Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

  It’s a virtual tug of war, and I’m winning. Derek strides in my direction, his gaze never faltering, my mental pull reeling him in.

  The closer he moves, the better look I get at his frayed emotions; a tick in his jaw, the tight line of his lips, a fixed expression in his eyes. I affect him as much as he does me. Yet, he’s fighting this.

  “Hannah.” The word rushes out of him, the yearning in his voice deafening. ”You’re here.” There is a spark of some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes, an uncertain tilt to his lips.

  “It’s your most feared team. Did you think I’d stay away?” I respond, my casual tone at war with the turmoil raging inside.

  “Fuck. I’m happy you’re here.” Letting go of any resistance, Derek wraps me in his arms. It’s awkward, and I’m stiff, but when I feel his fingers trail my back, his hand lingering on the groove above my rear, I melt into him. It’s uncomfortable being pressed against all his gear, but I missed this, so I fold my arms around him anyway, overwhelmed with his scent. He strokes my back, his lips close to my ear, his warm breath sending shivers along my spine.

  “Will you wait for me after the game?” he whispers.

  I nod. We release each other at the same time.

  “You puke before warm-ups?” I ask, lightening the mood.

  “Fucking Coxy.” He finds George, and points at him, motioning his finger back and forth between them, as though they have unfinished business. “That’s off the record, Hannah.”

  “We’ll see. I think you’ve lost your vetoing powers.”

  He frowns, and then tucks a runaway curl behind my ear. “You look good, Hannah.” His touch is tender, his voice gentle, and I can’t help but want more.

  “Hey, homeboy. Get your ass back on the field.” Our attention swivels to Colt Dixon in game mode, not appreciating this interruption.

  Derek turns to me. “See you after we beat their asses.” He winks and runs off, shoving his helmet over his head, never looking back.

  “It seems Derek Cage does, in fact, have a girlfriend. Let’s see if we can get a statement.” As I hear that, I turn and see a blonde female reporter hurrying over to me. Time to get out of here, Hannah.

  I walk away, my heart pounding, my body aching.

  The game goes by in a blur. I try to understand everything happening on the field, the incomplete pass from Derek to a guy named Marshal James, the interception, the three touchdowns the 49ers score because of Derek’s mistakes. Mumbles erupt around me, glares from the devil himself thrown at the field. Dark energy filters through the air, but I can’t pinpoint why, not aware of the consequences of today’s game.

  I walk into a sea of questions, the locker room overflowing with reporters. Derek is like an angry monster about to explode. His eyes are cold, his face stone, and his body stiff.

  His anger lights a fire in me, his stance all male. He scans the room, not stopping until he spots me. He steps away from the crowd, determined and aggressive, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “No more questions,” he shouts. He takes my hand and pulls me into his arms.

  “Hi,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I’m sorry, Cage. I know that game meant a lot to you.”

  He hugs me tighter.

  Carried away by the moment, I fail to notice his intent until it’s too late. He slides his cheek against mine, then feathers a kiss along my lips. I melt into the moment, closing my eyes, floating on a cloudless fantasy where no one else exists but the two of us, alone in this instant of intimacy. A gasp reminds me where we are, and images of the photos hidden in my desk drawer, the news articles, the name calling, all of it flashes through my mind and I freeze.

  The room sizzles in shocked inhales.

  Panic floods me, and my mind is screaming red alert. Desperate, I do the first thing that comes to mind.

  I. Slap. Him.

  My palm connects with his cheek—crisp, solid, fierce.

  He jerks back, blinking in surprise. My palm stings like a bitch, and I toss it over my mouth, shocked at my actions.

  The room falls silent before it erupts in shouts and questions.

  Confused and angry, I leave without another word. Derek Cage is a private man. He’s made that clear. And if the present I received a few weeks ago taught me anything, what is happening between us needs to stay private. What is he doing kissing me in front of a mass of reporters? Is he trying to humiliate me, or has he lost all sense of self-preservation? I’d like to think my reaction was an effort to protect myself. But in reality, I think I was protecting him too. Keeping his life in the dark, keeping us hidden. But my actions drew more attention than the kiss. Fuck.

