Caged in Winter

by Brighton Walsh

  FIFTEEN

  winter

  I can’t quite get used to this . . . whatever this is that Cade and I have. Despite my protests, Cade’s been by work every night I have a shift to pick me up. And I’m still conflicted. I want him there—with his wide smile and his warm arms and his soft lips and his everything—but a part of me is scared to get too invested, too lost in him. Everything I’ve ever known my whole life has warned me against exactly that. But the feeling I get when I’m with him . . . I’ve never been freer. It’s ironic, really, that it’s only present when I’m tied to someone else.

  I assumed the feeling would be immediate when I moved out here, getting away from California and all the ghosts of my past. I thought once I got as far away as I could from the years of my childhood, I would finally, finally be free of everything. The years of heartache and abandonment. The fucking baggage I’ve had my whole life. That they would just . . . float away. Disappear.

  But they didn’t.

  It was the same . . . everything was the same, except I was really, truly on my own. This weight was still on my chest, this ache in my heart that had me wondering if this was it. If this was all there was to life.

  Amazing that I finally get a glimpse of that freedom I’ve been searching for—craving—my whole life when I open up to someone else.

  With graduation looming, classes are demanding more of our time, especially since we’re both seniors. Our final projects are time consuming and can’t be neglected or pushed aside. But even still, Cade’s found a way to pick me up every night after work. I haven’t asked him what has changed to allow him the free time. I’m a little scared to hear the answer. I’m not sure I could handle it if he was pushing his other responsibilities to the back and moving me first and foremost. Or if his schoolwork was suffering for it. For me. After watching him cook, it’s obvious that’s his life’s calling, and he’ll be incredible at it. I don’t want to get in the way of that.

  At the same time, there’s a small part of me that likes it, the dark shadows that thrive on knowing I’m so important to him after such a short period of time. Nearly my entire life, people only had me around so they could use me in some way or another. For sympathy from my biological mother’s friends, for a paycheck from the state for foster families, for a warm body from men who found me attractive and didn’t want to work too hard for anything more than sex . . .

  But Cade . . . Cade wants me for me. For the first time in my life, I feel good enough, as is. No improvements needed—he takes me as I am without an ulterior motive.

  The timer in my kitchen goes off and tugs me out of my thoughts. I pull the tiny pizza from the oven and cut it into fourths before I make my way over to my futon, munching as I go. My laptop is open in front of me, Dreamweaver up on my computer as I work on my final project. I focus on my screen, creating pieces of what I envision for my final site, and startle when I hear a knock at the door. Brow furrowed, I glance at the clock, seeing it’s a little after eight.

  Haley had a spring program of some sort tonight for preschool, so I wasn’t expecting to see Cade at all. I can’t deny the flurry of butterfly wings that erupt in my stomach at the sight of him standing on the other side of my door, arms raised above him, hands resting on the doorjamb. He leans forward, kissing me, before he strolls inside and shuts the door behind him.

  “Smells like shitty pizza in here.”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes. “That’s because I made shitty pizza.”

  “I wish you’d have told me. I would’ve brought over some of what I made tonight.” He walks farther into my apartment, and I take a minute to appreciate the way his dark gray cotton shirt hugs every inch of his upper body, the way his jeans are slung low on his hips, the sight of his muscular legs encased in soft, faded denim.

  I swallow down the bubble of arousal that always seems to be present when he’s around. “Which was?”

  “Lemon shrimp scampi.”

  Looking over at the remaining pieces of pizza on my plate, the pale red sauce barely covered by scraps of cheese, I sigh. “Next time.”

  With a nod, he leans in for another kiss. “Thank God you don’t taste like it. I’d hate to stop doing this.”

  I grab a piece of the pizza and bring it to my lips, smearing the bland tomato sauce around my mouth, raising my eyebrows in challenge as I drop the crust on my plate.

