by Ella James
“More,” I murmur. “More please.”
He’s halfway out, but he drives back in and starts to find a brutal rhythm. As he leans over me, his fingers skate through the lake of silky liquid pooled around my clit, between my lips. Everywhere his cock has touched, I’m sopping wet. His fingers play in my folds, taking me to the edge so I’m gritting my teeth and hissing his name.
And then he moves them off of me.
I can feel his hand under my ass. Two fingers slide between my cheeks as his dick pounds me and my head hits the hard wall. I can feel a fingertip—damp from my pussy—probing gently.
“Yes! Oh yes!”
I want everything he has.
“Tell me you’re alive,” he grunts. “You like it when I fuck your pussy hard.”
“I… I…like it…”
He stops, and my hips thrust up, burying him deeper as he gently slips a fingertip inside my tight bud.
“Say you like it when I fuck your pussy and your ass.”
“I like it when you…” His finger slides a little deeper— “fuck…my pussy and my…ass.” I gasp.
He grins. “That’s right.”
In and out and in and out and I’m so full of his cock I’m screaming. I thrash under him; I push against his fingers in my ass. I like his fingers in my ass. My cunt is lit up like a lightning bolt; so raw. “I’m close!” His fingers glide over my clit, teasing every nerve ending as his cock fucks me relentlessly. Slam in, pull out, slam in.
Inside my ass, his fingers curl. His shaft drags over my clit. I clench my body, hold my breath, and—
“You can come now,” he says.
He drags himself out of me and mercilessly shoves back in, and I come in an exquisite wave of pleasure.
A second later, he pulls out, and warmth covers my belly.
CHAPTER 7
Annabelle
Mom dated a lot of addicts, and was one herself at times, so I know what it looks like when someone is coming down.
The way their eyes glass over and go soft and tired around the edges. The way they seem to fold into themselves: quiet and languid—for a moment. That’s until the withdraw sets in. But we’re not there yet. He’s not there yet.
He’s on his back and I’m lying in the crook of his arm. I open my eyes to be sure, in his semi-high state, he’s not looking at those awful pictures on the ceiling. But I find his eyes are shut, his breathing slow.
As if my worries roused him, at that exact moment, his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at the photos taped onto the low ceiling. He turns his head away from me, and I reach out and wrap my arm around his neck, turning him back toward me. I press his face into my neck and stroke his hair, then drag my fingers slowly down his nape.
“They suffered…didn’t they?” he murmurs. “All of them…suffered so much.”
His voice is soft and broken. I wonder how many hours he’s stared up at those photos while high on whatever they’re giving him. Of course he didn’t know what was going on when I showed up. Everyone he’s seen these last few weeks is dead. It’s sick. It’s unforgiveable.
“I don’t think so,” I lie. “When I got there, two of them were already gone and the other one wasn’t conscious.”
Sometimes a lie is more compassionate than the truth. I’ve never been so committed to honesty that I was willing to hurt someone hurting already.
He shakes his head, and I continue stroking his neck. “It was an accident, Ricardo.” I wrap my arm over his side, so his chest is pressed against my side, and try to rock his heavy body closer into mine. He doesn’t move. I his neck and shoulders with my fingernails. “Try not to look up there again, okay. It’s not real. Those are just pictures.”
His breathing seems to slow for a second, and I rest my hand gently on his jaw. His cheek is pressed against my head. And then, a second later, he’s rolling away from me. Rolling onto his other side, facing the other way. I hear him cough and gag. He’s getting sick.
Shit.
I reach out for his back, then realize most people would probably be embarrassed, so I stay away as he heaves and gags, and I see sweat coat his broad back.
By the time he sags back on the floor, his face is damp and his chest is pumping with the speed of his breaths.
I crawl over to him. There’s nothing on the floor beside him except liquid.
“God. Are you okay?”
He turns his head away from me. “I’m sorry. Angel. I don’t know how you’re here, but go. Please, Angel. Go on.”
