Fuck ‘em.
But before I knew it, my feet were entering the prison library. This place was okay. A decrepit room, but books are books.
Because before, I had a massive library. Dozens of shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Volume upon volume stacked inside, anything you wanted. Rare books. Dictionaries. A first edition of some Ian Fleming shit.
Not that I touched any of that stuff. There was no time to read. It was just decoration more than anything, like wallpaper or a beautiful vase.
Instead, I listened to the news. CNN, MSNBC, and the like were constantly streaming in the background, acting as white noise. In the morning, I’d check in on the stock exchange, silently calculating my next move. By contrast, books were too time-consuming, plus there was no action. I like colors, pictures, and a voice speaking into my ear.
Books have none of that.
Now, however, I read like a starving man. That first edition of Man with the Golden Gun in my library? I’m devouring its sad, tattered cousin, a trade paperback that’s dog-eared with crinkled pages. The dictionary? Well, I still haven’t flipped that shit open. But it’s just a matter of time. I’m going through everything in this place. Ain’t nothing too good for my eyes.
But something was different today. As I stepped into the library, my fave chair was missing. What the fuck? That thing was amazing, practically a Barcalounger, huge and comfortable. Where was it?
And then I saw.
It’d been pulled over to the common area, a space reserved for events.
Because there are a lot of events at the prison, believe it or not. Swing lessons were offered on Thursday nights. Aspiring artists could paint landscapes on Monday mornings. Hell, there was even a sewing class that was quite popular among these hardened criminals, their stiff fingers fumbling with needle and thread.
It’s weird I tell you. This arts and crafts shit is hella bizarre, not to mention dangerous. Some of these guys are MacGyver types, cunning and patient. They’d be able to break out of this place with a toothbrush and a thimble. So why take the chance? Was someone asleep at the wheel? Who put together this programming?
But whatever.
Not my problem.
If you asked, the warden would probably give some bogus answer anyway. Something about helping inmates release energy so they don’t act up while they’re behind bars. Bullshit. The real reason is that they just like to make us dance like ants under a magnifying glass.
Grunting, I ignored the event and settled myself into a chair. But the commotion was fucking annoying. People were setting up tables, piling them with notebooks, pens, and books. There was even an easel to the side.
Probably some literacy class. It’s hard to believe, but some of my fellow inmates don’t know how to read. Somehow they fell through the cracks way back in third grade, and never figured out how to spell their own names.
Sad, right?
How do you live without knowing how to read?
On a practical level, how do you get around?
I shook my head.
Again, not my problem.
So I turned back to my book, ignoring the growing crowd. But then a flash of color caught my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, a girl got up, addressing the small group of prisoners.
But I had no idea what she was saying.
Because my brain ground to a halt.
Holy fuck.
The brunette was gorgeous.
Goddamn amazing.
Curvy, with hips that filled out her tight-fitting skirt to perfection. One look at her and I already wanted to hike up that fabric. My arousal stirred as I imagined her voluptuous ass, swaying back and forth. It would look even better if I had her bent over the table.
I adjusted my position, cock already growing. It twitched when my eyes settled on her cleavage. Double D’s – at least – if not bigger. They strained against the buttons of her blouse like giant melons, begging to be kissed and sucked. Oh shit. I needed that. I imagined taking her supple mounds in hand and kneading them with my fingers, as the brunette moaned.
And oh fuck, but that giant butt bounced with every step. Her hips swung with a natural rhythm that just made me want to grab hold and take a bite. A big meaty bite that would make her scream.
Unaware of my gaze, the girl smiled at the crowd. With her brown, curly hair framing her youthful face, she looked like an angel. A sexy little angel with giant caramel eyes.
I had to have her.
Interest piqued, my ears tuned in.
Laney, as she introduced herself, was a journalist from a nearby paper. She and her co-workers were at San Nemo volunteering their time to work with inmates. The goal was to start a prison newsletter called the San Nemo Times.
Really?
My brow scrunched with disbelief.
Why would anyone volunteer for this?