Her head jerks back, and she swallows again.
I pull on her hand, a silent command to sit where I instructed.
She yanks free of my grip and straightens the dress over her knees. Her fingers go to her hair, fidgeting with the tangles. A nervous habit.
Then she lowers her hands. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt as to whether your methods build trust. But I’m not just falling in line because you growled an order. I’m choosing to give it a try.”
A thrill jolts through me. She’s wonderfully, beautifully, remarkably perfect. Stubborn as a mule, but damn, I wouldn’t change a thing about her.
She scoots over, adjusting and smoothing the dress. I help her buckle the lap belt and start the engine. Then I hit the road.
We ride to town in silence, and I stop at the gas station to fill up the tank. Now would be a good time to buy condoms since I don’t keep any at home. But I decide against it when I catch her staring at the convenience store with enough fire in her eyes to burn the place down.
Back in the truck, I connect my phone to the stereo and cue up my playlist.
The Cowboy in Me by Tim McGraw starts the drive. The tires hum on the pavement, and Maybe sits motionless at my side.
I wait until we’re out of Sandbank before I give her my full attention. Her knees squeeze together. Her hands lie flat against her abdomen, and her shoulders bunch near her ears. Not the body language I hoped for.
“You’re uncomfortable.” I rest a hand on her locked knees.
“I’m, uh…” She drags in a long breath and releases it. “I get queasy when I’m nervous.”
Nervous is better than scared.
“I’ll go slow. So slow you’ll accuse me of being cruel.” I squeeze her knee. “Put your hand on my leg.”
Since I have to watch the road, the twitch and flex of her fingers will help me monitor her reactions.
She doesn’t move. No surprise. I’m prepared to push as hard and long as it takes until her reluctance crumbles.
I clench my fingers tighter around her knee, tighter, tighter…
She makes a noise in her throat and slams a hand down on my thigh.
I loosen my grip and glide my palm around her clenched knees, keeping the fabric in place as a barrier.
That’s where I linger for the next thirty minutes. Stroking, kneading, I touch her through the dress until her hand falls slack on my lap and her knees relax.
I inch the material up, just enough to bare her lower thighs. Her fingers dig into my leg, and I hold still.
Since she had live-in boyfriends, I know she’s not a virgin. This has nothing to do with prudence, and everything to do with distrust. She tenses as if I’m going to wrench apart her legs and stab my fingers inside her.
After I restrained her to a wooden beam, I guess I can’t blame her.
Eventually, she takes a few breaths and uncurls her claws.
Over the next hour, I focus on her thighs, caressing the velvety skin, memorizing the slender shape, and coaxing the toned muscles to contract and loosen, all while edging carefully, subtly closer to her panties.
It’s an hour of delicious discovery.
Featherlight touches make her ticklish. A gentle massage sinks her deeper into the seat and turns her body to butter. But it’s the bruising press of fingers and my restrictive grip on her leg that revs her breaths and causes her hand to curl and uncurl on my thigh, as if subconsciously pleading for more.
She enjoys being worshiped and adored with affection, but she gets off on rough, unyielding domination.
As long as it’s with the right man. A man she trusts.
If my instinct is correct, she’s never had that kind of relationship, which means she’s never experienced the total and complete submission she longs for.
She’s already so pliable beneath my hand—her legs partially open, muscles loose, breaths deep and wanton. I could slip my fingers past her panties and inside her cunt before the word stop crosses her mind.
But I want her at my mercy during the visit with Lorne. I want her thinking about the drive home, aching for more, needing, and imagining as she twists herself into a creature of ravenous hunger.
So I spend the remaining thirty minutes playing with her. Teasing fingers along the edge of her panties, brushing against the seam of her pussy, and caressing the insides of her thighs, I work her into a state of trembling, panting desire.
The mood shatters the instant we arrive at Oklahoma State Penitentiary.
I park in the lot, surrounded by two-story, anti-cut metal fencing, barren grass, and suffocating gates. I’ve been coming here for six years, and I still succumb to skin-tightening, throat-burning, lead-in-my-stomach guilt every time I see it.
Lorne killed one man the night Conor was raped, and he was sentenced to ten years in this hellhole.