“I feel bad for keeping you awake.” It’s just now occurred to me that I’m keeping Graham up, when there are at least a dozen guys who might want to kick his ass in the morning, for declining to strip me and show me off to them.

“I’m fine,” he says. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to stretch out.”

“Go for it. This is your cell.” But that thought makes me frown. “Is this your cell? How does that work, exactly? What’s to stop someone else from getting to this cell before you do?”

“Nothing.” He sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back with his head resting on the intertwined fingers of both hands, since there are evidently no pillows in the bullpen. “This is my favorite cell, but sometimes I don’t get here in time, and I have to fight for it. For several days in a row, a couple of weeks ago, I got held up in the yard until after lockdown, and I didn’t get a cell at all. Had to crash on the floor in one of the offices. Turns out this guy named Cliff had paid a friend to delay me in the yard, because he wanted my cell.”

“What happened to Cliff?” I fight the urge to stand up, just for a better view of his chest. And his abs. And that well-defined V of muscle that tapers until it disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. Because while Cohen Roth is something I’m clearly going to have to do, Graham is starting to seem like something I might want to do. Part of that is how unexpectedly decent he is.

But the rest of it is those eyes. That body…

“The same thing that happens to all of us, eventually.” He shrugs, and muscles all over his torso ripple. So, I finally give in and stand for a better look, then spin toward the sink, as if that were my goal all along. I splash cold water on my face, then turn around and lean against the edge of the basin. Which is when I realize I have nothing to dry my face with, except my own shirt.

I lift the tail and blot my face mostly dry, and when I drop it, I catch Graham staring. Evidently, I flashed some underboob.

I look everywhere but at him, until my gaze trails back to him as if there’s nothing else to look at. Which is basically true. But when he sits up and scoots over, I realize he thinks that my needy expression is focused on his bed.

“You’re welcome to lie down. Get some sleep,” he adds quickly. “I swear I won’t touch you.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not…” Actually, I’m exhausted. And the alternative to sharing his bed is sleeping on the bare concrete. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you.” I take my shoes off and drop them by the bed, then I lie next to him on my back. But that leaves half of my butt and one shoulder hanging over the side. The bed is really narrow. “Do you think we could spoon? There isn’t really enough room otherwise.”

He sucks in a breath, then lets it out.

“I’m sorry. That’s over the line, know—” But he’s already turning toward me.

“You okay with being the small spoon? Since you’re…small?”

With a smile, I roll onto my side, careful to preserve a slice of space between us. But then he props himself up on his elbow and peers over my shoulder.

“Your knees are hanging off.” His left arm slides over my waist and pulls me closer, until my knees are on the bed and I’m pressed against him, from the middle of my back all the way down to my ankles, his body following the bent lines of my own.

Holy shit, he’s warm. And…hard.

Then, suddenly, he gets harder.

I feel myself tense, and he laughs. “Sorry about that. It’s unintentional.” He’s so close I can feel his breath on my earlobe. “Means nothing.”

“Isn’t this where you promise it’ll go away in a few minutes?”

“I’d hate to lie to you…” he says, and that time I laugh. “Let’s try to get some sleep and not think about tomorrow.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” I fold my hands beneath my head in lieu of a pillow. “Graham, not that this matters…” And I’m not even sure why I feel the need to tell him. “But I wouldn’t do this—I wouldn’t take Roth’s deal—if I saw any other way out of this. I’m not…into him.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” After a minute, his body seems to relax against me, all except the hard length pressed against my butt.

“Thank you,” I say again. “For everything.”

I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep like this, cuddled up to the only decent man I’ve met on Rhodon, surrounded by a hundred others who’re just waiting for the chance to show me exactly how they got locked up in the first place. But I close my eyes, and when I open them, somehow I’m spooning him. There’s drool dripping down my chin onto my arm, the lights in the cell have gone out, and there’s just enough moonlight shining through the high window to show me the outline of his strong features, when I prop myself on my elbow.

I run one finger down his cheek, over a scratchy patch of beard growth that’s just now hitting that sexy length.

“Sylvie?” The drowsy quality of his voice tells me he’s still mostly asleep.

I lean close and whisper into his ear. “Are you dreaming about me, Graham?”

