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And she senses it, pulling back, her eyes searching my face. “I’m about ready to come,” I confess through gritted teeth. “You’re too tempting.”
“You don’t have to resist.” She reaches down to lower my jeans.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Fuck, I can’t fight it anymore. I need her too much, and she wants this the way I do. “I’ll go slow.” She nods, biting her lip, then moans when my head lines up with her quivering hole.
Instead of impaling her with one quick, deep thrust, I ease my way inside. It’s the sweetest torture, entering her an inch at a time. Her muscles tighten around me, drawing me deeper, the way her legs draw my hips closer.
Rather than withdraw right away, I remain in place, kissing her while she clings to me. When I grind my hips, she moans into my mouth and threatens to make me come, but I fight it off in hopes of making her come with me.
We move like this, working together, my cock buried deep inside her while I grind against her clit. It’s unreal how right it feels. How much better than anything ever has. Her body wrapped around mine. The way she clings to me and moans into my mouth with every slow, sensual grind stimulating her clit and G-spot at once.
“Come with me,” I grunt between kisses, and she whimpers in agreement before her muscles begin to tighten. To ripple. She’s almost there, and oh, fuck, it’s so good.
The familiar tingling at the base of my spine suddenly explodes. There’s nothing left but to hold on to each other to keep from falling apart while I come until my ears ring and cum leaks out around my cock, mixed with her juices.
Holy shit. I’m almost afraid to lift my head from the pillow behind hers once I finish roaring my release. I’ve never been that real with anybody before. That tender and open and considerate. Only Aspen.
The way she strokes the back of my neck tells me I have nothing to worry about. “Thank you,” she whispers like a prayer in my ear while our breathing slows and reality leaks back in.
I’ve lost myself to this woman. I can’t bring myself to care when she’s all I’ll ever want.
Even if every second we spend together is a mistake.
21
ASPEN
It’s always the same.
He walks into the shower room and realizes he’s alone with nothing but the sound of dripping water echoing off the cold tiles. Does the hair at the back of his neck stand up? Do his instincts scream at him to go, to turn around and get out of there?
It doesn’t matter. It’s already too late.
When the door behind him opens, he knows it’s over. He’s been waiting for it, expecting it even. Occasionally, hoping it wouldn’t come to pass, that he would be safe, but he’s seen enough angry glares and heard enough knowing snickers. It was always going to end this way.
Three men enter the room. They’re dressed in orange prison jumpsuits and wear identical murderous expressions. They look at him like he’s garbage, but then again, that’s how everyone has looked at him since he arrived.
But now, there’s no one to stop them. And when a flash of something metallic and sharp gleams in the very corner of his eye, the strangest sense of relief washes over him. At least it will be quick. That’s the best he can hope for now.
Until another one of them punches his open palm, his smile widening. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” the man growls, and my father understands they have no intention of being merciful. Not until his blood paints the walls, the floor, not until it pools over the grimy tile and mixes with the water lingering around the edges of the drains.
“Aspen. Aspen, wake up.”
My eyes pop open, and I realize I can’t breathe, my chest is too tight, my lungs won’t fill. I can’t see anything in front of me but darkness, making it easy for the image from my dream to follow me into awareness. I’m not there. There’s no shower room, no bright fluorescent lights. I’m safe.
I’m in Quinton’s arms, and Quinton is doing everything he can to calm me down. “You’re safe. You were having a nightmare.”
Only a nightmare. The same nightmare that insists on playing in my subconscious every time I close my eyes in the past two days. Some details might change. Sometimes, he’s in the prison laundry. Sometimes, there’s a riot elsewhere in the prison to draw attention from a murderer ordered to slice his throat.
Everything I know about prison I’ve learned from TV and movies. I don’t know if anything in my imagination is true or realistic. I only know how vivid it seems when I’m caught in the middle of a dream.
And if I fell back to sleep right now, I know I would only pick back up where I left off—like hitting pause on a TV show.