  He narrows his eyes, debating for a moment before he finally relents. Leaning forward, he cups my face in his hands as he traces the outline of my lips with his tongue, then captures first one, then the other between his, sucking lightly. “Mmm . . . pizza sauce tastes good on you.”

  I smile, placing a hand on his chest to create some space between us. He’s so easy to get consumed by. Sometimes I feel like I lose myself when we’re together. “What’re you doing here?”

  He shrugs, walking over to the futon and pulling me along behind him. “The program didn’t go as long as they thought, so I got all the work done I needed to.”

  I raise my eyebrows and regard him skeptically. “I doubt that.”

  “Okay, so I got most of the work done I needed to.” He pulls me down onto his lap, my legs straddling his, knees bent as I hover over him. With widespread hands, he palms my outer thighs, the heat coming from him seeping through the thin cotton of my pajama pants. “I wanted to see you. And with school kicking our asses, I knew we wouldn’t get another real date for a while.”

  “Oh, you think you’re gonna get more real dates out of me, huh?”

  “I’m fairly confident, yes.” He grins, his fingers tightening against my legs.

  “I didn’t think you were coming, otherwise I would’ve . . .” What? Cleaned? Not tossed in a crappy frozen pizza that cost a buck? Worn something other than hot pink plaid pajama pants and a penguin tank top, sans bra? God.

  “I’m glad you didn’t know. I like catching you off guard. Seeing you like this.” He traces a finger along the scoop neck of my tank, his eyes following the movement. His other hand moves up my thigh, over my hip, light fingers pressing into the small of my back until I lean forward to kiss him. He captures my lips with his, his tongue slipping into my mouth the moment I part my lips. Pulling me closer, he cradles my head in one hand as he urges my hips forward with the other. I feel him hard and ready through the thin cotton of my pants and the thinner cotton of my underwear, and I rock against him instinctively, needing to feel the evidence of his want for me.

  “Winter . . .” He breathes against my cheek, his lips blazing a trail to my ear, across my shoulder, and down my chest to the neckline of my tank. With fluttering touches, he traces the edge with his tongue, teasing me. Winding me up until all I can think about is his mouth on me, his hands touching me everywhere.

  Everywhere.

  When his fingers ghost under my tank top, hands sliding up, I don’t stop him. I utter no protests as he slowly pulls it up, up, up until it’s off and tossed somewhere across the room. I do the same to him, wriggling my hands under his shirt until it’s over his head and on the floor at our feet. His eyes are transfixed on every inch of my skin he’s uncovered, and my nipples tighten in response. His eyes caress me as I use that time to take in the bare chest in front of me. While we’ve made out, things going far enough that he’s had my nipples in his mouth, we’ve always kept at least one layer of clothes between us, usually his. I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing anything more of him than his bare forearms and a glimpse of his biceps in a short-sleeved T-shirt.

  The thoughts of what he’s had underneath has been fantasy fodder from the moment we met, wondering how far his tattoos went, if his chest and shoulders and back were covered in them, as well as his arms. I wondered if he had so many, it’d take me hours to map the designs on his skin. And now that he’s before me, nothing separating us but air, I realize I could spend hours memorizing the tattoos, though his body isn’t covered in them. The art on his arms carries up and extends across his sculpted shoulders, tracing just barely up t
he sides of his neck, but his chest is bare. Bare and broad, defined with muscle, his abs rippling under my touch as my fingers ghost along them until I’m skimming the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans.

  With a harsh groan, he pulls me to him, my nipples brushing against his chest, and I shiver. Tilting my head up to him, he fists his hand in my hair as he kisses me, slow and sweet. After a moment, he pulls away, his voice gritty and deep as he says, “I didn’t come here for this.”

  The echo of what he said on our first date settles over me, and just like then, I have no doubts of his sincerity. “I know,” I whisper. And I do. I know he’d never come here for the sole purpose of getting in my pants. Especially after the heavy make-out in his car a couple weeks ago, and the subsequent ones we always seem to find ourselves engaged in. He could’ve had me any of those times—I certainly wouldn’t have stopped him—but he was the one to put the brakes on. Always.

