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Not wasting another second, he shifts us over to the bar. Then with my arms around his neck, he lifts me and sets me on top of the low marble surface. It’s cool beneath my thighs but I’m heated by the steam pulsing off of him.
He pulls my hips to the edge and glides home. This angle is different, even better, in that I can see him. Our gazes fixed on each other, our bodies fused together—the magic is spun. Stroke to stroke. Eye to eye.
I rock my hips into his deep, steely thrusts, his eyes like flames in the dark. That feral look alone is an aphrodisiac. I’ve never wanted sex this much—the intimacy, the connection. It’s as if each time with Mick only spurs my passion for more.
He grips my inner thighs, keeping me open. Fucking with unleashed urgency. A damp, wavy lock of hair falls like the letter C on his forehead. His teeth are gritted in sweet agony. The smell of hot, raw sex surrounds us.
“I want you like this forever,” he rasps, pressing his thumb to circle my clit. “Spread open, tight and wet around my cock.”
His words, his touch, flood me with ecstasy. My body screams, his name a litany on my lips.
He grunts through my orgasm, rubbing it out before his hips resume a fervid pumping, pushed to his limits, pushing me to mine. This is how I want him, how I wanted to see him, unbridled, his neck arched, lost to pleasure, eyes glazing over, consumed by a release that stuns me in its sweltering intensity. I hold him to me, my limbs caging him, my mouth absorbing his guttural groans, my core still pulsing as he keeps thrusting and coming, saturating me with his liquid heat.
“Christ,” he whispers moments later, catching his breath. His heart pounds against mine. “You are my kryptonite.” His hands cradle my face. “I love you, Dee.”
We wake Saturday morning, thesame way we’d fallen asleep—naked and wrapped around each other. At some point, we’d made it inside to wash up and crash on the bed.
“What time is it?” Mick asks, squinting his eyes open to the sun shooting across the bedroom.
“Just after 9:30.” I stroke his chest where my cheek is resting.
“I haven’t slept that late in I don’t know how long.”
“Guess you were worn out,” I say teasingly, though I credit it more to the absence of his nightmares and the lack of him stressing over them.
“And you weren’t, huh?”
“You do alright.”
“Looks like I better step up my game.” He tackles me onto my back and shows me once again just how spectacular his game already is.
I wish we could stay in bed like this for hours, making love, ordering up room service, then enjoying that Jacuzzi tub. But the world doesn’t stop turning just because I wish it would.
The Walden County Correctional Facilityfor Women is a medium security prison with fenced penning around the perimeter. Paxton pulls up to the booth at the front gate where I lower my window to provide ID and Joyce’s name. After the vetting process, the guard directs Paxton over to a place to park.
“Be careful, baby.” Mick kisses me long and hugs me tight. I feel his reluctance about letting me go alone, but aside from him being a witness in the case, he’s also famous. Micah Peters being seen at a women’s prison in the Bayou State isn’t the kind of headline we need.
I’m admitted into the building by a stern-looking guard. From there, I go through a metal detector and my tote bag is searched. At the desk, I sign in before I’m escorted to a visitation area with two long rows of picnic-style aluminum tables fixed to the ground and a low Plexiglas wall separating the inmate and the visitor.
Despite a decorating attempt, the series of landscapes cannot overcome the feel of the room. It’s cold, hollow, and depressing. Three of the adjoined tables are occupied. I choose an empty one in the second row and take a seat.
Twenty minutes later, a female guard appears with Joyce. The heavy metal door loudly clicks into place behind them. I can’t help but stare. The cute fifteen-year-old with the dimpled smile resembles none of the woman being ushered toward me. Her light brown complexion is now ashen; drained of color and life. Those big Franklin eyes are hardened and mean. Her dimples are lost to sunken cheeks. Her long dark hair is the texture of dried hay and she’s rail thin beneath beige scrubs that dwarf her small frame.
“Stay behind the glass,” the guard warns before she steps away, giving us a semblance of privacy.
Given Louisiana is a one-party consent state, I turn on the recording device inside my purse as Joyce kicks one leg, then the other over the backless bench. Although she sits, her body remains in jittery motion. Her knees bounce as if they have springs. Her bony hands—with nailsbitten down to the quick—drum on the tabletop. Her cynical gaze darts all over me, seeming to take in my slicked-back bun and linen suit jacket. “They said you’re a lawyer.”
“Yes. I’m—”
“It’s about time you got here,” she accuses, abruptly cutting off my introduction. “That useless asshole told me to take a plea when the police jacked me up on some bogus robbery and assault charges. I always carry a knife for protection, just in case. But the cops didn’t want to hear none of that.” She scratches at the scabs on the inside of her arm. “Now look at where I’m at—in this hellhole ’cause I had some second-rate legal hack that didn’t know his head from his dick.
“He railroaded me into taking a deal just to get it done and over. But I was reading about how you can appeal on what they call ‘valid grounds,’ like if I didn’t fully appreciate the effect of the plea,” she recites, the speed of her speech as jumpy as her body. “You can use that, right? Just tell the judge I didn’t understand.”
Considering her history of offenses, I doubt that what she declares is true. But her appeal isn’t my concern. “Joyce, I’m not from the public defender’s office,” I say, clearing up the mistaken identity. “I’m not a defense attorney.”
She blinks twice. “You’re not here about my case?”
“No, I’m not.”
