Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Rock grunts his release first, and I watch as Lory swallows him up like the good girl she is. Hyde is next, spilling into his fist as he laps at Lory’s pussy. Our beautiful girl is next, cresting on a wave that makes her arch into me and spasm so tight I almost lose my mind. My orgasm is euphoria, a release that goes on and on and on as the slow build of sensation erupts inside her.
Maybe Warden has sorted Wilson. Maybe not.
Maybe Lory’s sister is safe, maybe she isn’t.
All we can do is what we came here to do. Fuck ourselves into the kind of oblivion that makes us forget we’re locked up and powerless.
And maybe make-believe that there’s a place somewhere Lory can be ours and that we’d be enough to chase away her demons and make her happy.
16
LORY
CRIMINAL CONFESSIONS
I've watched enough true crime documentaries to know that there's a weird psychological condition that occurs when people are held in isolation in close confines, especially when they're reliant on their captors. So, as I sit in Hyde's lap and he feeds me bites of prison food, kissing me in between mouthfuls, and my heart flutters and warms, I question myself. When Rock gently cleanses me between my legs with a rough prison towel, then kisses me on the inside of my thighs, and my stomach soars with butterflies, I don't allow myself to revel in the sensation. And when Kinkaid plays with my hair, brushing through the strands with his fingers to tease out the tangles their frantic sex-play has caused, and I'm taken over by shivers, I convince myself that it's nothing.
We're trapped together, ticking off days, while the world spins outside, and we get lost in each other's bodies and minds.
They're as tender with me as they are passionate. Since the last time Grady visited, they've avoided mentioning my sister, but I catch them looking at me out of the corner of their eyes with concern lining their faces. I notice their carefulness when they touch me as they give me a chance to say that I'm not in the mood. They don't understand that getting lost in what we do with each other is the only thing keeping me sane.
Or maybe they do.
Maybe that's why it feels like we're clinging to each other while the boat goes down.
Tonight, Rock dragged all the mattresses onto the floor in the main room, placing them into a square. We're lying with our heads almost touching in a kind of star shape, staring at the cracked ceiling above as the moonlight pokes narrow fingers through the barely-there windows and a sickly yellow glow leeches in from the corridor.
We're getting to the end of our supplies, and Grady hasn't reappeared. None of us have mentioned it, but it's on all our minds. Rock's belly rumbles because he ate half the portion he usually consumes to ensure there's enough bread left for the morning. All the men have been slowly rationing their meals while still giving me an overspilling plate. They think I haven't noticed, but I have. I’ve been eating less, then patting my belly, pretending I’m full, and walking away from my leftovers, which don't get wasted.
We try to care for each other without mentioning it.
“If you could have any meal, what would it be?” I ask, thinking about sticky BBQ ribs and creamy mac 'n' cheese. My mouth waters.
“This isn't a last-meal scenario, is it?” Hyde asks dryly, “because that shit is a little too close to home.”
“Nah,” I say, reaching out to lace my fingers through his. “Not a last meal. A favorite meal. Like, if we were on the outside, what would you want me to cook for your birthday?”
He turns to me, his green eyes intense even in the low light. I've gotten used to the ferocity of his expressions, the way he wears all his emotions on the outside like a color-changing coat. “You'd cook me something for my birthday?”
“Sure.” This is imaginary land, but I have a clear picture of what it could be like. A big rustic wooden table big enough for the four of us in the house me and Hyde created in our fantasies. A birthday cake in the center, although I'm not sure what kind these men would prefer. I could wear an apron, like the ones women wear in homely movies where loving wives and mothers are doted on by their strait-laced, reliable husbands.
I've only ever seen that shit on TV.
“Steak and mashed potatoes,” he says quickly.
I smile. “What about the cake?”
He thinks for a moment. “I used to walk past this bakery when I was a kid. They had cakes in the windows… all kinds. Pink ones for girls and blue ones for boys. They had superhero cakes, big chocolate ones with dripping edges, and grated chocolate toppings.”