Page 25 of Possession

I don’t think I’ve ever held out my hand to anyone. I’ve never felt like I was in a position to be something for someone else. It’s strange to experience it for the first time with someone so powerful and dangerous.

But I can see past that right now. I can see that he needs something. Needs … me.

He stares at my offered hand like he has no idea what to do with it. Almost like, maybe, he’s a little scared of it.

I take a step forward. Another. I lay my hand over his on the bag. His fingers twitch. I curl mine around them. When I pull his hand away from the punching bag and gently tug, asking him to follow, he does.

As he walks with me to the bed, his fingers never close on mine in return, but that’s okay. It’s enough that he comes with me.

With pressure and body language, I ask him to sit. I want to look at his shoulder. Blood has spilled down his delt. I want to see his older wounds too. They’re not healed yet, and he just got struck in the abdomen a bunch of times.

He does sit, but he doesn’t give me a chance to look at him. He pulls me into his lap. We’re front to front with me straddling him, my legs folded on either side of him. His arms hook around me, tugging me close, locking me against him. I press my face against his neck. His stubbled chin brushes my temple.

I feel myself calm down as he holds onto me. I thought I was calm before, but I realize now that I wasn’t. I feel the difference as I relax against him.

It’s strange how much I like the feel of a male body against mine—hisbody against mine. I like his size and strength. I like the way he smells. I like being naked with him, how there’s nothing between us, how aware it makes me of what we did together and what I know we’ll do again soon.

And maybe it’s awful, but I like his violence too.

He protected me, hurt others to defend me.

But however strong and tough he is, he just got the shit beaten out of him. And he just spoke for the first time in god knows how long. He’s trembling. So I slip my arm under his and hook it around his back. My fingers twitch at the scar tissue. Somehow, I had forgotten to expect it. But I splay my hand over his scarred back and hold on.

I still don’t know his name. I still don’t know why he’s here in this cell. We’re still strangers to each other.

So why doesn’t it feel like it?

Within seconds of being in his arms, I feel right again. I feel that sense of belonging that I felt right after sex. But it’s stronger this time because no amount of self doubt can make me forget the word that broke his silence.

Mine.

I try to draw back. I want to look at his injuries. He needs a doctor, not me, but I still want to see. He doesn’t like it. He resists, clamping on tighter. Tentatively, I lift my hand to the back of his head. I stroke his thick, buzzed hair.

“Let me look,” I murmur.

He makes a small sound of protest, but I can tell he’s going to let me, so I draw away. His hands drift down to my waist as I look at the bullet graze on his left delt. I’m sure it should be stitched, but I can at least put some wound closure strips on it.

As I extricate myself from him, I take his hand so he knows I’m not leaving. This was an issue once before, and I understand it. He’s been really alone, like I have, worse than I have. He needs to feel, physically, that I’m still here.

And giving that to him feels really fucking good. It gives it back to me too.

Despite the fact that we remain in physical contact as I do what I can for his injuries, he never looks at me. Compared to his usually intent gaze, the avoidance is notable.

Is it because he spoke?

I want to push him for more words. I want to know his name. I want to know why he’s here in this cell.

I want to know why he wants me.

But it’s enough, for now, just to know that he does. It’s enough just to be together.

By some miracle, the baton hit him above the stitches in his abdomen. He’ll have an awful new bruise, but no more stitches where torn.

“I want to clean up,” I tell him when I’ve done all that I can. “I’m …” I trail off, face heating. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed to say itchy, but I am. I can still feel cum between my ass cheeks.

He looks at me finally. He frowns at my obvious embarrassment, seemingly confused, then his eyes widen in understanding. He gets up so fast that he startles me.

He snatches up one of the blankets then walks me to the bathroom with a hand on my lower back.

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