“Mmmm…”

I’m not sure if that’s a yes, but it’s the sexiest sound I’ve heard in a very long time.

“Why don’t you have a real beard?” I ask, letting my lips brush his ear, and he groans. “Do you have a razor? Or a knife?”

He rolls over, his eyes still half-closed, and I let my hand settle onto his chest, only to find that it’s bare too, except for the shortest little bit of stubble. “They give us hair removal cream before the fights. They say smooth plays better on camera. I go with it, because a long beard would just give an opponent something else to grab. Like your hair…” His fingers slides into my hair, and I let my hand skim over his chest onto his stomach.

Graham’s eyes fly open all the way. He’s awake now. “I told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I’m not trying to pay. I’m asking for one more favor.” I lower myself until my lips find his, and he groans. Then his mouth opens, welcoming me in.

His tongue teases mine for a minute, then he takes over, rising onto his elbow. Tilting my head to take this kiss the way he wants it. “What’s this favor?” he asks when I finally pull away, to catch my breath.

“Is that not obvious?”

“You have to say it,” he whispers against my cheek, his breath brushing my ear. “You have to tell me what you want, so there’s no misunderstanding here. I’m not demanding anything.”

“I know,” I assure him. “I want you, Graham. Tomorrow I’m… Well, I’m going to need something good to think about.” In the morning, the reality of this hell will set in, and I’m going to need some reminder that life isn’t always complete shit and pain. That once, I was happy, even if just for a few minutes. “Give me a good memory. Please. I’m asking.”

He groans again, and he’s rock hard against my thigh. Though the truth is that he’s so hard everywhere else that I might not have noticed, if he weren’t pressing his erection against my leg. Straining for more contact.

Graham kisses me while he drags my shirt up, trailing his fingers up my side in the process, until he has to pull away to tug the material over my head. I take off my bra while he folds my shirt, then slides it beneath my head like a pillow.

“Oh my god,” he breathes when my breasts brush his chest, and by the time his hand slides up to cup one, my nipples are already hard. “You are so beautiful.”

“You can’t see me.” I’m fumbling with his waistband, but the damn tie seems to be knotted, and—

“I remember what you look like, Sylvie.” He shoves his pants down without untying them, and suddenly his cock is free and straining for me. Against me. Then I’m flat on my back again, and his hands are at my hips, beneath my waistband, dragging the material down my stomach, lifting me to pull it over my butt. “You’re sure?” he asks, as he tugs my pants off, my underwear bunched up inside them.

“See for yourself…” I spread my thighs and guide his hand between them.

“Ohhhh, you’re killing me, Sylvie.”

“Then come die happy.” Because isn’t that the point of this?

“You first.” He kisses his way down my stomach, then settles between my legs and hooks his hands behind my knees, spreading them wider. Then he kisses his way up my left thigh so slowly that I’m left aching, hanging on every heartbeat, waiting for his mouth to land where I really want it.

His lips skim over me so closely that I can feel his stubble in my most sensitive places…then his mouth lands on my other thigh. “Tease,” I accuse breathlessly.

“Good things come to those who wait.” His breath taunts me now, brushing over me with a damp warmth, and I arch my spine, craving his touch. Straining for it.

“Graham, please—”

The first teasing contact from his tongue draws a gasp from me, then a groan so humiliatingly deep and loud that his free hand reaches up to cover my mouth. “Shhh…” he scolds, peering up at me, across the entire length of my body. “Let’s play a game. To win, I have to make you scream.”

“How do I win?”

“You remain absolutely silent, no matter what I do. And Sylvie, you have to win,” he adds. “We can’t afford to rile up the natives…”

He’s right. “Challenge accepted.” I always win.

Graham disappears between my thighs again, and before I can prepare myself for the coming challenge, he licks a long line from my core all the way to my clit, teasing it at the end with a brutally blissful flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god…”

He chuckles against my inner thigh, sending a volley of tingles through me to settle low in my stomach. “You lose.”

“No… Let’s call that a practice round,” I whisper. “I’ll do better I swear. Just don’t stop.”

He laughs again, then his mouth closes over my clit, sucking gently as he slides two fingers into me.