  Someone snaps their fingers, and a guard is instantly by my side.

  “Who are you?”

  “Why did you slap him?”

  “What’s your relationship with Derek Cage?”

  Bombarded with questions, I keep walking, a guard protecting me, briskly escorting me to the parking lot.

  The cool night air is a relief, the sight of my car a refuge, until I get inside and notice a piece of paper tucked into the windshield wiper. I quickly grab it and slide back inside the safety of my Prius. Who left me a note? Who knows this is my car? I lift a corner and a horn blares. On edge and trembling, I toss the paper in my bag, race away from the football stadium, home, away from Derek Cage, away from this story that could ruin me. Away.

  I pull up to my building, wanting to be alone, needing my space.

  A roar of a motorcycle engine shreds that idea to pieces. I spin around, watch Derek get off his bike, and hold my breath when he tosses his helmet aside, all humor gone from his beautiful face. His stride is purposeful.

  “Derek.” Confused, angry . . . embarrassed. “What do you want?”

  He doesn’t answer as he stalks up the sidewalk, his broad shoulders tense and determined.

  “You,” he says, cupping my face. “I. Want. You.”

  He claims my lips, tangling his hands in my hair. Kissing me breathless. My pulse pounds, my legs go weak, and I know in that moment that resisting is futile.

  My body betrays my mind. An aching need intensifies, and I submit to him completely. He walks us backward into the building and straight to the elevator, spinning me inside.

  God, he tastes like ecstasy. His lips are demanding. His hold on my body is powerful. I’m transfixed, lost in the essence of us. Pressing my hands to his chest, he tenses beneath my touch, his tongue diving deeper, and his desire intensifying. He palms my ass, pulling me close, our clothes frustratingly in the way.

  His hard length presses against me, and I whimper, wrap one leg around his and cling to him until the doors open, and he guides us into the hallway and to my door. With trembling fingers, I insert the key in the lock, and then moan when he drags his teeth across my neck, sliding his tongue along the heated curve to my shoulder. He grips my hips and sighs in my ear. “Hurry up.”

  The door flies open, and we fall into the dark, quiet room. Our lips connect, our soft moans echo through the darkness.

  “Bedroom?”

  “This way.”

  He recaptures my lips, sucking and nipping, his hands roaming my body in a frantic attempt to touch me everywhere. We fumble down the hall, a mass of entwined limbs and desperate sighs until we reach the entrance to my room. His half-lidded eyes meet mine. One thumb skims the edge of my collarbone, the other traces my lips.

  His broad chest expands with heavy breaths and fills me with awe. The flex of arm muscles when he stretches them to the top of my door frame makes the ache between my thighs intensify. His taut stomach is exposed, and my mouth waters at the deep V of his hips, and the trail of hair that leads to his thick erection.

  I’m dizzy with lust.

  “I’m yours, Hannah.” His voice is hoarse, rough with desire. “You can have any part of me you want. I tried to stay away from you, but I can’t.” He reaches for me. “I’m yours.”

  Pulling me close, he looks deep into my eyes. �
��Don’t slap me in public again. It’s not good for my reputation.”

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  He startles. “How?”

  “I thought you were delirious.” I shrug. “I didn’t want you to have to explain yourself to any other reporters . . . or your dad.”

  Adoration blankets his face. “You were protecting me?”

  “Attempting to. But I think I made it worse.”

  Stepping into my room, he shakes his head. “You could never make my life worse, Hannah. Never.”

  In this moment, there are no outside threats, no prying eyes. There are only two people with the ability to make the other feel the enormity of their self-worth.

  His steady fingers unbutton my blouse, a tick in his jaw becoming more pronounced the lower he goes. Cool air rushes in, as he slides it off my shoulders, chilling my bare skin.

  “Fuck me,” he mumbles as his eyes rake over my black lace bra and my bare torso.

  “Please,” I say with a sigh.

