The Possessive Convict Read online

  The action is from my conscious craving to control her.

  My tongue wets my bottom lip as vile hunger festers at the base of my thickening cock.

  I yank her hair, forcing her head back with a pained yelp as I devour her cries with a deep kiss. Her lips part for air, and the softness merely fuels the aching in my bones to just take her.

  Curling my tongue around hers and biting down on the sensitive muscle, I swallow her indignant cries again.

  I can’t get enough of her.

  What is it about Nia that unsettles my equilibrium—that happily makes me throw out my self-control?

  I break away for air as Nia wheezes with heaving gasps.

  It troubles me to not know the answer.

  “Why did you—” She pants as her sweet breath fans over my wet lips. “You kissed me again.”

  “I did,” I echo after her while refusing to relent the grip on her hair.

  “Why?” she whispers with fluttering lashes.

  “You were a good girl.”

  Nia mumbles, almost like an instinctive thing to say, “I’m always good.”

  “You helped me again,” I note boldly. “Until you can give a sufficient answer that satisfies me, I will substitute it with this method.”

  I say as an afterthought, “You do seem to enjoy it.”

  “I don’t!” she bristles heatedly like a kitten. “And what do you mean? Answer for what?”

  I scratch the back of her head as I adjust my fingers in her hair.

  “For what you desire from me the most.”

  Chapter Three

  Nia

  Sergei’s still here.

  It’s the fourth day, and he refuses to leave.

  I’m constantly under his watchful eye. When I accidentally meet his gaze, the icy blues flicker with tormenting fixation.

  Sergei never did anything disrespectful. He’s more than polite for someone who has done something to land him in one of the most notorious supermax prisons.

  I keep my assumptions to myself. I don’t want to trigger anything that would put me in danger.

  The notion of getting hurt doesn’t sit well with me. Sergei is one of the most respectful people I’ve met, no one in this town can compare to his well-mannered demeanor.

  Yet, he is also the most unapproachable man.

  He has this air about him as a barrier to ward off danger while emitting that wrathful power in his muscles.

  I admit that I have this biased view of criminals, and I try not to let it affect me when I’m dealing with Sergei. There are times when I have this sudden conflict and wonder if Sergei is a criminal.

  He’s courteous and never forces me to do anything that I don’t want.

  Other than aiding him in his escape.

  The moment I had helped him patch up that gaping wound, I was one leg into a mess that would get me into trouble. He doesn’t say he’s using that against me, but he has no qualms about reminding me of where I stand.

  Then I helped him again when the police barged in. If I’m in court arguing my case, I’d tell the judge that I didn’t know where Sergei was. Technically, he was hiding in a place that I never knew existed.

  “Tell me about yourself, Nia,” he suggests suddenly.

  I bite back a startled squeal as I yank the scissors away from the ribbon.

  “What do you want to know?” I ask.

  “Everything,” he says promptly.

  I want to take back what I offered. I don’t want to give him the power to use me for his advantage. I’ve been living by myself for a couple of years, and I’m proud to say I can handle any trouble that is thrown at me.

  Speaking of trouble, today is going to be one of those days.

  An automatic scowl falls onto my face. I dread the arrival of that person, and it’s even worse when I have to take into consideration of Sergei’s inexplicable obsession with latching onto my side.

  His hand is always on the small of my back, the curve of my hips, or the nape of my neck.

  “I would like to get to know you.” Sergei wrestles the scissors from my hand and sets them down beside the beautiful bouquet.

  “I can’t sleep with the smell of Freesia.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head.

  Freesia is a common type of flower that many people order in the summer. Sometimes I get orders in batches because they smell like strawberries. They do give me headaches from the sweetness, and I thought jasmine was bad.

  “Was that the reason for last night’s restlessness?” he inquires.

  Last night was hot, and the open window only let in warm air. The heat never bothers me too much, but the smell of faint strawberries has my temple pounding.

  I had an order yesterday for Freesia from a man who wanted to win back his wife’s good grace after he told her he shaved her eyebrows. Many walk-in customers will tell me their reasoning; to gloat or to downplay how much they had messed something up.

  They ask for recommendations, and it’s fun to hear them looking for particular meanings.

  I have a repeat customer coming in for flowers that can be used as a curse.

  “Did I keep you up?” I ask with a sheepish smile.

  His big hand inclines over the dip of my hip, the heat from his palm crawling through my sundress as he closes his fingers.

  My heart rattles against my ribs at his closeness. “I’m sorry. I turn a lot when I can’t sleep.”

  Sergei sleeps on the floor with my extra sheet and pillow. He doesn’t need a blanket; I had half a mind to call him a psychopath for not wanting a blanket for security when he’s sleeping. That’s when he’s the most vulnerable, but he wakes up well-rested every morning.

  He has made it clear that he will not let me out of his sight, not even when he’s sleeping.

  “No need to apologize.” He chuckles after my guilty laughter.

  He comments, “I‘ve slept in worst conditions.”

  “You have?” I turn my head as I face the broadness of his chest.

  His preferred position is nudging his growling chest against my back, showing possessiveness while holding me with paralyzing fear.

