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“Yes, yes, yes . . . mmm, yes . . . stretch my pussy . . . uhhhh . . .”
She’d come over and over, her juices splashing out as his dick slid in and out of her quacking body.
Her wet clutch had made him weak in the knees.
The problem was, he’d fallen hard after only the first time. First, with the pussy then he’d, somehow, fallen in love with her. What he felt was much deeper than lust.
It was supposed to be just sex, fucking her senseless, getting his nut, then going on about his business. But she’d turned him on beyond his wildest imagination. Though the sex between them was always wild, rushed, heated, he always felt satiated every time he came. More fulfilled than he’d ever been with anyone else.
And now he was hooked.
This shit was crazy.
She wasn’t his side bitch. She was his only bitch.
He missed seeing her every night. Missed having her in his arms. Missed having his dick tapping the bottom of her well as many times as he wanted.
He sighed.
For three months—well, if he wanted to include the two months she’d done her first time in solitary, then it was five months. In any case, he’d had her all to himself on night shift, giving her long dick whenever she wanted it. They hadn’t started fucking heavy until she’d returned to lockup the second time, and—as far as he was concerned—he’d stamped his dick all in it. The pussy was his. But—fuck. Now, for the last several weeks, she was back in general population, again, doing her own thing, probably enticing other motherfuckers.
His jaw clenched as he stuffed her panties back into his pants pocket. The thought of her giving another muhfucka her loving made his blood boil. He knew how grimy the dudes he worked with could be. He also knew of a few cats that were fucking several of the inmates already. So he knew it was only a matter of time before one of them shady motherfuckers tried to get a taste of what was his.
She was his, period.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a lighter. He lit a cigarette, tilted his head back, and let the sun hit his caramel-coated face. He inhaled. The world shimmered in front of his eyes, and, for a brief moment, he imagined a life with her outside of these concrete walls. The thought caused his erection to stretch, and liquid heat to pool in his testicles, and more than anything, he wanted to pull his dick out and stroke himself.
He groaned inwardly, then exhaled a long plume of smoke. He closed his eyes for a moment. What the fuck was wrong with him? He wasn’t an ugly muhfucka. His six-one frame was gym right. His dick game was on point. He had paper in the bank. And he knew he had major swag. He could have any woman he wanted. And he had his share of them throwing the pussy at him left and right. So how the fuck had he gotten caught up falling in love with an inmate?
Fuck if he knew.
He took a deep breath. It was almost time for him to head back into the building. He’d taken overtime, just so he could be on day shift to see her, if only for a moment. Still, he needed to get her out of his head. Walking around with a hard dick all day was the last thing he needed, especially when he wasn’t able to stick it deep into something tight and wet.
He took one last pull from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and stepping on the burning tip with the heel of his boot.
Then he headed back to his post.
TWELVE
Sex with Me . . .
The cell doors slid open, and Heaven stepped out of her cell; her dark-brown hair tumbling to the center of her back in thick, bouncy waves. A cacophony of sounds swept around her. Other inmates yelled out to their homegirls across the other side of the tier, some rushed out of their cells to hit the showers, and those who didn’t own a television of their own in their cells wanted to get to the first two rows on either side of the day space in front of the two fifty-inch flat screens anchored up on each wall.
The first inmate to the TVs’ remotes was who controlled what everyone else watched. The TV bullies ran shit. So much for a democracy, it was nonexistent.
Heaven blinked.
Hazel eyes, full of mischief, rested underneath a set of ridiculously long lashes. Lashes that most women would kill to have. She dramatically shook her hair, sliding a hand through her luscious mane as if modeling for a Pantene commercial. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked in her surroundings. So much had changed, and so much had stayed the same, since she’d been dragged back to lockup.
Apparently being the sole reason for one of the prison’s most notoriously vicious bullies on 4 East being ushered off the housing unit on a stretcher and, then, fighting her cronies singlehandedly had earned her respect, and had quickly moved her slightly up the inmate prison pecking order.
Whoopty-fucking-do.
All she knew was, the next time she—if there happened to be a next time—or any other bitch stepped to her crazy or disrespectful, or tried to put their hands on her, there’d be more blood shed.
And they’d need more than Hazmat and a stretcher.
They’d need a coroner.
