Page 18 of Love Set Free

Oh, Jesus. That low, sweet drawl, softer and weaker than I’ve heard it so far.

“Jackson? Jackson!”

Yes. There it is. There he is. Taking up a considerable amount of the far corner of this small, dreary bedroom. It’s a box. A fairly good-sized box, the sides made of worn, beat-up wooden planks. At least, at just over four feet tall and wide, the box is one I’d normally consider decently large. But not knowing that there is a fully grown, adult man stuffed inside it. With that knowledge, I can only despair at how cramped and claustrophobic he must feel.

“Ah. Thank the heavens. I was so worried about you.”

Me? Jackson had been worried about me? I suppose… Last he’d seen or heard me had been when Brazilian Guy had released me and led me away from the room Jackson and I had been sharing.

And by the tone of his voice, Jackson is just as relieved as I am that we’re both together again.

Slender, dirt-streaked fingertips poke out from between a narrow gap between two of the boards of Jackson’s box. I practically trip and fall in my haste to cross the room and kneel on the floor next to the box. I pause for the briefest of moments and then slowly reach up to slide the tips of my fingers against his.

Jackson’s fingers tremble and I start to panic, questioning my actions and fearing that I’ve greatly misinterpreted his silent request. But then I hear it. A quiet whimper. And the sweetest, dearest, most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard. My name, whispered in Jackson’s dulcet accent. The curl of the consonants and vowels on his tongue is a gentle auditory caress that plucks and strums at the emotional strings of my heart.

“Phoenix. You’re here.”

His fingers twitch in the air, clearly seeking me out again. And when the dry, rough skin on his digits make contact once more with the dry, rough skin on mine, his trembling calms and he sighs loudly.

“That’s right, I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart.”

I’m not sure why the term of affection slips out. I don’t even have the first idea of where Jackson falls on the sexuality scale or how he’d feel about another man calling him sweetheart. Personally, I’ve always landed on theas long as everybody involved is legal and consenting, it’s good to goend of sexual involvement. I do tend to veer more toward being attracted to men, but I’ve been known to dip my tongue—and dick—into a willing and attractive female or two, or a dozen, before. So, it wouldn’t bother me. But that’s me. I know not everyone would be as unconcerned with that sort of thing as I am.

It should also feel odd to use that sort of endearment with a man I still haven’t actually seen. It should. But it doesn’t. The fact that I have no idea what Jackson looks like or if I’d even be physically attracted to him doesn’t faze me at all.Something about him calls to me. It snuck right past my initial distrust of him. It battered down the illogical reality that I barely know this man, that we met under highly unusual and stressful circumstances. And it lodged itself firmly within me. So that, yes…my heart and soul has claimed this man as mine. And I’m good with that.

Doesn’t mean I don’t want to take the opportunity to see if I can catch a glimpse of this man who’d so effortlessly captured my allegiance though.

I continue to slide my fingers against Jackson’s in a tender caress. For as innocent as the action is, it has my heart thundering in my chest and the area behind the zipper of my chino shorts feeling surprisingly snug. While I’m doing that, I also visually inspect the exterior of Jackson’s box, looking for any larger gaps than the one he’s extending his fingers through that I might be able to use to peek inside of it and catch any sort of glimpse of my Jackson.

Most of the boards butt up close to each other, with only a narrow fraction of an inch sliver of space between them. But the wood is old and starting to warp and crack in places. Plus there are other spots, where strips and chunks have broken off the edges of the boards. These effects of age and use have resulted in larger openings between the wood, much like the one Jackson is utilizing right now to initiate our first physical contact with each other. But there are only a few places on the portion of the box I can see at the moment that hold the possibility of giving me a decent view into the interior of the box.

One such possible hole is roughly shoulder height to me, from where I’m kneeling on the floor. But it’s blocked and covered by a metal hatch, attached to the box with hinges and secured with a hefty lock woven through a large U-bolt that extends out from the box and through the metal plate. That’s probably the access point our kidnappers have used to get food and water toJackson throughout his captivity, but without a key to open the lock holding it closed, that opening won’t be of much use to me.

Further down the box, perhaps about a foot to the right of my thigh, a missing section of board has left a decent-sized hole in the side of the box, a jagged rectangular gap of around four by six inches.

