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eyes. Her gasps of pleasure. The parting of her thick lips I imagine wrapped around my cock, taking me deep into the back of her throat.
My balls tighten. My spine tingles.
I’m downright ravenous for her. Her smell, her taste. Her fucking insubordination.
Her fear.
I want all of her and I want all of me inside of her. I’m going to explore every inch of her perfect body with my mouth, fingers and aching cock. Her nipples are hard and in my face, creating an urgency to dominate her body, her mind, her fucking soul, that’s about to detonate.
I’ve jerked off three times since the shower incident, picturing her ass in the air, her back arched as she leaned against the shower wall.
“I need more,” I groan.
“More?” she asks breathlessly.
I grab her by the waist and dig my fingers into the curve of her hips. I guide her to grind her hot pussy against me harder.
“I need it all,” I rasp.
We’re breathing in each other’s exhales. Devouring each other’s mouths. If the world burned down around us, I wouldn’t notice.
I wouldn’t stop.
I’m hanging on by a fucking thread. Frankie’s mouth tastes sweet, and I wonder how her pussy tastes in comparison. The taste of her I got in the shower has lingered. No matter how much time has passed or how many times I’ve brushed or chugged whiskey, nothing has been able to rid it from my tongue.
The thought causes me to groan into her mouth, and I rock her harder against me. The warmth of her pussy on my lap is like a fucking drug. Stronger and more addictive than blow.
She’s cocaine with legs, and I’m a fucking addict before I’ve even had a taste.
The phone buzzes on the side table. I reach over blindly to shut it off, but I can’t reach it. I lean over to hit the ignore button when I read the words that slam the brakes on this train before it barrels off the tracks and crashes into the motherfucking station.
GOT A HIT ON FRANK HELBURN YESTERDAY. REMOTE LOG-IN THROUGH DARK WEB. WORKING ON HIS LOCATION NOW. NOT LONG BEFORE THE FUCKER IS OURS. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.
My brain is still processing the text when another bucket of water is doused over our heads as Zelda enters through the front door carrying a steaming casserole dish.
“Fuck,” Frankie curses, pressing herself up tighter against my body to hide her nakedness.
Zelda doesn’t look the least bit shocked. She places the dish on the counter and looks over at us with an eyebrow raised and a fist on her hip.
“Shit, Rage was right. You really did name the bacon.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Smoke took off.Cold hard eyes in place of the ones filled with lust just seconds before. He tossed me off his lap and threw my clothes at me like nothing changed between us when EVERYTHING has changed. He made some excuse about a phone call and having shit to do, leaving me alone with Zelda at her place.
I set out to seduce him, but in the process, I’d managed to seduce myself right into his arms.
Idiot.
I look out over the prison yard and contemplate making a run for it since now I know Zelda wouldn’t be held accountable for my actions, but I remember the ankle monitor strapped to my leg.
Blowing myself up seems a bit counterproductive.
We’re sitting on the back deck in silence, teacups in hand. Zelda’s lips are pressed together like she’s trying not to smile.
“Are we going to talk about what you saw or are you just going to sit there and try not to laugh?” I ask, now fully-clothed. I pull my knees up and sigh.
“Oh, Frankie,” she says with a chuckle. “I’m gonna do what all good Scottish mamas do and weave this situation into a life lesson you won’t understand.” She nods. “Just as soon as I figure out how.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I say.
“While you’re waiting, maybe, you should do something to occupy your time,” Zelda suggests. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know a lot about my mother. She died when I was young but I found a bunch of paintings in the attic once with her name on them. I’m okay at drawing but I’ve always wanted to try my hand at painting.”
“Why haven’t you?” Zelda asks.
“I’ve been…preoccupied.”
A big yellow lab comes bounding out from the weeds with a snake in his mouth, tail swinging proudly from side to side. He’s only got one eye.
“Have you met The Warden?” Zelda asks, leaning down to scratch behind the lab’s ears. She takes the black snake from his mouth. It’s still alive, hissing and showing its fangs. “Oh hush,” she says, plucking the snake from his mouth and tossing it over the railing. “He lost his eye fighting a snake. Looks like he still hasn’t learned his lesson.”
The dog comes over to me next, resting his head on my lap. He closes his eyes and sighs as I scratch his neck. He’s obviously not one of those dogs who needs time to get used to new people.
“The Warden?” I ask, patting his head in long slow strokes. The dog makes a noise that sounds curiously like purring, keeping his eyes closed. “That’s his name?”
Zelda chuckles. “Every prison needs a warden. I named him before I realized that he’s about as stern and watchful as a baby bunny. Good at catching snakes though. Now, if he would just kill ‘em instead of trying to be friends with them…”
My mind wanders back to Smoke.
The dog isn’t the only one who needs to learn that lesson.
I shift in my chair. The Warden glares up at me with one eye open as if to say he doesn’t appreciate being jostled around. I scratch between his ears some more, and his eye closes once again. His hind leg bounces off the floor in appreciation.
“He’s downright menacing,” I joke.
“Not all who appear menacing are what they seem,” Zelda comments. I know instantly she’s talking about Smoke. I stop petting the dog who only stays a second more before darting into the yard to lay belly up in the grass under the bright sun, long tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say. I feel disappointed and stupid and rejected and then stupider still because the whole thing is ridiculous. I’m a captive who’s about to be offered up for slaughter, not some girl whose been ditched before prom.
“Did Smoke tell you how we met?” Zelda asks, then, without waiting for me to answer, adds, “Of course, he hasn’t.”
She sets down her knitting and looks out to the yard where The Warden is now scratching his back against the grass in some sort of weird lying down dance, shifting his hips from one side to the other with his legs up in the air.
“Smoke was just a boy. About nine years old. Barney, my late husband, was a retired Navy man. He found Smoke covered in blood and dirt, wondering around the prison yard. He was half starved to death, and his eyes…his eyes were all wrong. Barney called me over, and I tried to coax the boy into the house, give him a bath and some food and shelter but he looked at us like he was a wild animal. He lunged at me with a knife. Thankfully my husband punched him before he could reach me. Knocked him out cold.”
She laughs like it’s a fond memory and not the opening scene of a horror movie where everyone dies in the end and the serial killer heads to another town to start his murdering spree all over again.