  With a deep growl, Derek grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The moonlight casts a dusky glow on his movements, his ripped muscles, and his golden skin marked by lines of black tribal sayings. He’s beautiful, and for tonight, he’s mine.

  Shrugging my shirt to the floor, I unclasp my bra and let it fall off my shoulders. My jeans and panties go next, and I stand before him, his for the taking.

  “Touch me,” I say.

  His lips part in awe.

  “I won’t stop,” he says. “I want you. I have wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

  He traces the dark circles of my nipples, and they both harden at the intimacy of his touch. “Please. Don’t stop.”

  I run my hands along the planes of his chest, curl my fingers around his strong shoulders, digging into the heat of his skin. He eases me onto the bed, his touch searing a path down my abdomen and onto the swell of my hips while his lips trail the length of my neck. He dips a hand between my legs, and I open for him, the stroke of his touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. My hips rock to the rhythm of his caress, my body a coiled bundle of pure ecstasy.

  “Fuck, Hannah. I love touching you,” he mumbles against my neck.

  His tongue flicks at my earlobe, working it between his teeth as he rocks above me, his erection sliding along my thigh. I grab his shoulders, secure under the weight of him, cocooned in our fantasy.

  Heat sears my body, tightness coiling at the apex of my thighs. One finger enters me, then two, and I can’t help but thrust my hips and moan in complete ecstasy. “So close,” I groan. “I’m so close.”

  “I feel it,” his lips move against mine. “I feel all of it.”

  He pulls back, and my body recoils at the loss of heat. The sound of crinkling plastic makes my insides clench. God, yes.

  I watch him roll the condom onto his hard shaft, his hands trembling, his body a hard mass of chiseled muscle. “God Hannah, you’re fucking beautiful.” He palms his erection and watches me watch him, a slight smile on his lips. “Whenever you’re around, I ache to touch you, to feel you.” The tattoos on his torso move with his muscles, twisting and turning like a serpent clinging to him. I trace the curved markings, and he closes his eyes and sighs. As he towers over me, he spreads my legs, making my blood light on fire.

  “Do you want me?” he asks, eyes closed, body tense. “Hannah, do you want me?”

  “Yes,” I beg.

  He enters me.

  “Ah,” he cries out, his eyes pinched tight, his arms trembling, biceps bulging.

  “All of me?” he asks.

  I tilt my hips, attempt to take him deeper.

  “Oh God, Hannah.”

  He sinks deep inside, grunting a guttural noise that sounds like pain and relief.

  I wrap my legs around his hips and give myself over to him. He moves with purpose, with confidence. A man who knows what he’s doing, to make my body respond to his, to give everything up to him. His thrusts are steady, his breath ragged. My orgasm rolls through me, a continuous wave of pleasure that has my back arching, my toes curling. His name cries from my lips.

  The tempo of his movement shifts, and I feel him spinning out of control. Rising above me, he releases all inhibitions, his powerful body falling apart.

  Flesh against flesh, man against woman, together, we find the tempo that binds us. “Hannah. Oh shit, Hannah.” I come again, both of us trembling as one, our labored breaths heavy in the quiet of my room. In the darkness, offering him my body, I hand him my heart, hoping he’s giving me his in return.

  I toy with the platinum chain around his neck. “Why do you wear this?”

  Sliding off my body, he lies beside me. My skin chills at the loss of heat. The bed creaks at his movement, and I’m surprised when he rises, pulling his sweats back in place.

  “The bathroom’s down the hall.”

  He walks out of the room, and I watch the way his muscles flex with each step, the tattoos stretch around his back, wrapping his torso in a halo of thick ink. I want to know what they say, what they mean. I want to know about the chain. I want to know it all. Not for my story, but because I want to know what moves him, what frightens him, what he loves, who he hates.

  “I’m sorry,” he says when he returns, his face pained. He fills the doorway, gripping the frame.

  I sit up on my knees, the sheet falling to the side. “What for?”