I rub his bicep with my hand. My palm is warm against the damp cool of his skin.
“I’m not leaving yet. Not until I know that you’re okay. What are they giving you?” I touch my hand down on his thigh—the one without the scar—and he flinches a little.
“Ricardo…”
He turns away. “I’m not Ricardo.” The words are muffled by a hand. He curls up a little more, giving me a view of his beautiful back and ass that heats me up and at the same time hurts to see.
“Who’s doing this, Beast? It’s the DA, isn’t it?” I stroke his back. “Have you been high most of the time that you were here?”
He shakes his head. I think he’s not going to answer—until he whispers, in a raspy voice, “I never did do well with drugs. I didn’t like cocaine.” His eyes flicker over mine, but it’s brief—as if he wants to tell me more but won’t allow himself. And after a moment, with his eyes on the wall in front of him, he says, “That night, we were pulled over. I did it for Uma.”
“Did what?” I murmur.
“A bunch of blow.” His eyes meet mine again, two deep brown pools, then quickly retreat. “We all did, in the car. Uma had a bunch of it, and she didn’t want to get caught when someone pulled us over.”
I nod slowly. “Wow. I never heard that said that way.”
He makes a strange sound. “Yeah. In the stories I’m coked up, on a fucking binge.” His lips curl up, morose and cold. “I don’t even like that shit.”
“And they’re giving you something similar in here? Injecting it into you? How do they do it? How do they make you do it?” I frown at him, genuinely confused, because even half starved and out of shape, he’s bigger than most of the guards here.
He turns his head to look at me full on. His eyes are empty. Bleak. “They don’t have to make me, Angel. I beg. I get hungry for it. Whenever it’s been too long…” he licks his lips. “A guard from the clinic comes down and gives it to me here.” He turns back over on his back, touches his thigh with two fingertips. “It makes my heart beat fast, and I can’t breathe well enough,” he whispers, “so I always end up on my back.”
He turns over on his side, giving me a full view of his blank, tired face, and I reach out and touch his shoulder. “I wish I could reach the ceiling and pull it all down.”
The ceilings are low, but not that low. Even Beast can’t reach him. Can he?
“I deserve to see them,” he says quietly.
“Of course you don’t.” I wrap my arms around him and snuggle close to his body. He doesn’t move. “You’re coming down. You’re tired and, I imagine pretty frayed and—God—fucked up. Anyone would be. Can I hold you?” I ask. “Really hold you?”
I try to get my arms around him better, but he leans up on an elbow and shifts away from me.
All of a sudden, he looks angry. “What’s the point? We hardly know each other, Annabelle. I’m never getting out of here. So what’s the point?”
“Because I want to,” I whisper. “I want to hold you for a second.”
He presses his lips together and looks at me like I’ve just asked to drive a hammer into his thumb.
“I care about you, and I think you care about me, too.”
His face hardens. “But I don’t.”
“Yes you do. I know you do, Ricardo.”
“Don’t call me Ricardo. I told you, nothing but Beast.” He sits fully up, then grabs me around the waist and pushes my back against the wall. Sitting on his knees, wi
th his hard cock jutting up against his belly, he lets his hands come down on either side of my head.
“Beast. That’s who I am,” he says.
“Okay. I can call you Beast.”
His eyes drop to my breasts. I can feel his hunger. Not just in his cock, but pouring out of every part of him.
I caress his cheek. He closes his eyes.
His hand grabs mine and drags it down his pecs and abs, down his happy trail and to his dick. He rocks into my palm, and I lean down so I can suck him into my mouth.
CHAPTER 8
Beast
“Wait.”
She’s got her mouth around my dick, but I pull gently out of it. “What are you doing here?”
I’m feeling a little less hazy now. The drugs I got however long ago are pretty much all out of me, leaving me tired and low. So very tired. It’s hard to think much, but for her, I can.
