Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

  “Deal,” she breathes out.

  If I don’t get up, I’m going to lean forward and kiss her, which would be a terrible idea, considering people surround us. I want another go at those lips and that mouth, but not here, not now. Standing, I point to the bathrooms. I figure taking a leak is the best way to save myself.

  “I gotta go, too.” She jumps off the stool and brushes past me, her perfect tits sliding along my chest.

  Fuck, I’m so hot for this chick.

  Adjusting myself, I follow her to the back of the bar. It’s dark and quiet, most of the customers in the front room listening to the live music. We go into our respective restroom.

  She’s a reporter.

  She’s off limits.

  These are the rules.

  These rules suck.

  Hannah is standing against a wall when I leave the bathroom. Her smile is slightly crooked, her eyes filled with something that can only be lust. She outwardly scans my body when I walk toward her, as if she’s undressing me, as though she wants me as badly as I want her. She licks her lips and swallows hard, her gaze landing on mine. The air between us sizzles and my heart beats faster. My groin tightens in anticipation.

  Fuck the rules.

  I pull her roughly to me. She gasps, her lips parting, and I take that opportunity to brush my mouth against hers, tasting the fruity flavor of her lip gloss, the hint of tequila lingering on her breath. Warm and soft, I need more. I slide my tongue along the seam of her lips, asking for admittance. She opens her mouth and our tongues touch, sparking an electrifying jolt through my body, spurring me forward. A low whimper vibrates in her throat, and I hold her. Hungrily, greedily, I devour her, kissing her like she’s mine.

  It’s not enough. I want to get closer, need to feel her skin, hear her moan.

  She digs her nails into my arms, and I deepen the kiss, wrapping my arms completely around her. Teeth, lips, tongue—there’s nothing left out and so much more to explore. Her hands slide through my hair, and I back her into a dark room, push her against the wall, my hips fitting into the groove of hers.

  Our lips devour each other’s; our bodies move in sync to the desire that’s ruling us both. She tastes like a goddess and feels like a damn dream. There’s no stopping, no slowing, just two people who’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists. Our low moans are in unison, our hands gripping each other tightly, keeping the other here, not letting go for fear this moment will disintegrate.

  I slide my leg between her thighs, and a strangled cry escapes her.

  Clothes are the only obstacles keeping me from fucking her against this wall.

  My erection throbs. My heart pounds. My skin burns with need.

  I grip her ass, pull her close, and grind into her.

  “Derek,” she whimpers.

  “I’m here, Hannah.”

  She bites my lip, pulls my hair, and I’m losing my mind. The defining scent of arousal surrounds us, a primal need to mate, to ease the burn. I palm her breast, and she pants into my ear. “Derek, don’t stop.” Her hips thrust, her sighs of pleasure shiver along my spine, and her fingers claw at me. She’s going to come. Holy. Fuck!

  I lick the salty flesh of her neck, become engulfed by the faint scent of sweat coating her damp skin. She arches into me, and I groan in frustration. “Fuck, Hannah. I want you.” I reclaim her lips and slide a hand up the hem of her shirt, attempt to get the skin-on-skin action I crave. I’m lost. Lost in lust with this woman who is melting in my arms.

  “Derek! Have you lost your fucking mind?” I’m being pulled from behind, my connection to Hannah obliterated. Reggie drags me across the room. My eyes are locked on Hannah’s, and they’re wide in shock. Embarrassment colors her cheeks. In seconds, I’m out a back door, a blast of cool air hitting me in the face, a dose of reality clenching my gut.

  “Shit! What’s wrong with my head?” I sit straight up. A plush pale gray comforter falls around my hips, and dreamy soft sheets beneath me. I’m not sure where I am or how I got here. A T-shirt drapes to my thighs, the scent familiar and arousing. My nipples harden at the intimate feel of the soft cotton against my skin. Derek.

  Sunlight peeks in through thick gray curtains, illuminating the room in a glowing haze. Clean. Everything is pristine, polished to a perfect shine, masculine with dark colors and sharp corners.

  Snippets of the previous night bombard my already aching head.

