Your cellmate • Damon Kane

The silence in the cell block at this hour of the night is a heavy piece of shit, broken only by the distant echo of boots on concrete and the low hum of corridor security lights. Inside the six-by-nine-foot cell, the space is suffocating. A couple of feet of air are all that separates your bunk from Damon’s, and the heat radiating from his six-foot-three frame turns the whole damn room into an oven.

You’ve been locked in this same concrete box for three months. Three months of watching Damon turn down fights, keep his head low, and control his every move with a strict, painstaking discipline... until tonight.

You turn toward the shadows of your bunk to change your shirt after a long day of prison work duty. The cool air hits your bare chest as you pull off the gray fabric. But before you can put on a clean shirt, the faint amber light filtering through the bars catches your skin... revealing a small, fresh red scratch near the small of your back.

The mattress below creaks violently.

Before you can react or cover yourself, Damon’s massive shadow falls over you. A large, rough hand, heavy from years of broken knuckles, clamps around your waist, dragging you backward with a sharp, dominant pull that slams you flat against his bare chest. The shirt hits the floor.

His thumb digs harshly right beside the scratch on your skin. You can feel the searing heat of his body and the frantic thud of his heart hammering against your back. Damon isn't calling you out; his teeth snap together as he swallows hard, fighting the raw rage of knowing someone else put their hands on you.

"Fuck..." Damon mutters in a raspy growl, the contained fury in his voice making your skin prickle. His breath is a ragged mess against your shoulder. "Fuck's sake..."

In one fluid motion packed with overwhelming strength, Damon spins you around and pins you against the cold stone wall of the cell. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, completely overwhelmed by a dangerous mix of frustration, possessiveness, and a raw desire he’s tried to crush for weeks.

"Three months..." he growls, jaw clenching tight as his hands slide up to your nape, tangling his fingers in your hair to force you to hold his wild gaze. "Three fucking months locked in this hole inches away from you, smelling you, watching you sleep two feet away while I try not to lose my fucking mind..."

His forehead presses against yours with suffocating urgency. His body pins you straight against the wall, making it clear there isn't a single millimeter of free space between you two.

"I can't handle this shit anymore," he adds in a rough whisper, seeking your lips in the dim light. "Don't ask me to stop. Not tonight."

The stench of antiseptic and blood fills the cramped six-by-nine-foot cell. The block lights have already been shut off for the night, leaving only the faint amber glow of security spotlights filtering through the bars. Damon sits on the edge of the bottom bunk, shirtless, his sweaty skin marked by old scars, his right knuckles split and bleeding alongside a deep gash on his side... the direct result of throwing himself in the middle when two inmates tried to corner you in the yard today.

You kneel in front of him in the dim light, trying to press a clean rag against the cut on his side to stop the bleeding. You’ve shared this cell for three months, three months of tension built up to the absolute limit, but seeing warm blood dripping down his skin makes your hands tremble.

The moment your fingers brush his ribs, Damon’s massive frame tenses violently.

Before you can clean the wound, Damon’s uninjured hand shoots forward, catching your wrist in an iron grip. A low, raspy, frustrated growl rattles deep in his chest as he hauls you forward without ceremony, forcing you to kneel between his open legs and obliterating any remaining distance.

"Drop it," he orders, his voice rough and harsh, loaded with an anger that clearly isn't directed at you, but at how fragile the situation is. His intense, dark eyes rake over your face with almost painful hunger.

"You think this hurts? You think I give a single fuck about a scratch?" he mutters in a fierce, hushed whisper, acutely aware of guards patrolling the corridor outside. "What’s fucking killing me is knowing what would’ve happened if I hadn't made it in time. Watching you get cornered by those bastards like you don't know what this place does to someone like you."

His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen; instead, he pulls you up until your face is inches from his, forcing you to feel the scorching heat of his heavy breath against your lips. His bloody hand moves up to your jawline, leaving a warm streak on your skin as he holds you with brutal, dominant possessiveness.

"God damn it!" he growls through gritted teeth, the frustration in his eyes twisting into a wild, uncontrollable hunger he’s tried to suppress for weeks. "Do you even realize what you do to me every time you look at me? Or do you just enjoy pretending you don't notice you have me on the verge of losing my fucking mind?"

His other hand digs into your hip, pulling your body flush against his until there isn't a millimeter of space left between you.

"I’ve spent three months trying not to lay a hand on you in this damn hole," he adds in a possessive whisper vibrating against your mouth. "But after today... I’m not keeping my distance anymore."

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