Caged in Winter

by Brighton Walsh

  “I didn’t want to give you too much of an advantage. I just stripped for you, woman, and you didn’t take off anything.”

  She raises her eyebrows in challenge. “Maybe you should rectify that.”

  “I think I will.” I slide my hand under her shirt, palming the expanse of her stomach. She clenches underneath my fingers, goose bumps covering the skin I’ve touched. I take my time as I remove her shirt, then her jeans, leaving her spread out on my bed in nothing but her underwear. They’re nothing special, nothing sexy—a mismatched set of different colored cotton, but the way my body reacts to it, to her, the way my cock twitches at the sight of her, you’d think she was in the sexiest lingerie I’ve ever seen. I stand at the foot of my bed, taking in her gorgeous body. I want to lick every inch of her.

  “Quit staring.” Her voice is low and throaty, the tone it always takes when she’s turned on and ready for me.

  Glancing up to her face, I smile. “Quit being so beautiful and I will.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I can see the color bloom in her cheeks. Reaching out, she beckons me closer, and I comply until I’m close enough for her to trace along the tattoos on my arms and over my shoulders, watching her fingers as she does. The corner of her cheek dips in again, and I bring up my finger to tug it out of the prison of her teeth.

  “What’s got you chewing on your cheek? We’ve done this before . . . don’t tell me you’re nervous now. My size intimidate you since you know what you’re in for?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “How do you walk around with such a big head?”

  A grin curves one side of my mouth as I lift my eyebrows at her double entendre. “It’s tough, not gonna lie.” I place my hands on either side of her head and lower myself over the length of her, arms bent as I hover inches above her. Her hands clench my biceps, her eyes staring up at me. I dip to capture her lips, then pull away before she can slip her tongue into my mouth. All teasing gone from my voice, I say, “Seriously. What’s up?”

  Her eyes dart to the side, to the ink on my arms. “I was just wondering about these.” She traces my skin as she says it, the story I’ve had forever imprinted on my skin. “Will you tell me about them?”

  She looks so nervous, so unsure, and I take this for what it is: her digging deeper into my life, seating herself a little more permanently in it. And it thrills me. “Anytime, baby.” I place another kiss on her lips, lowering my hips into the cradle of her thighs. “But maybe after? I’m a little busy at the moment . . .”

  Her laugh cuts off as I bend to trace her nipple through the cotton of her bra, her fingers digging into my arms. “Cade . . .”

  “I’m here.”

  I remove the rest of our clothing, taking time to study the parts of her I wanted to. I detour to all the good spots—the places that make her gasp and moan and giggle. The side of her neck, the tips of her breasts, the dip of her waist. I grasp the insides of her thighs, spread her wide for my tongue as I get lost in the taste of her. I don’t stop until her thighs clamp over my ears, her hands gripping my head as she says my name over and over again.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of hearing her call my name as she comes.

  Crawling up her body, I press my lips everywhere I can reach. I’d like to do nothing but kiss every inch of her, get lost in the softness of her skin, but I know our time is running out before we won’t have the house to ourselves anymore, and I don’t want Winter to be uncomfortable in front of Tessa if she were to get home before we’re done. Instead, I kiss her, tease her with my tongue as she cups my jaw in her hands. Pulling back, I flip her over until she’s on her stomach, her head turned to the side as she cranes her neck to look back at me. I place openmouthed kisses on the backs of her knees, skimming my fingers down the length of her legs. Standing, I reach into my drawer and pull out a condom, quickly rolling it on before I climb on top of her.

  “Okay?”

  She answers in a hum, her ass lifting a little. Enough to know she wants it. She wants me. I pull back and guide myself to her, one hand gripping her on the dip just above her ass. The comforter is pulled tight between her clenched fists as she moves her hips restlessly. Lips parted, thighs spread, eyes glazed, she looks fucking sexy.

  I sink into her, slow and steady, until I can’t go any deeper. “Fuck. Winter.”