  Tequila.

  Derek.

  Tequila.

  Derek.

  Derek and his smile. More Tequila.

  Derek kissing me.

  Derek kissed me.

  His scent, his scruffy jaw, his solid arms and . . . Oh. My. God.

  I humped Derek Cage’s leg.

  I don’t get drunk. It’s my number-one rule. Drunk people make lousy choices. They humiliate themselves. They say things they can’t take back, act in ways that are opposite of who they are. A few drinks, no problem. A slight buzz, you’re speaking my language. But drunk? Never.

  Spencer’s family moving forward with the lawsuit against my father did me in. My poor dad. He hasn’t done anything wrong. The attorney’s fees alone are going to bankrupt him. I thought distancing myself would help, but the Hamiltons are leeches, determined to bleed us dry. So I drank, and drank a lot, and then I humped Derek Cage’s leg.

  Groaning, I drop my face to my hands.

  “There’s Advil on the nightstand if you need it.” I jump at the sound of his voice.

  He slept here?

  Derek is lying on his stomach, a pair of boxer briefs covering his ass. His body is a masterpiece of chiseled muscle, covered in smooth, tempting skin, fragments of curved, black ink wrap around his body. I don’t understand the meaning of the tattoo, but I’m fascinated.

  The symbols curve around his torso, the rest hidden from sight. I stretch over him, hoping to catch a glimpse of one more design, but he turns, and the sheet obscures my view.

  Why am I in his bed? The last thing I remember is—

  “No. No! Did we—? No. There’s no way. I’d remember, wouldn’t I?”

  “Seriously, Hannah. You don’t remember?” He feigns hurt, and I’m not buying it for a second.

  “The last thing I remember is someone dragging you away from me and then being pulled out of Johnny’s into the cold night.”

  A wicked smile appears on his full lips. Shit. I had sex with Derek Cage, and I don’t remember a damn thing. How is that possible?

  When I was a freshman in college, my neighbor, Roberta Beau, and I got drunk off cheap wine coolers and proceeded to eat an entire plate of pot-laced Rice Krispies Treats. I passed out approximately thirteen minutes after my last bite and was stoned for three full days. A reminder of why I do not get drunk. But Roberta hooked up with Michael Hunter, our resident assistant. Word on the street was they didn’t go all the way, but when people started calling her BJ Betty it became crystal clear what had gone down that night, or who. OMG, I’m BJ Betty. No! I’m Black in the sack.

  I jump off the bed, pulling the sheets and comforter with me. “Derek. This is insa—”

  Stunned and awed at the same time, I stare between his legs, my mouth slightly open, looking at his semi-hard state, tenting those barely-there briefs. No woman on the planet would ever forget . . . that.

  He laughs, buries his face in a pillow, his body shaking in fits of deep, loud hysterics.

  “Derek!”

  Rolling onto his side, he grabs the nearest pillow and covers himself. Humor dances across his face, but I’m not amused. ”Hannah, I promise I didn’t take advantage of our situation last night.”

  “Then why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

  He shrugs. “I told you before; I sleep naked. I made a few adjustments so you’d be more comfortable.” He snaps the elastic waist of his shorts, and I groan in frustration.

  “Hannah.” His voice is serious, his tone calming. I chance a glance back, and nothing’s changed. He has post-sex hair, and his mag
nificent body is on display. His tattoos stretch with every movement. Desire lingers. The unfinished orgasm tingles between my thighs, and part of me wants to crawl back between the sheets and ask him . . . no beg him, to finish.

  Murderer. The word frays around my consciousness.

  Is this man capable of killing someone?

  “After we left Johnny’s, I didn’t lay a finger on you.” His gentle voice soothes the doubt. “If I had, you wouldn’t be questioning it this morning.” He pierces me with his eyes. “When I’m finally inside you, Hannah, you’re going to remember it.”

  There is a quiver in the pit of my stomach, a spark impossible to ignore. His lips are permanently branded to mine, his touch still a whisper on my skin. No! I want to scream. This can’t be happening. The last man on Earth I need to be attracted to is Derek Cage. But the mere thought of him touching me causes my pulse to quicken, and an intense flare of desire heats my blood.