I throw my head back, suddenly grateful for the shirt-pillow when the top of my skull slams into the concrete wall. A moan begins deep in my throat, but I press my lips together to contain it as his fingers pump slowly in and out of me, curling up to hit just the right spot.

For several minutes, I am lost the moment, to the intense and rapidly building pressure culminating from the friction of his tongue against my clit, his fingers deep inside me, and the accompanying light scratch of his beard stubble against my thigh, a titillating reminder that his face is exactly where I like it. And based on the groans rumbling against my most sensitive places, he really likes being there.

“Graham,” I whisper, as that pressure spirals toward a blissful peak.

“You lose,” he whispers, without removing his fingers.

“Fuck this game,” I moan softly, and he laughs again as his tongue descends upon me, this time licking another slow stroke from the place where his fingers disappear into my body, up through my folds, until my clit is throbbing with anticipation. With need. I’m so close. So…close.

My fingers curl into his hair, wordlessly begging him to finish what he started. He chuckles against my thigh. Then he gives my clit another firm lick, and I fall apart beneath him, spasming around his fingers. Thrusting up into each eager stroke of his tongue, until the pleasure finally fades into the occasional vibrant aftershock.

I could cry when his fingers withdraw. But then he crawls up my body, stopping on the way to suck my nipple into his mouth and roll it with his tongue, and I decide that’s almost as good.

Why is this man here? How could he be a murderer, when every single thing he’s said and done for me in the hours since we met has been kind, and generous, and good-humored?

Graham is a puzzle, and suddenly I really want to figure him out.

“You’re not done yet, are you?” His face appears over mine, and in what’s left of the moonlight, his brown eyes shine down at me. “I was going to give you a second chance to win the game.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I won that round,” I whisper.

His chuckle sets off new tremors inside me, and he leans down for a kiss as he spreads my legs wider and positions himself between them. I can feel him against my opening, hot, and hard, and thick, and suddenly I’m ready for him again.

As his tongue dives into my mouth, he plunges into me, all the way, in one stroke. I gasp, breaking free of the kiss so I can concentrate on the feel of him inside me. I’m no virgin, but this feels…different. This feels like more than sex ever was before.

Maybe it’s that I know we could both die tomorrow—or any day, in the bullpen. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ll probably never have fully consensual, pleasurable sex again, so this kind of feels like one last hurrah. Or maybe Graham is just really good at what he does, because he’s as into giving as he is into getting, and for the first—and possibly last—time in my life, I’m really fucking ready to give myself over to unabashed pleasure.

I have nothing left to lose, and no reason to hold back.

I cling to him as he pulls most of the way out, then plunges in again, and the friction against my still-sensitive clit resurrects pleasure within me as if it never really ended. As if it just went into hibernation, waiting for the chance to bloom again.

He finds a rhythm, and I rise to meet him with every stroke, clutching uselessly at the bare, thin padding beneath us until I give in and grab his shoulders, anchoring myself for better contact. More friction. I close my eyes and push everything else away, trying to forget about prison. About inmates. About concrete walls, and iron bars, and whatever hell tomorrow will bring.

There is nothing else in the moment except Graham, and me and the oblivion we cling to, in a place where there’s nothing else good to be found.

“Sylvie,” he whispers, lowering himself until his cheek brushes mine. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes and smile. “You lose.”

“Oh, honey, there’s no bigger winner in the universe right now than me.” He thrusts again, hard, and I groan and clench around him as my release soars closer. Builds tighter.

“I can’t wait,” I whisper, clutching him with my legs, grinding into him.

“No need. Let it go.” He thrusts again, and something inside me uncoils, beginning deep and rippling outward until my fingers clench and my toes curl.

The sound that rumbles up from my throat isn’t ladylike, but the moment he hears it, his stroke loses rhythm, and he begins slamming into me fast and hard, chasing his own release until I feel him come inside me with several more hard thrusts.

He lowers himself over me, supporting his weight on his elbows, and noses aside a strand of hair to whisper into my ear. “You’re beautiful under the worst of circumstances, Sylvie. But you are stunning when you come.”

Holy shit. If we were anywhere else in the world, I would climb into his lap, lick the sweat from his chest, and offer to have his babies.

The fact that I’ve just met the most amazing man in the world on death row is the most tragic thing I can even think of.