Heart In A Cage

18

Isabella

Before I can undress, the door swings open.

"Andreas."

He stands on the threshold, face a void, looking handsome. The arms of his black blouse have been pulled back to reveal muscular forearms, cordlike veins appearing from underneath a dense assemblage of tattoos that indeed confirm the illustration of stems and leaves at his hands stretch on. There isn't any break in the color of his attire but for the silver buckle of a belt tightened around his jeans.

I keep my attention there until his low, stern voice chops through the silence.

"Where were you?" His eyes slither over me, taking in the mini-skirt and bare-chested tee. Mischievous. That's what I feel today. So sensing the wrath leaking from his tense position, I can't help but act like it.

"Out." I move towards him, careful to maintain a distance. "With Leo."

His mouth tightens, but that brief exposure of vulnerability disappears as the impassive mask returns.

"Hmph. Was this your outfit?" He examines me once more, and I halt a few feet away from him.

I want his rage to multiply, so I ask, "Why? It shouldn't matter to you. You're not my real boyfriend."

At that, he slowly walks over to me, and I take steps back despite yearning for his closeness.

"Your skirt is too fucking short," he spits. I take a quick look down at my thighs, clad in the short skirt. "And the slit―unnecessary."

"That shouldn't matter to you." The corner of my mouth twitches up into a slight smirk. "Unless you're jealous."

One second he was several feet away, and now he's before me. "What do you want, huh?" His eyes are blazing, the entire length from his clenched fists to heaving shoulders tense. Involuntarily, my attention sneaks down to his hands.

One of them grips my neck.

At first, it's soft, but when he notices that I'm lifting and swaying my chest, my fingers joined together behind my back, the pressure surrounding my throat grows. He scowls―and grunts. He's peering down the opening of my top.

"Isabella. Would you like me to envy every guy you mess around with?" His whisper is gentle, unlike the nudge he uses to bring my head towards him. "To get angry whenever you dress yourself in a slutty outfit that isn't meant for me?"

The hold tightens, and I feel a lustful urge grow with the wicked pleasure of his fury. It's what pushes me to tamper with the distance between us, move my chest forward so I can give him a better view, and demand that another step is taken.

He releases my neck.

I'm empty without his burning touch.

"On the bed."

I try not to jump in excitement—try not to rush onto the covers and lay myself down.

The order is undeniable, and slowly, I move to the bed, watching as he remains in place with his eyes following my movements, ready to detect any unsought actions. I sit down, reclining my back against the pillows cushioning the headboard. I don't know what to expect next, especially after staring into his infuriated eyes for what seems to be a minute.

He kicks off his shoes, going over to his desk where a bunch of stationary lies. He picks up the scissors.

"What are―"

"Shut that lovely mouth of yours. I don't want you speaking—not until I ask." The scissors are placed at my side. He throws himself over me, my legs under his groin and between his knees. But discontent is drawn in. He doesn't touch me, just looks at me.