  But now, I think we both realize there’ll be no stopping tonight.

  He captures my lips again, his mouth hungry, his tongue insistent. As soon as his lips start their path toward my breasts, the tip of his tongue tracing a nipple before he engulfs it in his mouth, my hips start rocking against him. I moan and gasp when he hits that spot that makes me see fireworks, and he replies with a groan, my name uttered among the Gods and the fucks and the shit, yes, right theres.

  Somewhere between our breathy moans and oaths to God, there’s an unspoken agreement between us. I don’t know how it happens. If he reached for the waistband of my pants, or if I undid the button of his jeans, or if we did it simultaneously, but somehow we’re naked and he’s on top of me, his forearms braced on either side of my head. We stretch out on my tiny, shitty futon, and I’m too far gone to suggest we pull it out so we have more space. I’m not even sure he’d allow me to move from underneath him long enough to do so.

  He shifts away from me, but never so far that his lips aren’t caressing some part of my body. Innocent parts that still manage to set me on fire—my neck and shoulders. My wrists, the insides of my elbows. And then the not-so-innocent parts that have fireworks bursting behind my eyelids and erupting under every inch of my skin—the undersides of my breasts, the insides of my thighs, the very center of me.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been naked in front of a guy, not even close, but it feels like it. While I’ve been naked before, I’ve never been bare. Not like I am with him. I feel like he can see every bit of me, every ugly, unlovable part of me I’ve tried for years to hide away.

  He sees me.

  And he wants me anyway.

  cade

  I move up until I’m hovering over her, so hungry to feel her around me I can hardly fucking breathe. She is . . . indescribable. Her eyes are glassy, but I can read the uncertainty behind them, the corner of her mouth tucked in as she bites on the inside of her cheek. Wanting to reassure her, I brush the hair back from her face, tracing her flushed cheeks, running my thumb across her bottom lip.

  “God, baby, you’re so beautiful.” It sounds lame and inadequate, and I want to create a new word just for her. She deserves a new word. Hell, she deserves a whole fucking language.

  She lies under me, her breasts the perfect size for the palm of my hand, the dip of her waist the perfect curve for my fingers to grip. I duck my head, taking a nipple into my mouth as I trace up the inside of her thigh with my fingertips. She shivers under my touch, and I want this to last forever, to spend the whole night getting lost in her body and her gasps and the way she looks at me when I’m above her. I can’t wait to see what she looks like when I’m inside her.

  I slide my fingers up until I find her hot and wet, ready for me. She arches into me as I stroke her pussy, slipping a finger inside until she’s panting and writhing, her fingernails digging into my forearms. I watch her face as I continue to pump into her, rubbing circles around her clit with my thumb, and then she tightens around my finger, her entire body going taut as she calls out my name and God’s until she’s a boneless heap under me.

  Her fingers relax, the sting of where her fingernails dug into my skin barely a blip on my radar. I lean down and capture her lips again. I can’t get enough of this girl. “Seriously, so fucking beautiful.”

  “Cade . . .” She reaches down, grips my cock, and it’s all I can do not to blow my fucking load on her stomach right now. I’ve never been this turned on, this ready to go, in my entire life. She does that to me. Makes me lose sight of everything but her—her eyes filled with a light only I can seem to bring out, her lips curving into a smile, her body under my hands—until I’m consumed by her.

  Blindly, I reach down to the floor for my jeans, pull out the foil packet I stuck in my wallet after the incident in the car. Just in case. I tear open the wrapper, unroll the condom down my length, and settle between Winter’s thighs again. I brace myself on my forearms, cradling her head in my hands.

  Before I take it any further, I have to be certain. I couldn’t live with myself if she had regrets. “You’re sure?”