“I don’t want you hurt, Angel. You need to leave. This is not a good day for you to be here.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”
I can’t tell her, of course. Juarez thinks he’s going to off me today, and maybe he is. I stand up and pull her up beside me. Wrap my arm around her back, not because she needs me to, but because I can’t keep myself from touching her. “You need to leave—right now, Angel.”
“Do you know about it?” she whispers.
“What?”
“Someone— his group is Julios?”
“Juan Juarez.” I sigh. “Yeah, I know about him. Thinks he’s gonna kill me. Maybe he is. But you’re not going to be here to see it, either way it goes.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and walk her toward the door.
That tires me out. She notices me breathing hard.
“When do you get more?”
“Tomorrow, I think.” I grit my teeth. “Today is the in-between day. I’m more aware of what’s going on, but it’s not a party.”
“Why is this happening? Who’s doing this?”
“I killed someone, Angel.”
“I have to tell you, as ridiculous as this may sound, I find that a little hard to believe.”
“I killed someone,” I tell her harshly, “and more than likely, I’m going to be killed.”
“Why?” Her eyes are wet. “I don’t get it.”
I kiss her tears.
“I want to go to someone. Appeal or something. Help you.”
“You can’t help me.”
“Why?” Her tears are running down her cheeks. I wipe one away and do some quick thinking. Weighing things out
“Can you keep this to yourself, Angel?”
She nods. She grabs my arm. “Yes. Of course.”
I don’t see in the moment why I shouldn’t tell her. I’m stuck in solitary, defenseless and waiting for my killers like an overthrown despot. Everything I tried to do here, all the work I did—it’s meaningless. It’s gone.
I’ve been a thug. An executioner. I’ve killed ten men since I came to this place—eight of them because I was asked to. Would it be so terrible to tell someone the truth?
I look into her eyes, and I don’t even have to make a choice. The words just roll out of my mouth. “I was an informant, Angel. For the government. The other night after I made a hit for them, they turned on me.”
I exhale deeply, and I look into her eyes. They’re wide with shock.
“This probably won’t mean anything to you,” I tell her as I rub my itching eyes, “but I recently found out Juarez might not be the mastermind behind his family’s drug cartel. The government must be dealing straight with him now, and if he’s in charge of all the gang leaders at La Rosa instead of me, he’ll probably take me out, no matter how hard I fight.”
It’s fucking weird to say so, but that’s the position that I’m in. If I were upstairs, it would be a little less impossible, but in solitary? It’s basically a done deal.
I dare a look at Angel and find her face blanched white, her lips pulled into a little ‘o’. “No way. I won’t let it be true. It can’t be true. It isn’t fair! Maybe you’re wrong,” she says quickly. “You don’t know for sure.”
I nod slowly, catching my lip between my teeth as I decide how much I should tell her. I reach the same conclusion I did a minute ago: If I’m a dead man by tonight, why hold anything back?
“When they decide it’s over, it’s over, Angel. Especially if you’re stuck in a place like this. What do you think happened to Holt? He knew about my deal with him, and he and I ran this place for years. How do you think that fucker Robert Ryan, the DA, found out I had so much control?”
“The government? And by that do you mean the FBI?”
Not exactly—more like a smaller sub group under the general branch of Homeland Security—but I nod because it keeps things simpler. “When they want somebody out, they do it just like they do it overseas. Clean house, replace the old regime, take out the dictator.”
I smile a little, because really, it’s preposterous that I was ever a dictator here. My ability to do the most basic things is limited by where I am. Of course it is. Never more than now. That anyone here was kept under my thumb for any amount of time… If I was ever going to win an Oscar, it would be for this.
I lean over and kiss her lips.
“I love this mouth. That sweet cunt of yours. I love everything about you, Angel. But what I need is for you to go. This thing between us—consider it over the moment you walk through that door.”
