Page 9 of Captured By the Convict

Connie says something, but I’m kissing her again, hard and deep, my hand still down her panties, clawing at her ass, now moving around to her front, fingers searching for her pussy, cock still hard enough that it wants to go there, be where it belongs, claim what it knows it owns.

“Ohmygod, I have to pee!” Connie suddenly jerks away from me, breaking from the kiss and staggering back a few steps. She lets go of my throbbing twitching cock, her eyes wide with shock, her face streaked with my saliva, her fingers sticky with my seed. “I came to this gas station to pee, but there were too many women in line so I didn’t pee, but I have to go pee now. I’m sorry. I . . . I have to go.”

The force of my thundering climax still makes my ears ring, and I’m in a staggering daze myself, unable to even see straight, let alone think or talk straight. Before I realize what the fuck is going on, Connie is already gone, and suddenly I’m alone and naked in the back of this cookie truck, cock dripping warm semen down my legs, head buzzing, heart hammering, body burning.

Burning with a dangerous need that tells me I fucked up bad.

Because that ferocious climax didn’t take the edge off my need at all.

Instead it awakened a possessive beast that needs way more than this.

It needs everything.

It needs it now.

It needs it forever.

The need is raw and red, overwhelming and all-consuming. But somewhere behind the roar of the beast is the warning from my brain, a grim realization that it’s over, that Connie is freaked out and panicking, that she’s already in that gas station with phones and people and there’s no way in hell she’s coming back to this truck without the cops and troopers. My only chance nowis to get dressed and get the fuck out of here, try to steal another vehicle or jack another driver before Connie’s inevitable 911 call gets the cops screeching in here.

So I dress with furious urgency, pulling on the new black track-pants and the pink hoodie. I’m still barefoot, which isn’t a good thing when it’s February in Boston. No snow on the ground right now, but I might still lose a couple of toes to frostbite if I can’t jack another ride soon. Still, it’s worth the trade-off if I get freedom in return.

But just before I pull open the metal shutter to make my second escape of the day, I stop.

Because stepping out of this truck doesn’t feel like freedom.

It feels like going back to prison.

The only thing that feels like freedom now is her.

The thought is ridiculous, a total delusion that confirms I’m insane after four years in the slammer. But although my brain howls for me to get my ass out of here, that Connie’s already called the cops and they’re probably just minutes away, my body refuses to move.

So I sit my ass down in my pink hoodie, cross-legged and calm like the Buddha in a forest of cookie-cartons.

And I wait to see if we’re all going to keep our promises today.

4

CONNIE

You promised.

My gaze fixates on my cell phone, focusing on that one-click option that says EMERGENCY CALL. I’m inside the one-person restroom with the door locked. The gas station has three attendants, is brightly lit, and smells like fresh coffee. There were a few early-morning customers milling about the aisles. I’m pretty safe in here, am just one phone-call away from total safety.

So why haven’t I made that call?

“Do it, you dumbo,” I snarl at myself, sounding more like a kitten than a tiger because my voice is still a whimpering whisper, the shock of what just happened in the back of my truck still working its way through my trembling body.

My legs were shaking by the time I got to the restroom. I had to hold the metal handicap-rail to steady myself as I pulled down my track pants and pushed down my panties before I wet myself.

Except my panties were already wet.

And most certainly not because I’d peed myself.

They were wet with something else.

Something sticky and forbidden.

“Ohmygod, Xavier was right,” I’d gasped when I felt the stickiness on the delicate curls covering my pussy as I dried myself after peeing. “My pussy knows what it was made for.”

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