Page 91 of Sweet Prison

A startled gasp erupts from a woman passing by my Jag with her dog. She freezes in place and throws a panicked look at me through the open window.

“What?” I bark. “Never seen anyone arguing with themselves?”

Shaking her head, she slowly backs away from the edge of the sidewalk, then hurries down the block, nearly dragging her poor pooch in her wake.

Chapter 22

Consummate inner peace. That’s what lying in bed, with my body spooning Zahara’s, feels like. Despite us being practically intertwined, I tighten my hold around her middle, needing to feel her even closer. I wasn’t kidding when I said I wished I could handcuff her to my side. I want her with me. Always. Even now, this absurd urge revs up another degree, and I squeeze her to me harder. She wriggles slightly. Immediately, I loosen my hold and bury my nose in the tangle of her light-brown hair, inhaling long and deep.

Her hair actually reminds me of liquid honey. It shimmers with different shades in the light. At first glance, it might seem like a simple darker hue, however, under intense scrutiny, the golden strands appear here and there. Beautiful. Radiant. Enticing. I’ve known women who spent good money at salons to get that sun-kissed streaky look.

Highlights. They are called highlights.

Yes. Highlights. But not her.

I know Zahara can’t use hair dye because it irritates her skin. She wrote about it in one of her letters. And I remember every detail she ever shared with me. Even things she wrotebefore, when I hardly paid any attention to her inconsequential prattle. Somehow, it all still stuck.

Using the tip of my finger, I carefully push aside a few tendrils that glimmer like spun sugar, uncovering the warm honey tresses hidden beneath. There’s even a hint of red inher silky hair. But also, whiskey-colored locks that match her smiling eyes. So many tints, so many layers, it’s hard to know what to expect. Just like with my Zahara.

I press my lips to the delicate skin between her shoulder and the column of her neck. So, so soft. The craving to nip it consumes me, drives me out of my mind. I want to bury my teeth in that softness and mark that perfection as mine. The temptation is powerful, but I resist it, restricting myself to only another kiss.

“What time is it?” Her voice is sultry, luscious. The hushed, melodic notes make me instantly hard.

“Still early.” My mouth trails down her arm, kissing every inch of the sensual sweetness that makes her who she is.

Does she realize how utterly alluring every part of her is? Her voice. Her skin. Her lush, mouthwatering curves that I can’t seem to stay away from. For days, I’ve been walking around with a constant hard-on, dreaming up ways I could unleash this barely restrained desire upon her.

Just do it. Roll on top and plunge into her pussy in one powerful thrust. Revel in the feeling of your weight crushing her into the mattress, cage her in your embrace. Fist a handful of that glorious hair, pull her head back to get to her delectable throat. Or turn her around and take her from behind. Do it where anyone can see. Mark her! Claim her! Fuck her hard. Unleash the wild brute. Just like you want to.

You mean, likeyouwant to? Not gonna happen, man.

Why not? She’s given all of herself to you. Why can’t you do the same?

Because… she doesn’t know you, asshole. She only knows me. This… mild side of me.

We are one and the same. Two sides of the same coin. You can’t separate us.

Enough with the psychobabble. I’ll never allow her to know that darker part of me. She’s pure. Untainted. I could never be rough with her. You, my friend, are reserved only for other people.

Hypocrite. And a coward. That’s who you are. In matters of the heart, it’s all or nothing. You can’t expect her to only love a part of you.

Give it a rest. I won’t yield.

Suit yourself. But know this—she’s tougher than you think. And by withholding the brutal side of yourself because you don’t think she can handle it, you’re treating her the same as those bastards in the Family did.

That’s not true.

You know it is. Oh, and one more thing. She already knows me.

What?

Silence. The deviant asshole in my mind decided to shut up.

“Get back here and fucking explain,” I grumble.

“Explain what?” Zahara twists to face me, spearing me with her questioning gaze. “What do you need me to explain?”

“Nothing. I was just… arguing with myself. I do that a lot.”