I shift my weight. Press my knees tighter against my chest.
The warmth spreads.
Down.
Lower.
I'm getting hard. Not from arousal—not from wanting—from something chemical and inevitable and completely outside my control. My cock stiffens against my thigh and I press my legs together, trying to hide it, trying to will it away.
My skin flushes. Sweat prickles along my hairline.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Another wave. Stronger. My hips shift against the mattress without permission—a slow, involuntary roll that sends a pulse of heat through my core. I bite my lip. Clench my jaw. Myspine arches slightly, my body curving toward something that isn't there, and a sound escapes me—small, strangled, barely a breath.
Across the mattress, Bane's nostrils flare. His eyes open. His pupils are blown wide—dark swallowing the hazel—and I can see the exact moment my scent peaks. His hands clench in the zip ties. His jaw goes rigid. A muscle jumps in his throat.
Neither of us speaks. The fluorescent tube hums.
Another wave hits me—harder, deeper, a cramp that locks through my abdomen and makes me curl forward with a gasp. My body is burning. The scrubs feel like sandpaper against my skin.
Everything is too much and not enough and I can't—
"It's okay, Max." His voice is strained. Rough. But steady. "It's okay. I'm right here."
The warmth intensifies. Heat crawling up my spine, pooling between my hips. My skin goes hypersensitive—the thin scrub fabric suddenly unbearable, every thread a line of friction. Slick gathers. My breathing changes. Deepens. My hips start to shift against the mattress without permission.
Jesus Christ.
I’m a monster.
I try to stand. Try to put distance between us—move to the other side of the cell, press myself against the far wall. Shame flooding through me hotter than the heat itself.
"Don't." Bane's voice. Low. Strained. "Don't go over there. Don't sit on cold concrete by yourself and be ashamed."
"You don't—" My voice cracks. "You can't want this. Not like this. Not because my biology is—"
"Come here."
"Bane—"
"Take the bed," he says. He slides off the mattress. Lowers himself to the concrete floor, back against the wall, giving me space. "I'll be down here."
I begrudgingly lie back on the mattress. Stare up at the ceiling. The thin foam does nothing to cushion the frame beneath it but at least I'm not on concrete. At least there's distance between us.
Three feet of air that might as well be three miles.
The heat doesn't care about distance.
It builds in waves—each one hotter, longer, harder to ride out. My skin is slick with sweat. The scrubs cling to me, fabric dragging against hypersensitive skin. I press my thighs together. Press harder. The pressure helps for ten seconds and then makes everything worse.
My cock is aching. Fully hard, straining against the thin fabric, pulsing with my heartbeat. I try to ignore it. Try to think about anything else—the tiles in Linda's bathroom, the periodic table, the names of every professor I've ever had—
Another wave. My hips roll forward on their own. My hand moves before I can stop it—slides between my thighs and squeezes. The pressure sends a bolt of relief so intense my spine arches and a sound escapes me. Small. Desperate. A whimper that echoes off concrete walls.
I freeze.
Bane is three feet away. On the floor. He heard that.