  He shakes his head, refusing to look at me, searching the floor for his shirt and snatching it off the carpet. His face in his hands, he sits at the end of my bed. A cold feeling of dread washes over me.

  I inch over to him and run my fingers across his back. “What’s wrong?”

  He eyes me over his shoulder, the pained expression on his face crushing. “I meant what I said. I’m all yours, but . . .” His shoulders fall under the weight of a burden I know nothing about. “I can’t talk about this chain. Please, don’t ever ask me about it again.”

  Shit.

  “Are you going to leave?” I can’t make him stay, but if he’d let me, I’d gladly bear this burden for him. If he’d open up, if he’d talk to me, I’d help him. “Derek.” It’s a plea, so many emotions in that one word.

  With an audible sigh, he takes my hand. “If you want me to, I’ll stay, but no more questions.”

  “Stay.”

  He kisses the back of my hand and drags us under the covers into our private world, the secrets of his past locked away for a little while longer.

  I watch her sleep. Peaceful, relaxed, sated, she’s everything I’ve always wanted and exactly what I’ve been denied. The urge to stay, to fall asleep wrapped around her, making her believe there is a chance for so much more, a chance at an us would be cruel. I never should have come here.

  Closing my eyes in defeat, I inhale her scent, listen to the sounds of her soft breaths, brand this moment to memory before leaving her bed. I told her I was hers. What a stupid promise to make.

  If I stay, I’m punishing her to a life of heartache, a life of scrutiny. Quietly dressing, I curse the life I was born into, the life that prevents me from giving Hannah everything she deserves. Ready to leave, I stand in her doorway and watch her for a few moments, envious of her peaceful state, and guilty at the devastation my leaving is going to cause her. But she’ll survive. I can’t be sure of that if I stay.

  I drive for hours. Confused. On edge. Ashamed. Sex with Hannah was intense. Euphoric, a high I never knew existed.

  I’m different when I’m with her. It’s as if all my past sins are forgotten, all tragedies held at bay. I should have taken off my chain, should have expected her to ask about it. The minute she touched it, I knew this situation was too big for me. How can I ever tell her the truth? She’ll think I’m a monster, and maybe I am, but not with her. I’d never hurt her.

  But you did. You left her.

  Arrrghh! I pound the steering wheel, furious with my life. I didn’t ask to be born a Cage. I wouldn’t wish this burde
n on anyone. The chain is the reminder: I don’t deserve the life Hannah offers.

  With football, I have a path to follow. It’s the direction I need. It keeps me focused, forgetting who I am, my identity created on the field. Hannah is a fork in that road, one that leads to unknown destinations, an adventure only a coward would shy away from. I don’t want to be that coward.

  The past few weeks away from her were hell. Every day I envisioned my hands on her soft curves and smooth skin. My left hand was no substitute for the constant arousal. Trying to kiss her in the locker room was so dumb, a feeble attempt to wear my emotions on my sleeve. I’m not that guy, and I need to remember that. She knew, though. Those moments are meant to stay private, something I know well, and I fucked it up. Shit, I’ve fucked a lot up.

  I drive for hours, the streets quiet, dark, a few lights scattered here and there. It’s cold outside, winter a few weeks away. Pulling up to the home that chills my bones, I stare at the dark windows of the menacing monstrosity, my stomach dropping, and my heart cold. It’s not the first time I’ve been here. Whether to torture them or myself, I’m not sure, but I can’t seem to break the cycle. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, courage or forgiveness. I don’t expect either.

  I open the car door and step out. The wind lifts my hair, blows right through my shirt. I don’t have a jacket. I didn’t realize I’d be trolling the streets in the middle of the night.

  A curtain slides to the side, a shadow looming in the dark second-story window. She knows I’m here. She always knows, but she won’t come out, and I won’t go inside.

  I can’t let Hannah’s life turn out like this—a shadow in the dark, a ghost waiting for her life to end or wishing it had never started in the first place. Hannah deserves so much more than this.

  The Rage and The Fury: has Chicago’s notorious bad boy found his match?