“Tell me what you want.”
“More.”
His fingers dipped lower. Found my entrance. Pressed just the tips inside.
I grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into muscle.
“I would fuck you with my fingers first.” He pushed two fingers in to the first knuckles. “Get you ready for me.”
Deeper. To the second knuckles.
“And when you were right on the edge, begging for release …” He drove his fingers fully inside me, curling them to hit a spot that made me see stars. “I would bury myself so deep, you would feel it for days.”
His thumb found that exterior bundle of nerves, and my entire body jolted.
“Oh God.”
“That’s it, Princess.” He began to pump his fingers, slow at first, then faster. “Fuck my hand.”
Some distant, clinical part of my brain cataloged what I was doing. Grinding against an inmate’s hand in a prison infirmary while an alarm shrieked and guards ran through the halls. The old Harper would have been mortified. Would have stopped, smoothed her scrubs, and buried this moment so deep, it never saw daylight.
But this Harper? This version of me, flushed and trembling and so far past the point of return that she couldn’t even see it anymore?
She wanted more.
Because it was dangerous. Wanton. Forbidden in every way that should have made me pull back but instead made my pulse hammer harder. This was so far from the woman I’d built myselfinto—the careful, controlled, untouchable version I wore like armor—that it felt like shedding skin. And, God, the freedom of it. To want something this reckless, this raw, and to take it anyway. To give myself over to what my heart and body had been starving for, even if it burned everything else to the ground.
Knox’s fingers inside me, stretching me, hitting that perfect spot over and over. His thumb circling in exactly the right rhythm. His breath hot against my neck as he worked my body like he’d been studying it for years.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned. “So tight. So wet.”
“Fourteen years,” I breathed, my hand trailing down his chest. “No one’s touched you in fourteen years?”
“Not once.”
The thought of it made me ache. This man—this beautiful, dangerous, devoted man—going more than a decade without being touched. Without being wanted.
I needed to change that.
My hand slid over the planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle I could feel, even through his shirt. Lower, until my fingers met the cold metal of the chain circling his waist. I didn’t hesitate. I slipped beneath it, finding the waistband of his prison pants underneath.
Until I felt the hard length of him straining against the fabric.
“Harper.” His voice was strangled.
I slipped my hand beneath his waistband. Past the elastic of his boxers. And wrapped my fingers around him.
He was big. So big that my fingers couldn’t close around him completely. Hard as steel and already leaking at the tip.
Knox let out a sound that was barely human. A growl from deep in his chest that made my inner walls clench around his fingers.
“Fourteen years,” I whispered against his jaw. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
I stroked him from base to tip, gathering the moisture at the head, using it to ease my way back down.
“Fucking hell, Princess.” His fingers stuttered inside me. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to lose it.”
“Then lose it.”