  “But you don’t talk to reporters.”

  Stretching across the bed, he tugs at the sheet around me, seductively pulling me toward him. “I never said anything about talking.”

  The heart is a funny organ. Its sole purpose is to keep us alive, to pump blood around every part of our bodies, but right now, when I need my breath, when I need to feel all my parts to remind myself who I am and what I’m doing in this room with this man, my heart has stopped. It’s failed me.

  “I’m not here for sex.” Even I can hear the hesitance in my voice.

  Gripping the sheet tighter, he gets on his knees and places his lips close to my ear. “Keep telling yourself that, Angel. But next time you let me touch you, sex is the only thing you’ll be thinking about.”

  My labored breathing is loud in the quiet room, the heat of his body overwhelming. I brush my fingers against his shoulder then run them along the length of his arm. “Hannah,” he whispers, “I want you.”

  Tearing away from him, I race into the bathroom and lock the door behind me, realizing I dropped the sheet and comforter along the way. I lean against the closed door and slide to the floor.

  I can’t catch my breath. My mind is spinning, and my body is on fire.

  No questions. Nothing tonight is off the record. I can’t write anything about last night.

  “You owe me an interview!” I yell through the closed door.

  “Come out and talk to me, Hannah.”

  “You don’t talk, Cage, you only seduce.”

  His muffled laughter makes me angry. I’m a hot ball of turned-on mess, and he’s laughing at me.

  I need to clean up and get out of here. Maybe with some space, I’ll make better decisions. I turn on the shower and step inside. The hot water pelts my burning flesh. Visions of his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, our tongues colliding, play through my mind like an X-rated movie.

  I was seconds from coming in some sleazy bar, the effects of dry humping his knee.

  Dry humping his knee!

  Not his fingers or his mouth . . . his knee!

  Next time you let me touch you.

  Ugh! Stepping out of the shower, I throw on a white terrycloth robe. I use my finger to brush my teeth and chance a glance in the mirror. Traces of mascara line my eyes, my skin a ghostly white. Every emotion flitters across my face as I realize the situation I’m in.

  I’m not supposed to fall for Derek Cage. He’s a story . . . a possible murderer, a lethal distraction. He’ll destroy me.

  I’m relieved to see he’s gone when I exit the bathroom. His place is calm, quiet. My clothes are neatly folded on the dresser, and I quickly dress. Uber lets me know a driver will be there in five minutes. A quick scan of the condo tells me a lot. Derek is a meticulous bachelor. Everything is in order, clean, and untouched. It’s like no one lives here, and I have to wonder if this is his home or a pad he uses for all his women. The idea makes me nauseous. There is no sign of him anywhere, and as I let myself out, I can’t decipher the strange emotion working its way through my system. I’m getting what I wanted, an unnoticed escape from an embarrassing night, but do I want to go unnoticed where Derek Cage is concerned?

  More bad news for the Chicago Bears as their tight end, Michael Jenkins, is jailed over a murder accusation.

  Tom Cage threw the opening pitch this weekend as the Cubs played their final playoff game against the Giants. Let’s hope his son has better luck with the Bears this season.

  Derek Cage has officially returned. He left Chicago under a dark cloud of tragedy. He’s returned a man with no regrets. Tune in Sunday night at 8:00 p.m. for a Randy Houston exclusive on this intriguing athlete.

  She’ll bring a shit-storm of problems into my life. Problems I don’t know how to fix. Skin white as an angel’s, hair crazy like the devil’s, she was fucking beautiful standing in that hallway last night, and even more stunning this morning, asleep on my bed, dressed in nothing but my T-shirt. She’d rummaged through my dresser until she found what she wanted to wear, falling dead asleep in my bed, minutes after she’d thrown it on. The question of if she was wearing her panties or not raced through my mind as I fell asleep next to her, making sure no harm came her way, that she was safe and secure under my care.

  Something has possessed me, an urge to claim her, a need I haven’t felt since Lily.

