Page 27 of Auctioned to the Prisoners

“It’s okay,” I tell him, braving a touch to his cheek.

His eyes flutter, then close again as he breathes into my gentle caress.

“It’s been a long time.”

“A long time since what?”

His fingers touch my side tentatively.

“Since someone touched me like that.”

Sadness washes over me like a tsunami. We all need touch and gentleness, even the toughest of men. Especially the tough men who everyone thinks have enough strength and resilience to deal with the world without any assistance.

“And for not touching me.”

I immediately understand what he means. I could have made him come, and it would have felt good physically, but it’d just be another way of taking from him. I’d guess that he has suffered that too many times in his life already.

“How would you like me to touch you?” I ask.

“Not my back,” he says, staring at the wall. His cheeks flush at having to discuss this with me. “Or the backs of my thighs.”

Jesus. Are the scars I felt all over his legs, too? “Okay. Where else?”

“Just go slow. Let me see your hands, so I know what’s going to happen.” He swallows audibly, closing his eyes slowly before opening them again. “I can’t deal with surprises.”

I have an idea that might make him more comfortable. The thought of talking about sex positions is kind of mortifying, but he’s already seen me naked and played with my body. This is important enough for me to swallow a little embarrassment. “We could sixty-nine with me on top. That way, your back will be against the bed, and you can relax.”

“Fuck, Lory.” His eyes soften as he strokes my cheek and over my bottom lip, staring at my mouth. Is he imagining what it’ll be like to bury his dick between these lips? I stare at his lips, too, recalling the way he sucked my nipple. Will he do that to my clit? God, I hope so.

“Do you want to get undressed?” I wriggle out of his lap as he pulls his shirt over his head and shoves down his prison-issued pants and underwear. Beneath his clothes are more tattoos, some beautiful and some frankly terrifying. A devil’s face glares at me from one thigh, contrasting with a butterfly and lilies on his forearm. Dark and light, just like Hyde.

He grabs me around the waist, using his brute strength to pull me into his lap, facing away. In front of me, his cock looms large.

“Sit on my face, baby.” He tugs me until I’m kneeling over his waiting mouth, then forces my hips until he’s smothered by my sex. The first swipe of his eager tongue makes me cry out. Then he latches onto my clit, tugging at it gently with his lips and tongue, sending sensations skittering up my spine.

I slump forward bonelessly, resting my weight on my forearm. I grip his dick, and it throbs in my palm as I stroke it gently. In this position, he’s in control, so big and strong beneath me. When I slick his head with my tongue, he hisses into my pussy, and when I take him deep into my throat, he growls against me. The vibrations turn heat into liquid pleasure, pushing me close in so little time it makes me gasp around him. I’m sensitive from two previous orgasms, and the way he feasts on me leaves me utterly breathless.

His hand grips my thighs, pulling me so harshly against his face that I worry I’m going to smother him. His tongue pushes inside me, lapping against my G-spot, making me writhe. I grunt against his dick as I come and taste the salty-sweetness of pre-cum surges against my tongue. The devil’s face, upside down, with its red eyes and leering mouth, is a reminder of the duality of this man: the darkness that makes him jittery and intense, and the sweetness that craves kindness and touch makes him soft as a lamb. Maybe, while I’m here, I’ll remind him of the goodness in the world outside these walls and within himself. Maybe I can help him find some peace.

Reaching lower, run my finger up the seam of his balls, and suddenly, his whole body seizes beneath me. For a moment, I worry I’ve found another trigger point on his body, a place where the memory of pain rests just below the skin, but then he fills my mouth with his orgasm, and I swallow it down as he groans like a man who’s been stabbed, and I come just from the vibrations of his pleasure against my pussy.

Afterward, he hauls me so my face rests next to his on the pillow. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then touch the slick of my arousal on his chin. With no embarrassment, he wipes it away with his fingers and licks them like a lollipop.

He touches my lips, focusing on them like he’s trying to work out how they gave him so much pleasure. His eyes are the vivid green of lemon leaves now, softer and calmer as he breathes deeply. I shut my eyes, blissed out from the orgasm he tore from me and emotionally exhausted from a very intense day. The bed isn’t particularly comfortable, but I’m boneless and craving sleep. After a few minutes, Hyde’s breathing evens out. I crack an eye, staring at his perfectly relaxed face. Like this, the scorpion on his cheek doesn’t seem so ominous, and the lattice of tattoos that encircle his neck are less like a choking torture device. He seems calm.

When I close my eyes, his throat clicks with a swallow.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” he whispers into the silence. “I don’t know how to hold it in.”

My heart breaks at the raw pain in his voice and how tired he sounds. To battle with yourself must be exhausting. I remember my mom and how much she used to cry when she’d come back from her emotional lows and realize the damage she’d done. We were kids, though. We didn’t understand and couldn’t adjust. We needed her to be stable so we could develop and grow.

This is different. “You don’t have to hold it in,” I say gently, reaching up to cup his face in my hands. “Not all the time. Not around people that care.” His skin is warm under my touch, and he leans into it, starving for connection.

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for something—maybe for permission, maybe for reassurance. Then, slowly, he nods. I can’t wrap my arms around him withouttouching whatever he has on his back, so instead, I touch my nipple, watching as he eyes it hungrily. When he latches on, cupping the small peak with his huge hand, I sigh with deeper contentment than I could ever have imagined would come from his actions. I touch his hair, and he doesn’t resist.

He lets himself be vulnerable with me and touch my body this way without fear of judgment or rejection, and I realize that this moment of calm after the storm is what he’s been searching for all along. Not dominance, not control, but peace. And maybe, just maybe, in the twenty-nine more days that we’re together, I’ll help him find his, and he can help me find mine.

My nana used to sing me a song when I found it hard to sleep, and it comes back to me as I soothe Hyde the way she used to soothe me.

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