  He hasn’t hurt me, but the implication that he can is what scares me into not fighting. Sergei is a criminal, but my body doesn’t care if he’s a mass murderer. The tingling sensation at his touch speaks louder than the logic in the back of my mind.

  I know I’m doing a stupid thing by not turning him in, but the thought of picking up the phone makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Prison walls may be made of concrete, but sound travels through them rather effortlessly.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to pick up the scissors again to fix the bouquet and get it ready for pick-up. His hand wraps around my wrist, halting my movement as he gives the limb a sturdy squeeze.

  It’s not tight, and I could break away if I want to, but instinct tells me otherwise.

  “It’s that bad?” I wince and slowly creep away from his burning touch.

  Summer is scalding enough in this town and having his scorching hot body latch onto my back gives humidity a new meaning.

  “There are tortured souls there,” he notes with a hum. “Once in a while, I would hear anguished screams.”

  Are they abusing inmates there? I know that supermax prisons separate all the inmates, the recommended practice to prevent them from hatching an escape plan.

  “Is it legal?” I ask the rhetorical question.

  Of course, it’s illegal. Abuse is never a good thing even when it’s inmates who have done inhumane things.

  “I would not be the wisest choice to ask that question, little girl.”

  I shouldn’t let my mind wander to entertain his statement. Sergei presents himself as someone who would feign forgiveness at being wronged and then plan the entire family’s death.

  “Tell me more, Nia,” he whispers heatedly. “I wish to understand you.”

  That’s a weird thing to say.

  I shake off t
he bewilderment and shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. My life isn’t interesting, and I don’t have any exciting news to tell him about the town.

  The most interesting thing that’s going on is the mayor’s daughter getting married, but that’s a whole different type of excitement that people keep to themselves.

  “I’ve never been out of this town before,” I mumble longingly.

  I want to live in a big city and experience the disconnect of being a city-girl. Townspeople have this obsession with knowing everyone’s business; the lines of privacy tend to blur, and new rumors fly like wildfire.

  “You’ve lived here all your life?” he questions for clarity.

  Sergei doesn’t sound judgmental; he’s intrigued as he slides the rough pad of his finger onto the thin skin that protects my pulse.

  My wrist hangs limply from his hand as he brings his nose to my temple. The gesture is breathtakingly pleasant and almost aggressively greedy when he breathes in my shampoo.

  “Yeah,” I finally answer. “Been working here for a while too.”

  He hums thoughtfully, the contemplation in his voice startles me as the sensual purr travels into my ears.

  “Have you thought about leaving?” he asks.

  His thumb brushes the bunched dress on my hip when the heated hold turns into a constricting grasp. However, the hand around my wrist is the softest cradle.

  I ask myself that all the time. The desire to leave is there, and it grows stronger every day. But money is a problem, and I feel guilty about leaving the injured shop owner.

  Sergei chuckles gutturally and swiftly detaches himself from my tingling body. A gentle breeze caresses my skin as my body follows the heat of his body before the subconscious action catches up to me.

  He disappears around the corner and into the backroom. His massive body blends into the silence too smoothly. It’s not possible to do without prior experience.

  That makes me more curious about who he was when he went to prison and who he is now.

  It may very well be the same person, a charming manipulator, or a heartless villain.

  The bell on the door shrills and my head whip back. My heart throbs painfully when the man comes in, his sleazy grin presses together to usher out an airy whistle.

  I forgot this varmint was coming in today. Every month, like clockwork, he comes in with his hideous car that feeds into his tomfoolery.

  “Ah, Nia, Nia,” he jeers.

  Is that a piece of lentil between his front teeth?

  “Still with that banging body, eh?” His bushy brows wiggle suggestively.

  Living alone is dangerous for me, and this man doesn’t make the experience better with his constant pressure to sleep with him.

  He’s an eligible bachelor, as he once bragged.

  Societal acceptance of eligible bachelors means that the men are wealthy with a social status and a personality that wins the hearts of hopeless romantics.

  This man, Dakota, fails at even being a decent human.

  Thank goodness he hasn’t overstepped the boundaries. There are times when he has tried to cop a feel of my ass, but I’ve learned to dodge him skillfully.

  “You already know what time it is.” He snickers crookedly.

  The piece of food annoys me too much. How can he not feel that between his teeth? It’s huge, and it’s a dark color, so it’s impossible to not notice.

  The shop owner had strictly warned me every month to not fight Dakota. It’s not worth the shop getting mysteriously burnt to the ground, a case of arson the sheriff probably won’t look too deeply into.

  Dakota runs with a gang of useless thugs who like to harass shop owners for a protection fee. There is no other gang to rival them, they just want an excuse to steal money without going through the hassle of doing the work.

  I’ve seen them hanging around town, a bunch of teenagers being guided by their leader. Their leader is a man in his mid-twenties who likes to hang out with teenagers.

  The law is lenient on children, so they can get away with a lot of things. The sheriff doesn’t do much about the complaints because he’s afraid of the repercussions.

  There had been vandalism of shops, and even his own home when the sheriff arrested one of the teenagers.

