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“You fucking dick,” I hiss, making him jump.
“You—”
“Ever heard of a thing called consent?” I snap, cutting off whatever disbelieving utterance he was trying to make. “Partaking in an asphyxiation kink without gaining consent from your partner is not cool.”
He stares at me, mouth open, and this time I don’t think it’s my breasts that have rendered him speechless.
“Are you just going to gape at me, or can a girl get a hand up?”
When he fails to respond, I huff and drag myself up off the floor, throwing the wire noose away.
“You’re alive.”
“Duh.” I curl my lip at his stupidity.
Of course I’malive. Was he expecting that pathetic attempt at strangulation to finish me off? I mean, it totally did, but in thepetite mortsense of the word, not actual death.
I walk over to the wardrobe and grab a silk robe. Like an actual honest to god real silk robe – none of that satin or synthetic shit – and pull it on. I feel like a 1940s starlet. Except considerably less glamorous. I just need a cigarette in a holder and my hair in rollers to complete the look.
When I turn back to face Nightshade, he’s frowning at me. And when his cum starts to slide down my leg, I bite back a grin.
“What’s so funny?” he snaps.
“Umm, you didn’t use a condom.” I mean, it’s probably not funny, not really, but it’s notnotfunny either.
“So? You’ve been sterilised.”
“Umm, no I fucking haven’t,” I snap back. What a fucking thing to assume!
“We all were upon admission.”
“Well, I fucking wasn’t. I think I’d know.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Not my problem either way.”
Well if he was sterilised, as he so beautifully put it, there wouldn’t be aproblemin the first place.
I reach between my legs, scoop up our combined essence onto my fingertips, and pop them in my mouth.
“Delicious. I could use a drink. Do you want one?”
I breeze past Nightshade, who still has his dick in his hands – beautiful specimen, the urge to pet it is strong – and make my way over to the kitchen area of my room.
There’s a long island counter separating the living space with three stools along one side. On the other, I find an under the counter, glass-fronted drinks fridge, fully stocked with bottles of wine.
What the fuck kind of prison is this?
“Are you having, like, a stroke or something?” I ask, cocking my head to the side as I take him in. He’s barely moving. I mean, he’s jerking off – clearly having a different kind of stroke – but it’s like he’s in a damn trance. “Hello? Earth to deadly Nightshade? Do. You. Want. A. Damn. Drink?”
He does a double take, realises what’s going on and quickly tucks his dick away. Shame. I didn’t even get to choke on it.
“What did you say?” His tone is low, threatening. Exciting.
“I asked if you wanted anything to drink. Is this wine for fucking real?”
“Of course it is. Who would stock a wine cooler with fake wine?”
Doesn’t he know we’re meant to be in prison? Right now this place is looking nicer than The Ritz. Not that I’ve actually been inside The Ritz, but I’ve seen movies. I know things. And I know that even the fanciest hotels in London don’t give you a fully stocked wine fridge and drool-worthy wardrobe for free.Eat your heart out Julia Roberts. This must be costing the taxpayers billions.
