Page 22 of Caged By the Stranger (Bad Decisions #1)

I glance around for Rory, but he’s already in the gaggle of the other team, congratulating them on their win.

Was he actually going to say something to me?

Was he concerned that I got pelted in the face?

Why do I want him to have wanted to say something?

It was just a ball to the face. I’m fine.

It’s not like this is an appropriate place to comment on anything that happened last night.

The afternoon drags on with more misery. I shove food in my mouth in silence, sitting in a circle of folding chairs with some of the sales reps while Rory’s laughter floats across the beach as he speaks to everyone but me.

Unable to stand anymore of the mundane chit chat, I stomp off to the ocean and swim until my legs cramp, still spent from the powerful release last night.

By the time I return to the beach, the sun is setting, and someone’s started a bonfire.

Just my luck that everyone has seemed to congregate around it, including Rory.

“There he is,” he enthuses, granting me a rare smile.

My stomach flips. I just nod and continue drying myself as I find a free chair. Collecting my sandy tank top, I yank it over my head and accept the bottle of beer that Carmen hands me. If I can’t avoid feeling self-conscious, I can at least numb it with some liquor for whatever fuckery is next.

Rory proceeds to thank all of us for our hard work and dedication to the company.

He tells us how much fun he’s had being on this cruise and getting to know us.

I try not to snort, wondering how much of that declaration of fun has to do with him fingering my gland last night.

He informs us he’ll be sending out an offer packet for a promotion to one lucky candidate in the next week, which gets him a few gasps and squeals of joy.

And then he turns up the music and takes a chair on the opposite side of the bonfire, preventing me from seeing him through the heat of the blaze.

Am I the lucky candidate? I know what he said last night, but did he mean it? And do I even want to be?

In the grand scheme of things, I know I shouldn’t even be worrying about it.

I should be counting the minutes until we get back to the ship so I can work on picking the lock on my cage, not drowning in curiosity over whether I’m the apple of Rory McDonnell’s professional eye.

The longer I sit amidst the merriment of my co-workers, however, the deeper my agitation grows.

Each time I glimpse Rory’s face across the firelight, each time I spot his smiling lips, my nuts flutter.

One drink turns to three and then four, trying to silence the memories of the pleasant sensations in my ass.

I try to catch what Carmen and the others are saying.

I even throw out a laugh every now and then, so I look like I’m paying attention.

Each time I see Rory’s index and middle finger wrapped around his beer bottle, however, I find myself having to stifle little noises of… want.

‘What do you need?’

I don’t need him. I don’t. Except that means this unexplainable pull I’m feeling is, in fact, want.

How can I want such a man now that I know him?

I let him crack me open and do things I never thought I would do.

He made me like things I never intended to like.

I’ve never spent so much headspace on anyone I’ve hooked up with, so what is the deal?

Is it just his unique brand of foreplay and methods that have me stuck on him?

Maybe I’m just learning a lesson I never considered before—that it’s possible to like how someone can make you feel, even if you don’t like that person.

Attraction has always just been physical for me, so it makes sense.

Maybe when I get home and I’m not forced to look at him anymore, I’ll be free of all these surprising urges.

I still can’t believe I’m attracted to someone I’ve had to have so much face-to-face contact and conversation with. Maybe my tastes are changing with age.

By the time the shuttle vans show up and we load back into them, I’m at my limit of being ignored. I’m even more at my limit of being aggravated about being ignored. What the fuck do I care if he hasn’t looked at me or talked to me all day? I’ve got the combination. That’s all I really needed.

I mumble my goodnights to Carmen, Niel, and the others when we arrive back on the yacht.

Tromping my way down the corridor to my cabin, my limbs are heavy from the beer I sulked over.

It emphasizes the weight at my groin, a cruel reminder of my attachment to the man who occupies the next cabin.

Scanning my room, I find the tweezers where I tossed them to the floor this morning and fetch them.

Flopping down on my bed, I shove the waistband of my trunks down and scoot back against the pillows. It’s time to be rid of this thing once and for all.

Inserting the end of the tweezers into the keyhole, I press them against the locking mechanism. Or, at least, what I think is the locking mechanism. I’m going to take a lock picking course after all this is over, I swear.

Gripping the section where the sac cable slides into the hollow metal frame on the underside of the cage, I wiggle it back and forth, hoping it will help the mechanism inside give way. Each tug I make to the cable applies pressure to my trapped balls, tugging grunts from my lips.

“This is such bullshit,” I mutter, shifting on the bed and widening my legs.

Just as I shift my cage to go at the keyhole from a different angle, I hear commotion next door. The sound of pipes running filters through the walls. The droning of water falling has me straightening.

Rory’s back, and he must be in the shower. Well, good for him. I’m glad one of us can relax after a long day under the sun at the beach, and the world’s most humiliating volleyball match.

Shaking my head, I hunch over again and line up the tweezers. I hope he’s in there soaping himself up and thinking about how he can’t toy with me anymore.

Yeah, he’s probably plotting his next visit to his club. Maybe someone else caught his eye, and he’s already got another custom cage being designed for them. It’s not impossible. The more I think about how possible it is, the more my stomach turns.

“Ouch! Damn it!”

The tweezers fall from my hand after they slip and jab me in the cock. Fuck that hurt! I check for blood, but they didn’t pierce my skin, just grazed it.

Fucking Rory. This fucking ship. What do I care if he didn’t bat an eye at me all day and how ‘ special ’ he supposedly thinks I am?

If I were so special, he’d be over here knocking on my door, not ignoring me and taking the world’s longest shower like he’s planning on plopping into bed for a relaxing night of sleep afterward.

I palm my tweezers again and rub the red mark on my cock, wincing. This is such bullshit. I shouldn’t have to torture myself when there’s a fucking key next door and a man who has zero plans to use it. I have the sudden urge for him to see me, to take one last look at what he’s done.

Scooting off the bed, I yank my trunks up and whip the tweezers at my wall.

I’m not going to need them. Rory McDonnell is going to get this thing off me, whether he likes it or not.

He’s going to look at me, talk to me, and have to deal with me.

If it stops him from calculating his next sexual mark, it’s the least I can do for humanity.

He wanted me. He’s going to get me. He can’t just throw me away.