  I step into my bathroom, skin tingling with the vision of her sleeping in my bed. When I heard the shower start, I went for a run, giving her privacy, but hoping she’d still be here when I returned. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

  I peel my shirt off and head for the shower, tossing everything as I go. I turn the water on hot, almost too hot, and let it all sink in. I’m still hard. Have been since I crawled into bed beside her. I stroke my erection from base to tip, groaning as I picture her in my arms last night, my name chanted between her lips. My cock begs for more, and I give in to the desire that’s been here for weeks.

  The women I sleep with don’t talk to the media. They keep my name a secret. Our relationship stays between the sheets. It’s our agreement, and both parties are happy with it. Since I’ve been back to Chicago I’ve only been with a select few, met through mutual acquaintances. They are lonely, looking for a night of companionship when their hectic schedules permit. Celebrities, career women, socialites who aren’t interested in settling down. I choose them carefully, ensuring we are in it for the same reasons. Feelings are left at the door. Yet, last night was freeing. Spontaneous. And in the light of day, she ran. But so did I.

  I grip my steel cock and pump out the effects of Hannah Black. It feels fucking good, but not nearly good enough. I shouldn’t touch her again, but I can come to the vision of her hair splayed across my sheets, her body draped with my shirt, her scent on my pillows.

  I envision her dark eyes hooded with lust, imagine her small cries of pleasure, the way her body coiled around mine, and I’m at the tipping point. With another stroke, I grip my cock hard and heat sears through my veins, my thighs tremble, my balls tighten. The orgasm is quick and intense, a slight groan, a fast pulse ticking in my groin. I rest my forehead against the cool shower wall and take a minute to catch my breath.

  I want her. No condom, no clothes, skin on skin. I want to fuck her until she’s screaming my name and begging for more, make her mine and only mine.

  I’m screwed. A girlfriend. A wife. That type of lifestyle was never intended for me. I don’t ever want another woman to go through what my mother did. To die thinking her life was a waste. I would never want that for Hannah. She deserves something more, something bigger.

  Wrapping a towel around my still-wet body, I leave the bathroom. I can’t be the one to bring anguish to Hannah’s life. I won’t be that person.

  I go to the kitchen and open cupboard after cupboard, not sure what I’m searching for. Food, alcohol—anything to get my mind off Hannah.

  My condo is silent except for sounds of the traffic below. I should hit the gym, work out my aggression on a punching bag.

  I grab an orange juice carton from the f
ridge and toss the cap in the sink. I drink straight from the carton, not bothering with a glass. My mother would have had a shit fit at my manners. She had a lot of pet peeves, and this was one of them.

  “Derek.”

  My heart seizes, and I flip around, dropping the juice.

  “Holy fuck!” My dad is standing in the doorway, arms folded.

  “How did you get in here?” I demand.

  Tom Cage raises a brow.

  “Right, Senator Cage can get in anywhere he wants.” I grab a dishtowel and clean up the puddle on the floor.

  He approaches me, each step filled with purpose, the soles of his designer shoes echoing off the hardwood floors.

  I don’t engage him.

  When I’ve finished, I stand and grab a bowl and some cereal, acting like my heart isn’t pounding out of my chest, pretending my father’s presence has no effect on me.

  I pour the milk and take my bowl to the table. I sit and take a bite, wondering how I’m supposed to welcome my estranged father into my home. How long do I have until I can kick him out?

  Uninvited, he pulls out a chair and sits across from me.

  “Too bad about the game on Sunday,” he says.

  I curtly nod, my cereal taking center stage.

  “Lance Walters should have—”

  “Cut the small talk, Dad. Why are you here?”

  I finally meet his eyes. He’s stoic, a tremor in his jaw the only indication he’s disturbed. My dad seems on edge, like the stress of life has finally caught up to him. He looks worn.

  “I’ve decided to make a run for President,” he says.

  “And?” I ask, unimpressed. Is this supposed to be a surprise? Should I act shocked at the news?

  “There will be rumors.”

  “There are always rumors.”

  “Some of them will be true.” His eyes are filled with guilt . . . remorse.

  “You should be in jail,” I state.

  He blanches.