  With a breathy moan, she pushes back against me, and I start a rhythm, pumping into her as fast as I dare. I don’t want to lose it—she feels too fucking good—but the sight of her underneath me, spread out and completely giving up power to me, is nearly my undoing. I make the mistake of looking down to where I’m disappearing inside her, seeing myself move into her body, seeing the evidence of how much she wants me each time I pull out, and I groan. Taking my hand from her waist, I bring it up, stretching myself over the length of her body as I cover her with mine. I reach for one of her hands, interlocking our fingers together as I hold myself over her with the other. I probably weigh twice as much as she does, and I don’t want to crush her under me.

  Brushing my lips over her shoulder, I say, “Kiss me.”

  She complies, twisting her head and straining back to reach my mouth. Her gasps and moans punctuate the press of her lips, the slide of her tongue. When I shift and push into her again, her eyes roll back, her fingers tightening around mine. “God, right there. Don’t stop.”

  I smile against her temple, continuing with my pace. “Did I find the spot, baby?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes, yes . . .” She drags out the last word. “Oh, God.”

  Then words fail her, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she goes completely taut underneath me, her pussy clamped around me, until she releases, a long, deep breath whooshing out of her as she shudders, then goes boneless.

  “Holy fuck.” I’ve never seen anything as sexy as Winter when she comes. She loses all inhibitions, the shadows I see lurking in her eyes are suddenly gone. She’s free and she’s gorgeous and she’s mine. It’s this thought that pushes me over the edge, claiming her as I finally give in to my body’s need for release.

  EIGHTEEN

  winter

  I didn’t think it’d feel like this. In all the times I let myself go down this path, indulge in this daydream, I thought there’d be waves of panic, a crushing weight on my chest, shackles chained to my ankles from being connected to someone. From being on the receiving end of someone’s love. There’s too much responsibility, too much faith lying in your actions, too much possibility of heartache.

  I didn’t want any of it.

  And then Cade came, sweeping his way into my life, imposing and relentless and persistent, and I’m not the same.

  That’s the only possible conclusion I can come up with. I’m not the same, because as I lie with him in his bed, his fingers trailing up and down the bare expanse of my back, I don’t feel the need to flee. The urge to run, to hide, doesn’t overcome me, even after experiencing what we just did.

  I’ve had sex before. Plenty of sex with guys I knew and some I didn’t. And it was always fine. Sometimes I got off, sometimes I didn’t, but it was never anything more than just sex—two bodies meeting for a common need. With Cade it’s so different. It’s emotional and all-consuming. It’s . . . transcendent.

  “What’re you thinking about?” His voice is low and throaty, his lips brushing against my temple as he speaks.

  And even though I saw the look in his eyes while he was inside me, even though I know he feels this crazy connection like I do, I can’t share this with him. Not yet. I might be changed, but old habits die hard. He told me he was in love with me, and I still haven’t mustered up enough courage to reciprocate. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to say it back. I don’t even know if I feel it, because I’ve been too scared to take stock of my emotions.

  What if I don’t?

  What if I do?

  Instead of divulging my thoughts, I say, “You lured me over here for homework, and somehow we wound up naked in your bed.”


  His lips curve against my head as he smiles. “I was studying.”

  I snort. “Studying what, how many different ways you can make me come?”

  “Yes,” he says as he turns over, pinning me to the bed. “I’ve counted five so far. Are there more?”

  Laughing, I push against his shoulders, and he rolls off me easily. “You are impossible.”

  “Irresistible, you mean.” He’s on his back, completely naked, arms spread over his head. My eyes are drawn once again to the designs on them, and while I want to know, while he said he’d tell me about them anytime, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear their stories. Because I know, with Cade, it’s going to be deeply personal. I don’t know if I can handle that so soon after what just happened between us. If I have any hope of not ruining this thing between us, I need to move in baby steps.

  “You did promise me study time.”

