Her Prison Pen Pal (Love Behind Bars)

I’ve never seen a man. Not like this. Not for real.

All I’ve seen are Porn Hub clips that my friends have shown me on their phones. I was always too scared to look on my own, like somehow my father would find out and be horrified.

Besides, I mean, outside of it being sort of educational, I found the porn more comical than titillating. Those women moaning and screaming for an hour? There were no real orgasms happening, and everything was so forced and staged. How it turns someone on, I don’t get it, but to each his and her own.

But, God, the desire coursing through me now is like lust-lava. Just watching Dutch is about to put me over the edge.

His eyes close as I peek around the door, he pushes his head back into the pillow and fists the base of his erection, making the head bulge, turning purple as it swells, droplets of creamy liquid seeping from the tip.

He releases a throaty groan, then puts the letter he was holding down carefully, almost reverently. Then he opens his eyes toward the pile of paper next to him, picks up another, and resumes reading as he jacks his dick up and down until I’m squirming against the wall, practically dry humping the flat surface, desperate for relief, barely able to stand.

There’s a flutter in my chest and a sudden clutch down deep, like my ovaries are popping out eggs like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I try to hold back, but I can’t, and a little shuddering breath breaks from my throat, and even through the music I know he’s heard me.

His hand stops and it feels like time does as well.

He releases the letter, those sea-blue eyes that I want to drown in snap toward the doorway.

Shit. I move one foot backward in retreat, but I know it’s too late.

“Daphne.” He says my name like he’s intoning a sacred chant, and the wetness between my legs soaks through my jeans. “Don’t hide. Not from me.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, then clear my throat, waving an apologetic hand in the open doorway as I press the back of my skull into the wall. “I’m sorry…”

I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten, considering making a break for the front door, when the crushing drumbeat of the Disturbed song that was playing turns to the twanging guitar intro to one of my favorite songs and I realize he’s playing one of my playlists.

The first few lines, I stay still, eyes shut, then I hear the movement of his bare feet on the floorboards. A creak, just on the other side of the open door, then Dutch’s low voice joins the chorus as his fingertips brush my cheek, and I feel like my heart will burst from my chest.

Fuck, he’s singing to me.

Lord, come on, now. I’m only human. How am I supposed to stay strong?

You’re as smooth, as Tennessee Whiskey.

You’re as sweet as strawberry wine…

“You’ve already seen me,” he whispers, his hand running down my arm until his thick, rough fingers entwine with mine. “Did you like watching?”

What the hell do I say to that?

Well, anatomically you are a perfect male specimen, and my interest is purely scientific…but, damn, yeaaaaah buddy, I liked watching.

“Yes,” I blurt out. Feeling like that single word is telling him a thousand stories of the fantasies I’ve had for the last year.

He pulls me around the door frame into the small bedroom, the music making me want to sway as a thick, hot, churning lust builds, making me feel like I’ve downed a few shots of Fireball.

“You and your letters have made me hard like this for a long time. But today? When I walked in the house and saw you?” He shakes his head slowly, almost angrily, as I battle to keep my eyes from pinning on his erection. “God damn. I know there’s no relief without you ever again, little girl.”

He pulls me against him, his hardness driving against my hip. One thick, tattooed arm slips around my back. His other hand meets mine, our bodies moving, swaying, and to anyone else I’m sure it would look ridiculous.

Me, dressed in my jeans and thermal top, black snow boots, hair in a messy bun and him…oh, God, him dressed in only his ink and the scent of a man tasting freedom for the first time in years.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” I whisper as he tugs me against him, pressing his thick hardness into my belly.

“I know that’s not all you feel. Feel what you do to me. I can already taste you, Daphne. My first meal as a free man…I want it to be you.”

I rest my face into the muscular cords of his neck, trying to work out if this is real or one of my dreams.