow and deliberate. He still hasn’t used it.
‘‘You caged yourself long before anyone else ever tried,” he says, voice rich, dark, and low. “Don’t let grief make a pet of you.”
He steps closer. I can feel the heat of his body even from outside the bars. His scent hits me; leather, vodka, smoke, and something warm, something mine.
‘‘You’ll always belong to me,’’ he says. ‘‘But I’m not here to keep you locked away. I’m here to remind you what you are beneath the chains.’’
The lock clicks. The cage door creaks open.
He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t need to.
I crawl forward, on hands and knees, slowly, reverently. Not because he asked. Because I want to. Because I’ve spent so long drowning in silence that even this small surrender feels like breathing again.
He watches me from above, glass still in hand. When I reach him, he crouches and sets it aside. His fingers slide into my hair, anchoring me with a quiet, possessive grip. Not harsh. Not demanding. But grounding. Claiming.
“You’re not made to be caged,” he murmurs, leaning close, his breath hot at my ear. “You’re made to be worshipped in ruin.”
His mouth finds the shell of my ear, then my neck. Soft, slow kisses that burn like brands, each one a claim, a scar only I can feel. I tilt my head, offering him more. My body betrays me, trembling under the gentleness I never asked for, but crave like a dying thing craves air.
He moves behind me, pressing his chest to my back. His palms smooth over my thighs, parting them just slightly, just enough for heat to rush to my center. His fingers find the edge of my panties, tugging them down inch by inch, but never rushing, like he’s peeling away more than just fabric, like he’s unwrapping the part of me I keep locked away from the world.
The shirt hangs open around me. The storm rages outside, the curtains snapping, the wind howling like something wild has been released.
His voice is at my nape, low and dangerous and impossibly soft. “No one else touches what’s mine.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
“I don’t want them to.”
I feel the smile against my skin, wicked and reverent.
Then his hand, broad, rough, slides between my thighs, cupping me. I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder. He’s everywhere, wrapped around me like shadow and silk andiron. I want more. I want everything.
But he doesn’t rush.
He teases.
He worships.
Fingers slip against the slickness between my legs, slow circles that have my hips twitching, my breath catching in my throat.
‘‘Say it,’’ he growls, low and raw. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasp, barely able to form the word.
He presses a kiss to the back of my neck. “Louder.”
“You. I belong to you.”
