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She spoke into the crook of his neck. “What have they done to you, Will?”
“I’m okay. I’m doing okay. I’m going to be all right here.”
“It’s my fault. This is all my fault. I should never...”
She was sobbing hard. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s not your fault. Do you really think that?” He moved her away so he could see her face. She wouldn’t look at him. He put a finger under her chin to lift her head. “This is my fault. I did this to myself a long time ago. There’s no one to blame.”
“No, no, no. If I hadn’t run the pictures...”
“Lois, this has nothing to do with your damn pictures. I knew what you were doing, well, not entirely, but I should have. Made me angry, so angry, but I did a dreadful thing to you, and I should’ve known you weren’t a woman to take it lying down.”
“What did you do to me, except try to protect yourself?”
He grinned at her in this restful half-light. This miracle in scrubs in a prison closet in his arms. “I made you love me.”
She made a sound like a cat’s trill, half purr, half whimper, all glorious, and dug her fingers hard into his back. “I hate you so much for that.”
This time she kissed him, hands on his face, lips, lush, hot, wet, moving with his, with hunger to match him.
He was a soon to be death row prisoner and he was making out with his girl in a supply cupboard while hell on earth staged a dress rehearsal outside.
28. Freedom
“To see what is right, and not do it, is want of courage or of principle.” — Confucius
This was Will, alive, safe, touching her with enough feeling to permanently impress his fingerprint on her skin. They were kissing in the middle of a prison riot, and if one of them didn’t cool it in a moment, they’d be doing more than that.
She might get hurt today. She might get raped or worse. She’d never been so frightened, but she didn’t care, because he was here and she could touch him. Feel the tiny prickle of new hair on his scalp, his poor misshapen nose, the scruff of his beard. He twitched if she pressed his ribs too hard, and she knew he was carrying one shoulder higher than the other. He’d had trouble pulling his wet prison top off, moving awkwardly. She didn’t care. He hadn’t said it, but he loved her too. There was so much to say, but he needed this physical contact more right now—and so did she.
He broke the kiss, his breath stuttering. “Last time we did this, at least we talked first.”
She laughed softly, kept his eyes in hers, pressed her hands on his face. “We have an irrational attraction to confined spaces.” She had an unstoppable attraction to this man.
He tipped her head back and sucked against her neck. He was needy and edgy, fighting it.
“Let go, Will. We’re safe for now.”
He groaned against her ear, tightened his hold. He wanted to be fooled by that, wanted to let go, take, but he wouldn’t put her in that position. She’d have to push him.
“It’s hot in here and you’re right, these scrubs are too tight.” She crossed her arms, put her hands to the hem, and went to pull the top over her head.
He caught her arms and pinned them. “No.” The panic in his eyes alone stopped her. She nuzzled the skin at his neck exposed by the V of his tunic, and he rocked back against the wall, taking her with him, sliding down, until they were on the floor, and she was in his lap, her legs around his waist.
“Darcy, no. It’s too dangerous.” His voice was cracked and broken, and his hands were shaking.
It was too dangerous and she didn’t care. They could both die today. “Don’t fight me.”
“I can’t hurt you again.”
“You didn’t, Will. I hurt myself.”
He let go then, dragging her body tight against him, rocking them so the friction against clothing, against each other, undid her. The world outside this room had turned to hate and violence, but in this narrow space they were chained together by more than fear and circumstance.
Time stalled, rationality ceased, the heat in the closed room, the jangly beat of the pop music, and the need for each other overrode the fear and fight response they should’ve felt, and delivered sex and freedom instead.
Darcy stood to rid herself of the scrubs, Will following her upright, his hands and lips never leaving her body. She stripped him too, the bruises on his shoulder visible in the dimness. He backed her against the wall, pulled her leg around his hip and brought them together with a low growl of release that vibrated through her in ever widening circles of pleasure, echoing in her sob.
Will stopped her mouth with his, saying, “Shh, shh,” between gasps. He was shuddering still, his fingers digging in to her thigh and hip. He let go her leg abruptly and wrapped around her, his head dropping down to her shoulder. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. And then she realised he was crying.
