Page 70 of Caged Kitten

“Because you make me feel,” I told her. Naturally, I could have played around with the words, made her guess, possibly even kept the truth to myself and fed her the same nonsense I did everyone else. Embarrassing as it was to admit, I had practiced this little speech in my cell. For weeks now, I had searched my depths for honesty, forced myself to say it aloud. I shirked the easy path and hurdled down the one less trod—even when it scared the absolute shit out of me. “For the first time, I feel…”

Feel what, precisely, was still up for debate. I hadn’t quite gotten that far yet, but from the way she softened, this seemed like a good start. The heart palpitations and cold sweat on my palms, all hidden beneath a confident exterior, certainly suggested this was what I needed—what I had spent most of my life hiding from.

“I feel when I’m with you,” I muttered, pleased that I didn’t trip over the confession, “and I rather like it.”

The shy drop of her eyes and the subtle lift of her lips sent relief pounding through me. Rejection had been a fear of mine ever since I first suffered its brutal sting, and in time, I had learned how to act out to avoid it. Make jokes. Leer and sneer and chuckle my way through life, using what material advantages I possessed to cement bonds. The entire court might have thought me a joke—but I let them. None of them mattered, all those noble fae chasing our coattails, just hoping one of their sons or daughters might catch the eye of true royalty…

But to be rejected by someone who mattered…

I couldn’t stand it.

And from her first dismissal of my usual charade, her blushes when our gazes first tangled, Katja mattered.

“Listen, little witch…” I caught her by the chin again, tilting her head up as I eased even closer. One deep breath and it was all over. “We can fuck right here, or I can lick your pretty cunt until our time is up.” I gripped tighter when her eyes widened and heat exploded across her entire face. “Or, we can just talk. Or shower—in separate stalls if you so desire. But I’ve bought us an hour in which we can pretend we’re not in a fucking prison. Pretend it’s a bathhouse, darling, and we can be whoever you want.”

No one had ever received such an offer before.

And no one ever would again.

Tentatively, Katja reached up and brushed the brown curls away from my forehead. She smoothed my hair back, taking her time to ensure it stayed, clutched in my grasp yet utterly at ease.

“I want to be us,” she murmured, voice low and certain, like she was whispering a secret for my ears alone, “but I don’t want to touch a single tile in this bathroom.”

I grinned down at her, relief mingling with need and, for the first time with a potential lover, earnest affection. “I will fall on that sword for you, my beauty.”

I had never taken a sword for anyone before—they always took them for me. Always.

“Chivalrous and rich,” Katja mused as she gently coiled her hand around my wrist, then coaxed my fingers from her chin, slowly steering them down to her chest. Nothing too scandalous, of course, just to the broad, flat plane beneath the hollow of her throat, and still my cock responded as if she had steered me between her thighs. Instead, it nudged insistently at her toweled belly, aching for attention. Katja, meanwhile, lost herself in my eyes, and I in hers, her little dubious breath like the sigh of the heavens. “How are you still single?”

I needn’t think of a clever response—truth came free and easy for once. “Because none of the rest ever made me feel anything.”

Her heartbeat quickened beneath my palm before I slowly smoothed it up her neck and over that miserable collar. Utterly bewitched, I lost myself in those sapphire pools, in the depth they promised, the acceptance they offered, until finally I cupped her cheek, cradling her head in my hand. What a precarious position: one sharp jerk and I could snap her neck. Funny how intimacy and brutality shared so many common threads.

But there was no brutality when I kissed her. No selfish taking, no indulgent tongue-thrusting on my part. Our lips met softly, tentatively. Romantically. After centuries of fucking with no one of real importance, I had long since given up on romance. Yet heat flared in my chest, my gut somersaulting in the most pleasurable way, my cock hard against her belly. Easy to confuse a twinge of romance for outright lust, but as our mouths opened to one another, slowly and surely, I finally felt the difference.

Lust was all frantic fire and greedy caresses.

Romance was sugar and spice, taking one’s time because you savored the moment, every minute detail of the act itself.

The idea for this morning’s little fling came about when I considered all the times I’d seen Katja after her interactions with Elijah and Rafe. Sex seemed to make her feel better—and who could blame her? She had been hauled off to the warden’s office twice since my prison stint began, and each one battered her spirit, ground it into the dirt. As I lay in my pathetic cot, trying to think of ways to brighten her mood, sex had seemed obvious. It always made me feel good, after all, but as she sidled closer now, I realized that feel-good from past lovers came from the physical release alone.

Not from… this. Not from the closeness or the intimacy.

Her tongue was a tease, a natural flirt, darting into my mouth and coaxing mine to play. I tasted her smile, saw it stretched all the way to her eyes even with her lids closed and relaxed, and I seized the opportunity to catch her by surprise again. Spiderwalking my fingers up her side, I found the top of her towel and yanked, ripping the final material barrier between us from her body and tossing it away. She gasped into my mouth, the hand in my hair tightening and twisting with admonishment, and my dark chuckle had little telltale bumps exploding across her exposed flesh.

Katja arched against me, pebbled nipples brushing my chest, and I jerked her closer with a growl. The sugar gave way to spice, our kiss quickening, deepening, like we were in a race: Who could consume the other first?

Me. I was more motivated.

Unfortunately, she had a leg up on me—not literally… not yet. But with my steely shaft caught between our bodies, even the slightest movement was fucking agony. It took everything in my power not to grind against her creamy skin and spill myself all over her tits. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have cared. Usually, I went straight for the gold, especially if I was this hard and wanting. But with Katja, I took my time, stroking her, mapping her curves with hungry hands. She had a mole on her right hip—raised and a little sensitive when I brushed over it. A dimple on her left ass cheek. Some cellulite on the backs of her thighs. An adorable little pouch above her cunt…

Womanly perfection.

Need more.

Exploring her with my eyes closed was one thing, lost in the kiss, never wanting to part, but seeing her was another. Innocently, my left hand climbed her body, smoothing over her heated flesh, cupping her breast in passing, wandering up, up, up—until it cuffed her throat. Hard. Just below the magicked leather, I collared her and thrust her back. Greedy eyes roved her figure, from her tits that trembled with every ragged breath to the delectable flush that stretched from her cheeks to her navel, to the dip between her thighs, the abstract watercolor tattoo—black and blue clouds swirling around her left calf, unexpected and artsy and somehow rather fitting—and then up again to the patch of fiery red hiding my prize.

Exquisite.

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