Page 84 of Caged In

“Thank you,” Izz shifts shyly on Sinn'ous’s bunk, “I like it—” Izz freezes, words cut off mid-sentence—

He is uncertain how he came to be in this situation. He’d walkedback with Sinn'ous to the Satanic cell at the end of the second-floor platform. Sat down on the mattress-stackedbunk . . . and the rest is a blur. What steals his focus and fizzles his short-term memories is Sinn'ous’s lips. Hot, smooth, pressed against his own . . .

Izz’s motionless. Unsure what he should do next—

The kiss is over before it starts. As quick as a gasp, Sinn'ous is pulling away. Snapping Izz out of his dazed shock.

Did that truly happen?

“Forgive me. You’re perched there delectably, I couldn’t help myself.”

Izz’s eyes dart over Sinn'ous’s features. Over his black eyes, his coloured hair, his . . . lips . . .

Leaning back in, Izz brings his own mouth down onto delightfully full lips. Kissing Sinn'ous with a growing hunger.

He weaves his hands into Sinn'ous’s hair. Deepening their kiss. Groaning at the exquisitely silky strands, a welcome delight. He’d half expected the mohawk to be stiff and crispy with hair gel—unrelenting to match its owner. It’s as if his hair grew upright in its styled glory without a need for hair products.

Izz opens up into the kiss, drawing Sinn'ous down to him. He likes this, it’s not rough or unwelcome. He doesn’t feel as if he has no control. He is secure, protected. He knows Sinn'ous won’t hurt him—

Izz gasps as his world flips, his back hitting the foam bedding, the prison mattresses contorting to his and Sinn'ous’s combined weight. His lips part in shock—digging his fingers into Sinn'ous hair—chasing the tongue probing to enter his mouth. He lets Sinn'ous in. Opens up to the larger male. Welcomes the sparking heat surging through his veins.

He exhales as the connection is broken, his protest turning into a broken-off cry as those talented lips work their way over his neck. Licking and nipping at the delicate skin—

Izz grunts softly as the bites turn sharper. A steadyhand gripping his chin as those teeth sink in. The sting of painshooting down his nervous system like a highway carrying hot energy—aiming for his crotch.He is rock hard in a split second, throbbing in his confinement. His neck exposed to the male above him, vulnerable in the best possible way.

I never knew I had a biting kink . . .

He sure does now. It’s amazing. The licks of pain. The sparks burning his arousal deeper into his flesh.

He’s hot, needy. Arching up into Sinn'ous. The bite isn’t hard enough to break skin—but there’s no doubt it’s left a decent mark. A branding . . . different from the tattoo. This one is made by Sinn'ous, not in dedication to the male.

Izz’s in heaven.Delectably—to steal Sinn'ous word.

Through his burning haze, he can feel hands working their way under his shirt, shoving past prison greysto brush bare skin. Licks of sensation following the fingertips working their way down hisabdomen. Dipping under his waistband—

Izz sucks his stomach in, hollowing out his hips to allow access. Sinn'ous takes full advantage of the invitation, fingers wandering further inside . . . closer to the place he’s begging to be touched.

Izz digs his nails into Sinn'ous’s hips, trying to urge the other on. To hurry up and touch him—

Teeth clamp down on his neck further down than the last bite. The sharp stinging pain jolting his body off the mattress—

This new kink is driving him crazy . . .

Fingers brush over his inner thigh, so close to their goal. He needs Sinn'ous to touch him, needs to feel the heat of hands on his sensitive skin.

The first brush of flesh on flesh is electric, drawing a rattledbreath from his chest—

Everything shifts at once. Like an ice-cold bucket tipped over his head. It is no longer a welcome touch. No longer soft andcareful—he is thrust back—back in time, to a different cell—a cell with four inmates leering at him. The unwanted touches—

Izz cries out—this time in fear, not reciprocated pleasure—shoving at the heavy weight on top of him. His mind filling with images racing all around. Too many faces flashing past. Too many hands, too much contact—

He scrambles away, his back hitting the wall, pulling his knees tightly into himself—

He can’t breathe—

His lungs don’t work—

He’s going to die—

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