Her name lingers in my mind like a sweet, forbidden melody, the kind that envelops you long after the music stops. I can still see her, the way she tried so hard to maintain that icy composure. To keep the walls up around her. As if they could protect her from me.
But I know better.
I saw the cracks, felt the tremors beneath that polished surface. That beautiful mask. She thinks she’s in control, but she’s not. Not anymore.
I glance around my cell, the dim light from the small, barred window casting long shadows on the gray walls. The room is sparse, bare of any comforts. It contains a metal bed bolted to the floor with a thin mattress, a steel toilet, and a small, scratched-up desk that’s seen better days. The air is stale, carrying the scent of mildew and disinfectant, but I’ve grown used to it. The walls are covered in faded graffiti and scrawls from previous occupants.They’re messages to no one in particular, just marks left behind by those who’ve passed through this place.
What legacy will I leave behind? It would be a shrine to Dr. Andrews if I was inclined to share.
Spoiler:I’m not.
Tucked behind the loose brick in the corner is a collection of notes. I’ve carefully written on and hidden away each piece of paper containing observations, plans, and thoughts. All of them concerning Geneva.
The moment she stepped into that interview room, I could sense it—the darkness in her, the one she’s tried so hard to hide, even from herself. It’s there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.
And I want to be the one to set it loose.
There’s something intoxicating about the idea of watching someone so tightly wound unravel. Especially when they don’t even realize it’s happening.
I can still hear the tremor in her voice when she asked about Anna Lee, the way she hesitated when I used her first name.Geneva. It suits her. So strong, so fucking sexy.
How many times have I whispered her name while following her?
How many times have I uttered her name while planning her future?
How many times have I groaned her name while fucking my hand?
The number is more than the years of prison I’ve been sentenced to.
Geneva hates me. I know that. But that’s what makes our relationship so interesting. Hatred is a powerful emotion—one thatcan be twisted, manipulated, turned into something much more potent.
She thinks she can keep me out, that she can walk away and forget about me, but she’s wrong. I’m already inside her head. It’s only a matter of time until I’m inside her body, with her legs wrapped around me and her moans in my ear.
“Shit,” I mutter. “You’re hard again?” I pose the question to my dick, staring at it with exasperation. “Okay, but this is the last time tonight, you greedy fuck.”
As I pull out my cock the dull fluorescent light overhead flickers, casting brief, erratic shadows across the room. It’s the only source of light in this place at night, and it’s unreliable at best. I’ve learned to ignore it, just like I’ve learned to dismiss the hum of the ventilation system and the muffled sounds of the other inmates down the hall, all of them constant reminders that I’m never truly alone. But in my mind, I am.
Right now, it’s just me and Geneva.
I lean back on the bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the hard metal beneath. The image of her face when she left the interview room, that mix of determination and something fragile, plays over and over in my brain. She’s already questioning herself, doubting her instincts. And that’s exactly where I want her mentally.
Physically, I want her underneath me.
I grip my cock, sliding my hand up and down the length, imagining it’s her touch. Her hands and her soft skin, her breathy sighs and her desperate moans.
My eyes fall closed, and I can almost see her, perched between my legs, her hair a dark curtain around her face. She’d look at me through her lashes, gaze heavy-lidded and heated. She might evenbite her lower lip like she did when I looked at her mouth. She hadn’t even registered the giveaway to her desire. But I had.
“God, Geneva. You’ve fucking ruined me.”
She would smile, the expression sultry and sensual, before taking me into her body. I groan at the thought. I’m so fucking hard for her it’s painful.
My strokes become rougher, faster, the friction bringing me closer to release. I imagine her riding me, her tits bouncing, her pussy wet and tight. Her hands are on my chest, her nails leaving trails of red.
“Fuck!” I grit out.
In my fantasy, she whimpers, her body moving faster, desperate for me. Andonlyme. I reach out, grabbing her hips, pulling her closer. I need to feel her, to own her. Inside and out.
She screams, the sound echoing in the chambers of my mind, and I come, fucking her as if she’s my prisoner, as if her submission is all that matters.