  “I think I also promised you food.” He climbs out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans, and the fact that he’s going commando is going to haunt my thoughts as I attempt to focus on schoolwork. When he has a T-shirt pulled over his chest, he gathers up my clothes for me, depositing them on the bed, and waits until I’m dressed before he leads us into the kitchen.

  My laptop sits open on the island, his books and computer set out next to it. I’m glad we got back out here before Tessa and Haley returned, because there’s no way what we were doing wouldn’t be completely obvious. And yeah, we’re grown adults, but I just don’t quite know how to act around his sister, don’t even know what she thinks of me. I want her to like me, I realize as Cade slips around to the other side of the island. I’ve never cared much about what people think of me—my own personal deflection technique—but I do care what his family thinks.

  I don’t want to dissect that too closely, so I settle in on the high stool at the island, in front of my computer. “What are you making for me tonight?”

  “Nothing fancy since I figured we’d be busy with homework. Just homemade pizza, a salad, and some garlic knots.”

  “I think you forget what I normally eat. That is fancy.”

  He smiles at me over his shoulder as he preheats the oven, then grabs a couple stainless steel bowls from back on the counter. “Yeah, what you normally eat is exactly why I’m making this. What kind of chef boyfriend would I be if I didn’t show you what real pizza was supposed to taste like? Not that cardboard shit with canned tomato sauce and fake cheese you’ve been living on.”

  After everything that’s happened between us, him referring to himself as my boyfriend shouldn’t set off a flurry of tornadoes spinning in my stomach. I’ve seen him nearly every day, we’ve slept together, and he’s told me he’s in love with me. A silly, inconsequential word like boyfriend shouldn’t mean anything.

  But it does.

  Never once did I plan on having one. I assumed I would go through my life single and happy, kicking ass in my field and loving every minute of being on my own, of being the only one I counted on. I took comfort in that.

  I had no idea what I’d be missing.

  The movement of his hands catches my eyes, and I turn my attention to him as he concentrates on prepping our dinner. He flours the counter, then flips a ball of dough out of a bowl before pressing into it with both hands.

  “What’s that for?”

  “The pizza crust.”

  “Wow, when you said homemade, you really meant it.”

  “What’d you think I was going to do, get one of those crusts in a tube and feed you that?”

  I shrug, resting my chin in my hand, elbow propped on the counter as I forget all about my homework and focus on his actions. “That would still be gourmet to me.” I watch him for a minute, his movements mesmerizing as he pushes and pulls and flips the dough before repeating his actions. “Why are you doing that by hand instead of using your fancy machine?” I ask, pointing to the huge stand mixer behind him.

  He looks up at me with a grin. “So I can impress you with my muscles.”

  I laugh. “I think you successfully accomplished that when you did a push-up over me just to get a kiss.” And even though he’s teasing, he isn’t far off. I watch as they strain and flex under the ink covering his forearms as he kneads the dough. I don’t take my eyes off him as he manipulates it into the shape he wants, then transfers it to a pizza stone.

  “Do you have any topping preferences?” He opens the fridge and pulls out an armful of fresh ingredients. “I was going to do a white pizza, if that’s okay?”

  “What’s on that?”

  “The base is a mixture of cheeses, then I’ll top it with shallots, fresh basil, spinach, and some sliced tomatoes.”

  “I’ve never had one, but that sounds amazing.”

  He smiles and pulls down a cutting board, quickly and efficiently chopping the shallots, then slicing the tomatoes. I love watching him cook, seeing his brow creased in concentration.

  “You want to help?”

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Really?”

  “Yeah, come around here.” He jerks his head and smiles at me, and how can I say no?

  “Do I need an apron?”

  “Nah, I won’t get you too dirty.” The grin he shoots me speaks volumes, and I shake my head at him, though I can feel the awareness sparking in my body.

  “Okay, what should I do?”

  “I’ve already got the cheese base mixed together, so go ahead and spread that all over the crust, then we’ll top it with the rest of the ingredients.”

  I do as he asks, then we layer the onions, basil, and spinach on before topping it all with the tomato slices. “It looks delicious.” My stomach grumbles as I say it, and he laughs, swooping down to steal a kiss.

