Page 46 of Caged Kitten

It wasn’t supposed to feel like fireworks.

It wasn’t supposed to linger.

And most of all, my lips weren’t supposed to soften, to fit so perfectly against a mouth that had been driving me nuts for the last hour. His free hand slithered down my body, rough and wandering over my curves, until it splayed possessively across my lower back. The other held my wrist tighter, both working together to drive me into his chest. Elijah exhaled a hot breath against my cheek, not a flicker of shock in his eyes—only desire. Carnal and raging. Explosive need that knocked the wind out of me. Flames hot as the sun ready to burn me alive.

All that in a look—in his eyes and nowhere else. Because he might have gripped me tight, yanked me flush against him, soft lines colliding furiously with a wall of unyielding muscle—but he did all that with restraint, his body stiff…

Like he was fighting me.

The fireworks suddenly sparked lower, pinwheeling in my belly, exploding between my thighs, and my eyes fluttered shut to block out the gold, to stop staring directly at the beast, challenging the dragon—

“Hey, idiots.”

We sprang apart just as Jensen rounded the corner, stalking into the bakery’s depths for what seemed like the first time based on his darting, curious gaze. Phone in one hand, his free one fidgeted with his belt, the warlock’s mouth twisted in a grimace. Did he suspect anything? I mean, Elijah just stood there like a giant tree, stiff and glaring at the floor, fists at his side. Meanwhile, there was me, cheeks on fire, breath feathering in and out, struggling to keep it normal, to quiet my thundering heart.

“I need to, uh, use the facilities,” Jensen announced. Right—classic oblivious warlock moment. Thank the gods for small mercies. He picked at his belt again, almost dancing in place, and then under his breath muttered, “Fucking potluck breakfast…” As if realizing he’d said that out loud, he straightened and stopped fussing, shoulders back like he was a guard we ought to take seriously. “Can you hold down the fort for like twenty minutes?”

I just stared back at him, mind full of static.

At least Elijah managed to nod—to look somewhat present, if a little furious.

“Great.” Jensen tucked his phone into his uniform’s breast pocket, then tapped his wand like we’d forgotten all the guards carried one. “Don’t fuck this up, or you’re both in solitary for a week, comprendo?”

Yeesh. That was the most atrocious butchery of the Spanish language I’d ever heard, that Alabama drawl wrapping around the word in a way that was almost offensive. When neither of us responded, Jensen gave us a look like we were slow in the head, then tapped his ear, expecting a response.

“Yes,” Elijah rasped. Our phone-obsessed guard might not have realized it from the way he stalked—waddled—off, but I caught it, every damn decibel. The depth. The subtle roar. Gravel and woodsmoke and whiskey and oh no. Elijah sounded different—darker, more dangerous—and it made my body sing. Thrown by the reaction, by the sudden and intense desire throbbing through me, flooding my veins and demanding action, I pivoted on the spot and beelined toward our workstation. Just put the bread in the bags. Just get through the next six—ughhh—hours and use the humdrum, repetitive tasks like a cold shower.

Only I didn’t make it back to the table.

Relief sparked when Elijah caught me by the elbow. Need flared when he dragged me hard to the left. Resistance reared its ugly head, almost because it had to, when he hauled me toward the walk-in proofing pantry.

“Elijah,” I hissed, feet stuttering over stone. “Stop—”

“Shut up, Katja,” he growled in that voice, so unlike him—vaguely threatening and utterly wild. Why the hell did I find that so hot?

The shifter wrenched open the pantry door as he had a hundred times before over the last month, but this time it bounced off the wall, hurled with such force that I swore I heard something crack and splinter. He shoved me inside, forceful and infuriating in the way he manhandled me like a guard.

Only I didn’t want to cower like I did with the black-suited warlocks skulking around Xargi’s corridors. As I rounded in place, immediately assaulted by the pantry’s chill compared to the bakery inferno, I wanted to fight. Hit back. Shove him. Rake my nails up his chest—down his back. Nip at that tempting lower lip like it was mine.

A whoosh of hot air washed over me as Elijah dragged the pantry door shut, slamming it into place hard enough that the hinges whined. For a beat, he just stood there, back to me, shoulders rising and falling like he was chasing his breath, but when he turned, he stared me down with the eyes of the dragon. I swallowed hard, taking this brief pause for what it was: a chance to back out. To shatter this moment with a much-needed dose of reality. But my feet had grown roots, my knees had locked, and neither would budge.

Not until he grabbed me again, snapped that strong hand around my forearm and yanked me forward, spinning us, and shoved me up against the door. The brief flash of pain in the back of my head felt oddly welcome, and I grabbed at his jumpsuit just as he descended on me, mouth crashing to mine. He caught me with my lips slightly parted, and he took full advantage of that, parting them further with his brutality, claiming me with his tongue, marking me with his teeth.

Elijah struck me as a nice guy. Stoic and quiet and contemplative most times, preferring to observe a situation before reacting—any situation that didn’t involve me, at least. Yet compared to everyone in here, he was so good. Earnest. Thoughtful and protective and selfless—

But he didn’t kiss like he was good.

He kissed like a villain, forceful and rough, taking what he wanted, thrusting me against the door with a soaring figure of pure muscle. He kissed me like he was guilty, like he had sinned and deserved penance.

And I loved it.

This side of him just did it for me.

And it shouldn’t. I didn’t need more reasons to be drawn to him, for my traitorous body to crave him, but I’d never be able to shake this feeling—the feeling of being dominated. Of wanting to be dominated, taken, ravished.

Highly aware that we had twenty minutes, maybe less, maybe a few more, my hands flew up his chest and reclaimed a bit of the control. My fingers seized the first button on his jumpsuit, frantic and shaky, fumbling to undo it like I hadn’t been buttoning my own for the last fifty miserable days. As soon as the first fell, the next came easier, and then the next, the next, until suddenly I’d parted the seas, the blue fabric falling open to reveal a sculpted torso. At least, I assumed as much from the feel, my eyes shut, my mouth occupied—plundered—by his. But when my knuckles brushed the searing skin of his navel, nudging at what felt like a sharply defined V headed southward, I tore my mouth away with a gasp.

The faintest touch of skin to skin and I panicked.

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