Page 12 of Possession

When I return to the main part of the cell, I walk cautiously toward to the mattress.

So much for my resolve to not go near him.

More blood has seeped through his bandages. He’s shivering. The bag of fluids is empty.

I tackle the fluids first because the task doesn’t require me to touch him. His eyes open when I pull the new bag out of the first aid kit. He watches me the whole time as I fumble with the thing like an idiot. It takes me a while to figure out how to hook it up, but I manage.

I crouch beside the mattress, ready to skitter back if he makes a move.

“Let me help you,” I say.

I don’t know why I’m so determined. I don’t think he’s actually in danger of dying. Maybe they thought he was because the drugs put him down so hard. But the he-dies-you-die threat doesn’t feel like the reason I’m crouching here anyway.

I want to help him.

I’ve never been in a position to help anyone before.

His eyes are narrowed, but he doesn’t snarl or lash out. I think he wants to though. He’s tense and not at all happy as I reach for the bandage on his abdomen. The one on his upper thigh is worse, but I’m not starting with that one.

His stomach contracts and he flinches away when I start peeling up the bandage. I don’t think it’s a pain response. I think he’s not used to being touched, not like this. I’m not used to touching people, so it’s weird for me too.

Maybe that’s why I’m hyperaware of his body. Or maybe it’s because he’s so damn big. And naked.

The wound is seeping blood and fluid around the line of stitches. Hands shaking, I dig through the first aid kit and try to figure out what to do. I jump when his hand reaches in, brushing mine. He grabs a bottle of saline wash. I take it from him and clean the wound, gently drying it with some gauze.

I try to make it easier on the next step, making my best guesses and holding up various items for approval. He obviously knows more about this than I do.

I start to decipher his sounds and expressions. He’s communicating decently, but I can’t help wondering why he doesn’t use words. He seems to understand mine.

I think back to what Briggs said about my word meaning as much as the Beast’s. I get it now. The Beast’s word—my fellow prisoner’s word—means nothing because he doesn’t talk at all.

Once I have a fresh bandage on his abdomen, I tell him, “I need to do your leg.” I don’t look at his face when I say it because mine is flaming. “I’ll … I’ll try to be careful.”

Careful not to touch his cock, I mean.

I don’t let myself stare at it, but it’s very much at the edge of my awareness. It’s lying bare across his hip, inches from my shaky hands as I start peeling away the bloody bandage.

He’s tense, but he doesn’t lash out, so I just try to focus on my work.

When the saline wash runs down his inner thigh, I have to chase after it with the gauze. I’m so close to his balls and something very weird is happening in my body. At first, I think it’s embarrassment like I felt earlier when I first looked at his cock. But the heat traveling through me is gathering, undeniably, in my groin.

Am I … oh my god, am I getting … turned on?

Jesus Christ, I think I am. Butwhy? I’m not gay. I’ve never reacted to another man. Of course, I barely react to womeneither. But I am definitely reacting now, and the more I try not to, the more heat spills into my groin. Into mycock.

I’m getting … fuck, I’m getting hard. Just a little, not enough that it would show, but I can feel it happening.

Oh my god,no. What is wrong with me? I never get hard around people. Sometimes I jerk off, of course, but that’s different. I mean, when I hooked up with Allie from the gym last fall, I didn’t—fuck, I hate admitting this even to myself—I didn’t come. And she definitely didn’t. It was so embarrassing, and I haven’t been able to look at her since.

I mean, I know I’m weird with people, but I wasn’t a virgin. I had a girlfriend, briefly, in high school. I’m not gonna say it was great or anything, but I didn’t lose my erection then like I did with Allie. And she was cute and everything. It was definitely not her fault. It was me and my dysfunctional dick.

Clearly dysfunctional—because why the fuck am I getting a chubnowwhile I’m touching a thigh almost the size of my torso? Why am I having to force myself not to look at the heavy balls and thick cock so close to my hand?

All of that is disturbing enough. But add to it the fact that the owner of that cock is huge and violent and just killed a man in a brutal knife fight?

I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Somehow, I get through it. But, horror of horrors, when I secure the new bandage over the line of stitches, my shaky hand brushes his balls. I yank back at the same time that he lets out a harsh sound.

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