Page 42 of Keeping The Virgin

Chapter 14

Time passes,seconds…minutes. You can hear a pin drop as Cage finally pulls away from me, his breathing ragged.

I feel as if those pins are prickling over the skin of my bottom, which is tender, still stinging from the burn of the carpet from when he fucked me. I’m also aching between my legs with the intimate, raw sensation of having him inside me again tonight, stretching me to my limits, making my pussy’s muscles tremor in the aftermath.

Cage remains silent as he unbinds my wrists, then my ankles, then reaches up to tug one of my nightdresses down from its place on a rack. The sound of disturbed hangers clatters through the closet as he hands the fabric to me.

As I sit up and hold the nightie in disbelief, I’m burning with what I think is embarrassment…or maybe it’s desperation to have him do to me again what he just did.

He stands, still ignoring me as he zips himself into his trousers. All I can do is gape at him. It’s not because of his tanned, muscled, beautiful torso either. It’s because he’s more withdrawn than ever before, and I don’t get it.

“That was…” I start to say.

“I didn’t intend it to go that far.”

His words are so unfiltered that I flinch. But then I shake my head. “You didn’t go too far. I…I liked it. In case you couldn’t tell.”

“Okay,” he mumbles.

He’s still acting strange, and when he begins to walk away, I stop him by asking, “What’s going on, Cage?”

There’s a hopeful second when I think he might want to tell me, that he’s merely restraining himself and all it’ll take for him to break is one more touch from me.

But then he says, “You’ll want to get some sleep. I’ll be going in to work early tomorrow, and I’ll be texting you with links about conversational topics that Igor Vasiliev might enjoy during dinner. You’ll want to be prepared to talk about them during our next rehearsal.”

And with that he walks out, our odd afterglow thudding to an end.

I sit on the floor, baffled, my body still wishing he were here with every lonely heartbeat. One of the stockings he used to bind me is draped over my wrist, and I pull it tight, as if testing it. The pressure makes me close my eyes as I remember the heights Cage took me to.

But right here, right now? This is a low.

Did he basically just toss me aside because he’s still angry with me about being too much of a girlfriend in the art gallery?

Talk about intimacy issues. What exactly is this man’s deal?

It has to have something to do with those shadows I always see in him, the past he never talks about. But who am I to fault him for that when I won’t even talk about my own awful past?

When I finally clean up and go to bed, it’s another sleepless night. I have to wonder how many of those I’m going to have before I finish this job, pay my debts, wipe away all my secrets, and finally get back to the Karini I used to know.

If she even exists anymore.

* * *

I’m rubbingmy eyes with one hand and holding my phone with the other as I come out of my room in the morning. My hair is a rat’s nest, and I’ve pulled a flowing robe over the nightie I put on after the fierce sexual bout with Cage last night. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, but I look like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet—which I almost was except for my crashing orgasm.

But why do I care what I look like? Cage said he was going in to work early again, so I don’t give a turd about appearances. Truthfully, I don’t know how much he’d even care as long as I continue to put out the goods for him and show up at that dinner with Mr. Vasiliev tomorrow night, ready to rock that business deal.

As I walk down the long hallway to the kitchen, there’s a delicious bacon-and-egg aroma in the air. Cage probably called in his personal chef to cook me breakfast—no doubt he’ll be regimenting every calorie, my every move until tomorrow night’s big event.

I almost dread tonight’s dress rehearsal, because I wonder what I’ll inadvertently do to screw that up. Then again, if a screw up gets me the kind of earth-shattering sex last night did…

Sick, Karini, I think as I round the corner into the state-of-the-art kitchen. You’re one warped kitty, and you’d better be careful. Think about what happened the last time you were a wild girl…

As a shiver wracks me, I get ready to greet Daphne. Then I stop short, because the chef isn’t in the kitchen.

Cage is there, sliding a plate of food in front of an empty seat at the sun-dappled table by the window. He doesn’t have on his suit jacket or tie, but he looks like a boss, wearing his perfect white button down that’s tucked into his belted, creased gray trousers. His Italian leather shoes are shined, his cufflinks gleaming, his brown hair combed back.

As he looks up to find me, those shadows darken his penetrating eyes, but then he steps back from the table, his gaze clearing as if everything is cool and he never left me hanging last night.

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