  The mayor is more useless than the sheriff in handling the issue. There wasn’t any consolation to bring peace to the community. He never addressed the matter.

  It’s another reason that fuels my desire to leave this awful place.

  “What?” Dakota crackles like a hyena. “Don’t have the cash?”

  He folds his greasy arms over the glass counter and leans in to flex his nonexistent muscles. His brows are so expressive that I have to bring my attention back to his words.

  “I can give you more time, but you have to give me something back,” he proposes with a loud snort of phlegm.

  “Squid quote.” Dakota slathers his lips with his tongue.

  It’s “quid pro quo,” not “squid quote.”

  Also, that was the most rotten thing I’ve seen.

  I step back as the smell of musty sweat makes itself known. I push the brown bag filled with cash toward him and strain my ears to listen for Sergei.

  I don’t hear him, but I feel the fiery gaze on my back.

  I’m safe. Sergei will come to my rescue if this man chooses to get physical.

  “Man, and there’s a party tonight too,” he gripes with a foul sneer. “I was going to take you to pound-town.”

  I hold back a cringe-induced grimace. Dakota has this delusional mindset that he’s a ladies' man and can charm all the panties off with a wink.

  The same wink he’s giving me at this exact moment.

  I’m going to barf.

  I rub my arm to soothe the prickling nerves as he counts the money in the bag. He puts the bag in his jacket and waves me closer.

  I stay firmly at a distance and use the counter as a barrier.

  “Give papa a kiss.”

  My appetite for lunch goes crashing out the window. Just when I thought this man couldn’t be more embarrassing, he went and made me beyond uncomfortable.

  “I’ll get you soon, baby. You’ll be begging for this!” Dakota grabs between his legs and thrusts his hips at me.

  The acidic burn of bile crawls up to the base of my throat. If he’s planning on making me hurl my breakfast on the floor, he’s succeeding with ease.

  I continue to hold my breath even after the chiming of the bell stops. My lungs only deflate when Sergei presses a familiarly big hand around my waist.

  He spins me to face his rippling chest, the black shirt doing no justice in hiding the grooved muscles. He grasps my chin and lifts my eyes to his; they spark with a seething rage that makes the blue of his eyes even icier.

  “Does that happen often, little girl?”

  He must have overheard, so there’s no need to hide it. I nod and try to step back, but his rigid hand becomes an unrelenting force that keeps my feet on the ground.

  “Do you want him gone?”

  I laugh nervously and scratch the side of my neck as a sign of anxiety. “I wish, but even the sheriff is scared of them.”

  He repeats hollowly, “Them.”

  His ruggedly handsome features turn stone-cold, the gate to his emotions closes. He doesn’t find this humorous, nor is he amused by the lack of organization in this town.

  I’m one girl. My voice won’t reach the people of power who practically run this town. The police department, the mayor, and the generational families in this place don’t care since it’s not their problem.

  Complaining won’t do much, so I’ve given up on finding help after my fifth complaint to the police.

  “My wound has reopened,” he reckons calmly.

  I sputter in disbelief, “What? How?”

  “Would you mind?” he asks as he smiles, but it’s filled with emptiness.

  Sergei lifts his shirt. The blood isn’t seeping through the layers of white cotton, and the knot on
the gauze isn’t loose.

  “Can I?” I mumble squeakily.

  “You don’t need permission to touch me, Nia. I don’t mind being touched by you.”

  Flustered, I send him a weak scowl as he cracks a crass smirk at me. I pull back the bandage from the top and peer down with my forehead nudging his thick chest. It’s healing nicely, but there is fresh blood on it.

  “Isn’t it better to get stitches?” I ask as I back away. “What if it reopens even more?”

  Stitches were an option before, but heaven knows why he was adamant about not doing it.

  A bizarre guess could be that he’s afraid of needles.

  “After it heals, you won’t care for me anymore,” he says casually.

  I scoff and jut my bottom lip out. “I’ll care.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. It sounded too intimate, too desperate for his affection.

  “I expect you to keep that promise until death, little girl,” he sneers down at me.

  Liquid flame licks up my spine as the quirk of his smirk turns deadly. “Now, care to stitch me up?”

  “Me?” I point a finger to my chin with stupor etching on my face.

  I declare shamefully, “I’ve never done it before.”

  “I will help you step-by-step,” he offers rather enthusiastically.

  His hand encloses around my wrist and yanks me into the backroom. The workstation for bouquet decorations is messy with three pairs of scissors and a ruler.

  The details on the wedding floral arrangements are insane. The mayor’s daughter had paid a lot of money for perfection.

  Upsetting the bride could turn her into a bridezilla.

  “You could do it yourself,” I note at the implication.

  “It’s less painful when you care for me.” He glances at me over his broad shoulder.

  The coiling of his muscles has my throat drying faster with every second. I have this unparalleled urge to scratch his burly back while he traps me under him, taking me as his and loving my virginity with his tainted affection.

  “Don’t be shy, little girl,” he purrs as he tugs me to his chest. “We’re consenting adults.”

  Heat flushes my aching cheeks as I fumble with my high-pitched whisper.