Caged Read Online Free Page B

pleasure.  Would she barely move, just close her eyes and sigh, letting him do what he wanted and mentally wishing she were somewhere else?  Or would she buck her hips up against his hand—or his mouth—he hadn’t decided which one yet — and cry her pleasure to the Heavens, perhaps even shouting his name, as some women had in his sensual embrace?
    Although she didn’t know his name, now, did she, you blockhead, he thought.  And she couldn’t, either.
    Surprised at just how much he wished he could tell her a piece of information that would put his neck in a noose no questions asked if it were repeated in front of the wrong people, he leaned over just a bit to graduate to the next step.  His open mouth claimed first one nipple then the other, suckling with infinite gentleness. He swirled his tongue over those turgid peaks, flicking the tips relentlessly against the roof of his mouth, listening avidly for signs that—even against her will—she was enjoying this.
    And they were there, not to be missed by an avid ear—a reluctant sigh, the way she arched her breasts into his mouth occasionally before realizing that she was doing it and quickly relaxed back down again, and one very soft moan that went directly to the part of him that, when he’d been shot, he’d worried would never be able to work through all that pain again.
    But it was proving him wrong, and in this case, he was only too happy to be wrong. 
    Cage knew that this time would be just for her, and he was fine with that.  He’d make up for it when he was feeling better.  He knew that with a little time and a little patience, he could exhaust her into sleep, and that was his goal.
    He gasped loudly at the searing pain in his side as he hitched himself up onto his elbow, letting his fingertips learn the curves and valleys of her body as he watched her struggle with herself not to enjoy his touch.
    Rachel didn’t know what sorcery he was doing to her, but it felt so different from what the other man had done to her. He wasn’t pinching her nipples until she wished that they would just fall off, or slapping her breasts until they were covered in scarlet handprints that were delivered with such agonizing strength that each individual finger could be made out in each case.
    No, what he was doing when he touched her like that, when his head bent and he took her nipple into the warm wet confines of his mouth, was almost worse, almost more degrading, if that could even be imagined.  He was making her like it.  Crave it.  Lust after it—and him, the man that was making her feel like that. 
    She didn’t want him to stop, whereas she would have given anything to get Hemmingway to cease what he had been doing.
    Mr. H. hadn’t touched her like this, as this man was touching her, with a concentrated, determined eye towards a pleasure she was quite certain didn’t exist within her. The gunman’s self-satisfied expression said that he was enjoying himself enormously as he did so—the man who had pointed a gun at her so many times that she couldn’t even count, who had probably left bruises on her body as a result of digging its barrel into her side, who had forced her to get into bed with him then strip off all her clothes in front of him, who had taken first his hand to her—which had been plenty bad enough—and then his belt, and who was now molesting her, forcing her body to acquiesce—to join him—in his depraved pursuits.
    She knew she had to stay strong, that she had to not give in to what he was doing to her, but it was terribly, terribly hard, especially when she had a traitorous body that wanted nothing more than to surrender completely to the exquisite pleasure he was already bringing to her.
    And then the surprisingly gentle fingertips of the hand that had already made so free with her began to trail down over her ribcage.  She thought she’d heard him make some sort of a sound at how plainly they showed through her skin, but she