  “Soon, baby.”

  I wash my hands as he tips the other bowl he grabbed earlier, flipping more dough out onto the floured countertop.

  “That’s for the garlic knots?”

  “Yep. C’mere, I’ll show you how to make them, too.”

  Sliding over to where he’s standing, I wait as he cuts off a chunk of dough and proceeds to roll it out until it looks like a rope.

  “You need to roll them until they’re about ten inches long. Then you just tie ’em in a knot and put them on the pan.”

  I watch as he does this, his too-big hands delicately working the dough into perfect knots. He repeats the process a second time, and I stare, the juxtaposition of him mouthwatering. Here he is, this huge, linebacker of a man with a facial piercing and arms covered in tattoos, donning an apron and delicately twisting tiny pieces of dough into knots with a pair of hands nearly twice the size of mine.

  A laugh escapes me, and he turns his head to glance at me, his eyebrow raised, the silver through it glinting under the kitchen lights. “Something funny?”

  I shrug, leaning against the counter. “A little. Never in a million years would I have guessed this is what you do.” I wave a hand toward him as he carefully twists a third knot to perfection. “You don’t scream soft and gentle.”

  With his hands covered in flour and dough, he leans over, his mouth by my neck as he kisses me there. His breath brushes against my ear as he says, “You know exactly how soft and gentle I can be.”

  I turn my head back toward him, my mouth brushing his cheek as he pulls away, my lips catching on the rough scrape of stubble. He looks at me, heat radiating from his eyes, a cocky grin lifting one side of his mouth, and I know he’s thinking about what we did earlier.

  “Come on, it’s your turn.” He cuts off a hunk of dough for me, then moves behind me as he places his hands over mine. His chest is broad and solid against my back, radiating heat, and I try not to lean too far back into him. His arms are around me, capturing me in place, and the panic I’d normally feel at being trapped is suspiciously absent.

  “Okay, we’re gonna roll it out first, kind of like you used to make a snake with Play-Doh as a kid.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him I never played with Play-Doh. When I w
as young enough to be interested in it, my mother wasn’t exactly a domestic queen. Toys weren’t something that were part of my world. Instead, by the age of four, I was well acquainted with beer bottles and ashtrays and the sounds my mother made when she had a man over.

  It was a miracle, really, I didn’t starve to death or die of neglect before I escaped her care. I was feeding myself by the time I was old enough and smart enough to figure out how to get into the cabinets. I was lucky I was able to scrounge up cereal most days. Dry cereal, because there was rarely milk, and if there was, it was usually sour. But I was resourceful, even then. I had to be.

  So, no, growing up like that, Play-Doh wasn’t exactly at the top of my priorities. By the time I was tossed into the system, I was too old, too jaded, too hurt to care or ask for stupid, superficial things like that.

  He’s still talking, his chest rumbling against my back, his chin barely brushing the top of my head with every word, and I focus on him once again. “. . . then you just twist like this.” He grabs my hands, trying to help me turn and fold the dough in on itself, but between my clumsiness and his huge hands, it’s a mess by the end. We both stare down at the chunk of dough on the counter, no longer even resembling a Play-Doh snake.

  Chuckling in my ear, he says, “Okay, so maybe I’ll finish these off so you don’t starve to death.” He moves from behind me, quickly rolling the dough out again and knotting it with ease. Glancing over at me, he offers me a smile. “But someday, I’m going to teach you how to do these.”

  I stare into his eyes until he breaks contact and works on another piece of dough. The certainty in his voice sends a rush of feeling over me.

  Someday.

  The only somedays I ever planned for were the day I turned eighteen, the day I graduated high school, and the day I will graduate college.

  But now . . . Now I think I could see a someday with him.

  It’s scary and exhilarating and exciting, this unknown that awaits me. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into—if there will be anything for me at the end of this path but heartache and pain and darkness—but for the first time in my life, I’m willing to try.