A zing of excitement blasts through me as Jackson weaves his fingers with mine. My gaze locks back on to the touch of our hands together and I watch, enthralled, as Jackson presses his hand forward until his palm sweetly dances along mine in a soft skin-to-skin kiss. My hand feels damp and cool compared to the dry, fever-tinged heat of his and I can only hope that Jackson finds pleasure and relief from my touch.

Our interlocked fingers look so strange, but yet so right, together. We are both filthy, our hands liberally coated with streaks of dirt, and I have thick, dark lines of gunk embedded under the edges of my nails. My manicure has definitely seen better days; the nail on my thumb in particular having borne the brunt of the abuse of my gouging daily tally marks into the plywood floor of my cage. But at least I have some semblance of nails left for dirt to get trapped under; Jackson’s are all uniformly bitten down to the quick. His slender fingers should look more delicate than my broader, blunter digits. But with numerous calluses, scars from healed-over wounds, and plentiful nicks and scratches, there’s little doubt as to which of the two of us tends to do more menial and physical tasks.

The slow drag of skin on skin as Jackson disentangles his fingers from mine is an erotic seduction, millimeter by millimeter. The connection between our hands is severed for only the barest of split seconds as Jackson rotates his wrist, bringing the back of his hands to rest in the welcoming cradle of my palm. Gently, I move my hand, caressing and tracing this extremity so trustingly nestled against me, so that I can get afull tactile appreciation for the bumps and ridges of veining and fragile bones lining the back of Jackson’s hand.

“I can’t believe we’re back together again,” Jackson says. “And here I was thinking I’d never get to see you again. Er, so to speak.” His tone is wry, the unspoken acknowledgement that we haven’t actually set eyes on each other yet lacing his words. “But how is it that you’re able to touch me? Why aren’t you...you know...” He cuts himself off, clearly unwilling to bring up the issue of why I’m not stuck in my cage anymore, even though he’s still in his box.

“I’m sorry.” It doesn’t seem fair to me that our kidnappers had left Jackson stuck in his box when they’d relocated us but hadn’t gone through the same effort to move my enclosure. Not that I’m upset to no longer be stuck in that fucking cage, but I do feel guilty. “I wish…”

“Shh. I know you do.” How is it that Jackson is the one consoling me? But there’s no doubt that’s what he’s doing, his voice soothing and sure as he states, “But I’m sure it won’t be much longer before I’ll be out of this box and we can finally meet each other properly, face-to-face.”

Jackson rotates his hand back around and his fingertips glide over my palm and down to brush silken caresses against the tender skin of my inner wrist. The gentle touch is one of the most unintentionally sensual sensations I’ve ever experienced. There’s no way Jackson could’ve known that each slim fingertip brushing along my skin would cause me to break out in goosebumps and for my pulse to speed up. I’m not sure if he’s able to feel the former, but surely, he can feel the latter as his fingers come to rest right over the sped-up flutter of my veins.

Face-to-face. Yes. I’m not sure how much of a difference it’ll make. I already feel connected to this man, will finally being able to look each other in the eyes really make that big of an impact on my feelings toward him? I just don’t know. What Idoknow…Iwant to know what Jackson looks like. I want to have a face to go with the voice that’s been my hope and comfort throughout the long week of this ordeal. And…

“Maybe we won’t have to wait,” I tell him, eyeing up the hole in his box so near to where I’m kneeling.

“What do you— Hey. Wait. Where are you going?” Jackson asks as I break the contact between our hands. “Come back. Phoenix?”

This time I’m the one gently shushing him. “Shh. Just a second. I’m not going anywhere. Not really.”

Laying down on my side, I angle my body so that my face is directly in front of the opening in the box. The bedroom isn’t very well lit—there aren’t any lamps in it and the only light fixture, the one mounted just off to the center of the ceiling, is broken and dangling in chunks from its wiring. The only thing keeping the room from complete darkness is the faint amount of light bleeding in from the narrow gaps around the door and along the edges of the boards over the window. The interior of the box is even darker. Squinting through the grayish gloom, I can just barely make out the outline of Jackson’s kneeling form, his body crowded close to the side of the box, his right hand pressed flat against the wooden boards. His left hand is still stuck through the gap between boards in front of him, which is so narrow that not even a sliver of light is showing anywhere around Jackson’s worryingly skinny forearm.

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