I grit my teeth against a sudden rush of emotion. I manage to keep my eyes from misting, but I can’t stop my arms from reaching out for her. “For whatever reason, you’re my angel. It’s not just a nickname.” I kiss her hair. Her cheek. Her soft lips. I’m hard again but it doesn’t matter. “It means the world and some that you came here, but you’ve gotta go before you get caught. Go back out. Go to your car and drive away, Annabelle.”
She kisses my mouth hard, then pulls away and looks into my eyes. “I’m not letting you get killed.”
I smile at her—or try to. “Angel, I’m pretty fucking good with my hands and feet. I’ve got a fighting chance. But not with you here. You’ll hinder me. Believe me when I tell you that.”
Panic twists her face. “That’s what people in this position always say!”
“You know a lot of people in this positon?” I
“In the movies, and in books. They tell the stupid woman, ‘I can’t fight with you here,’ and the women leave them, and then they die tragically and become heroes.” Her eyes glimmer.
“Angel.” I hug her close again and kiss her head. “You’ve got this backwards. I’m the antihero. I think maybe you’re the hero.”
I think about the photos above our heads and feel so awful that I hope I do die, but her arms are around me and I’d like more of that, too.
Her hands crawl down my belly and I know where she’s going.
“The hit is in three hours now. You need to go, Angel.”
She leans down and licks her lips, then opens wide and points my cock toward her mouth. I can feel it swell and stiffen, getting longer and harder than it is already as her hand moves under my balls. She sucks me into her mouth, the head of me buried deep down in the velvet of her throat; my shaft caressed by her cheeks. Her tongue swirls around my base, and with her hand, she gently lifts and kneads my balls.
“Angel! Fucking evil little angel.” I rock into her—my legs move on their own as bliss floods through me—and she deep-throats me. I moan, and that’s the end of my resistance.
I let her lick and suck and tease me with her tongue and lips and throat until I’ve suken down onto my knees. She’s on her knees, too, sucking me off with a zeal I wouldn’t have thought possible.
I come with a low growl and lay her hips up across my lap to return the favor. When I’ve made her come two times—hard—I know I have to move fast. I lift her up and walk to the door.
“What’s the pass code you used?” I ask her.
She tells me the number, and I pu
nch it in to unlock the cell door.
I watch her eyes rove the hall curiously as I take her to the showers at the end. It’s one shower a week for us down here, and mine was yesterday. I think.
I know Joe won’t give a shit—he’s one of the ones still loyal to me, despite everything—so I push through the door and step into one of the stalls and strip her clothes off and start the water.
“My room is dirty. I’m dirty. I’m gonna wash you off, and Joe will see you out.”
If Juarez is the man in charge, reporting to the feds, they might have him off Bosman. It’s a move I think they’ve been mulling for a while, but the Black Guerrillas don’t like me. Ever since an incident last year, they like Juarez a little better.
That must be it, I think as I strip my Angel’s clothes off. They’ve got McGuire dealt with, and I helped install someone more pliant. If Juarez leads things, helps them take out the guy who may really be in charge of the cartel, it’s a double-win because they can also get Juarez to take out Bosman. It’s so tidy, I wonder if I should have seen the whole thing coming.
“I can’t take you getting killed,” she says as she wraps her arms around my waist and presses her belly into my cock.
“I’d prefer to avoid it, too, Angel, but sometimes shit just happens.”
CHAPTER 9
Annabelle
I suck his dick again in the shower. He sinks down to his knees on the shower mat and puts his hands atop my head as the water rains down on us and steam tingles over my damp pussy.
He props me up against one of the cement divider walls and leans down to lick my pussy, putting my legs over his shoulders, even as he braces me against the wall, and I cling to his arms.
When I’ve finally stopped shuddering, he carries me out onto a disposable mat and helps me dry with a dark green, shrink-wrapped towel. He dries my hair and helps me into my clothes, and every second that his hands tend to me, I feel a little sicker.
