The Cage (Book 2)

Only Us

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Only Us

The space between us pulsed with something unspoken, thick and electric. Schneider's hand, warm and rough, gripped my hip, his thumb brushing lazy circles over the jut of bone.

I shivered beneath him, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like I was drowning in the weight of this moment. But there was no fear. Only raw, aching need. I had waited too long, had spent too many nights wondering if I would ever get this chance—if I would ever feel Schneider again, solid and real, against me.

He loomed over me, his storm-dark eyes locked onto mine, searching. For what, I didn't know. Doubt? Permission? A reason to stop? Whatever it was, I refused to let it fester.

Reaching up, I tangled my fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled, forcing our bodies to collide, chest to chest, heat to heat. "Don't think," I murmured, my voice rough, desperate. "Just take me."

A ragged exhale left his lips, and whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped. His mouth crashed against mine, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, the kiss brutal and unrelenting. He tasted of coffee and exhaustion and something distinctly him—something I had burned into my memory long before now.

Schneider pressed me down into the mattress, his weight a grounding force, hands roaming—possessive, desperate, mapping every inch of exposed skin as if memorizing it anew. But I could feel the restraint in his touch, the careful control as he held back his full strength to avoid hurting me. The thought sent a tendril of affection curling through my chest. I arched into his touch, gasping when his rough palms slid beneath my shirt, skimming over scars and fresh wounds alike.

"You should be resting," he muttered against my jaw, but the words lacked conviction. His hands didn't stop, didn't pull away.

I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. My heart was about to burst right out of my chest and flutter away. "I'll rest after."

He cursed under his breath, his forehead pressing against mine for the briefest second, as if collecting himself. Then, with a slow, measured motion, his fingers traced over the mended wound at my side, his gaze darkening with something unreadable.

"I hate seeing you hurt," he admitted, voice hoarse, thick with something deeper than lust.

I caught his wrist, gently pulling it away from the wound and pressing his palm flat against my bare chest, letting him feel the erratic beat of my heartbeat. Meeting his gaze with an unmistakable invitation, I purred, "Then make me forget."

A growl rumbled low in his throat, and before I could say another word, he was on me again—mouth hot and demanding, hands rough as they dragged over my skin. I groaned as his fingers wrapped around me, stroking leisurely. Deliberate. Delicious.

I gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Fuck—"

He swallowed the curse with another bruising kiss, his grip tightening, pace quickening. My hips lifted, seeking more, but he pinned me down effortlessly, control still in his grasp despite the raw hunger in his movements.

Then, just as quickly as he'd touched me, he pulled away, leaving me aching and breathless and pining for more.

"He sat back on his heels, his gaze raking over my body with a reverence that sent a shiver down my spine. Then, with long, lean fingers, he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he slipped them free, his fingers steady despite the hunger darkening his eyes.