  “I wouldn’t be lying here naked if I wasn’t sure.” She curls toward me, her shoulders off the futon, and grabs my lower lip between her teeth, giving a tug. Her hands on my hips pull me closer until I’m flush against her, pressing into her. I ease inside, rocking forward and back, forward and back, until she accepts me completely into her body, her heat engulfing me.

  “Christ. Winter . . .” My throat feels raw, my voice scratchy and deep, and I swallow harshly as I look down at her. “Okay?”

  She stares at me, her eyes wide as she gives me a short nod, and I know she feels it, too. Whatever this is between us, this want, this need to be around her, to have her in my arms . . . it’s not one-sided.

  With the subtlest pressure of her hand on my ass and a shift of her hips, she tells me without words to move. And I do. Slow and deep at first, reveling in the soft moans that fall from her lips, the sight of her breasts moving under me with every thrust I make into her body.

  Seeing her like this, completely unguarded, utterly open, is my new favorite side of her. She’s always beautiful, especially when she has that fire in her eyes, but seeing her like this, eyes glazed in pure bliss, body boneless and vulnerable beneath me, nearly does me in. That she feels comfortable enough, safe enough, with me to let go like this makes me feel fifty fucking feet tall.

  Our slow, steady pace soon grows into something more, her fingers digging into my ass, her back arched, neck exposed, head pressed into the cushion of the futon as she pants and moans, groans out my name. I kiss and suck at every inch of her I can reach. With frantic movements, I slip a hand between us, stroking her until every sound coming out of her mouth is unintelligible.

  I grit my teeth, trying to stave off my orgasm until she comes again, but it’s too much as she tightens around me. I come in a blinding rush of light, my thumb losing the rhythm against her as my body releases and I call out her name. When I’ve caught my breath, the whooshing in my ears receding, I become aware of her hands gripping my biceps.

  “Don’t stop. God, don’t . . .” Her hips roll restlessly under me, and I touch her again, circling my thumb around her clit until she gasps, body arched, breasts pushed up, and comes around me.

  I kiss her, trying to keep my weight off her so I don’t crush her. After a few minutes, I head to the bathroom, take care of the condom, and make it back out to find her in the middle of the now-extended futon. Her eyes are closed, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting on her stomach. She pulled on a pair of panties, but otherwise is gloriously naked.

  Settling in beside her, I pull her close, running my fingers through her hair and tracing my fingers down the line of her spine. She’s soft and supine in my arms, and I’m stiff and rigid, completely tense as I wait for the moment she slams her walls back up and sends me packing.

  After a few minutes, I can’t stand it anymore and ask, “How long do we have?”

  “Before what?” she mumb
les against my chest.

  I press my lips to her forehead. “Before you freak out.”

  She pulls back, cracks open an eye. “What makes you think I’ll freak out?”

  I just stare at her, eyebrows raised, and she eventually blows out a breath. “Point taken.” She moves to snuggle into my chest again, ignoring my question completely.

  “So?”

  “So I think the next time we do this, it should be at your place. If that’s what you can do on a shitty old futon that isn’t even pulled out, I’d love to see what you can do in a bed.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but she reaches up, pressing her fingers to my lips. “Shh . . . it’s quiet time.”

  A slow smile spreads across my mouth, and I let myself relax, hopeful that I’m knocking down the fortress surrounding her, one wall at a time.

  SIXTEEN

  cade

  “So what you’re saying is you’re pussy-whipped.” Jason takes a pull of his beer, and he’s lucky I don’t smack the bottle out of his hand.

  “What I’m saying is you’re about to get my fist in your face if you don’t knock that shit off.”

  He holds up his hands in a sign of surrender, leaning back in his chair. “All I did was ask how your girl was doing. Jesus, Cade, I didn’t ask how her blow job skills are, for fuck’s sake.”

  I glare at him and the asshole just laughs, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

  “See? That’s what I mean. If you didn’t want me talking about her, why the hell did you drag me to the place she works? It’s like you wanted me to give you shit over it. I mean, Christ, you’re staring at her like a little lost puppy.”