I want you
I don't want anybody else
And when I think about you
I touch myself

You really shouldn’t be here. Your mother would kill you if she knew where you were. You were supposed to be going to church, after all it is Sunday morning, and you vowed never to do this. Once he got thrown in this place you promised yourself it was over. It should have been over long before that but sometimes it takes something drastic to make you see the error of your ways.

In this particular case it was an assault with a deadly weapon charge that landed him in County for nine months.

You really don’t want to do this. You know you shouldn’t be doing this and yet here you stand, waiting in line in the Inmate and Visitation department at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning at the Shelby County Jail. The line inches forward and people are herded back one or two at a time by a deputy who looks just thrilled to be here. You watch as the deputy pats them down lazily and they disappear through a metal detector and around a corner, out of sight.

You’ve never done this before and that is blatantly obvious to everyone in the room considering you’re wearing a knee length skirt and knit sweater. Everyone else is in jeans at t-shirts, standing around and looking bored. You’re the only one who seems to be nervous.

When you finally get to the front of the line there’s a short heavy woman sitting behind the plexiglass. She looks weary and annoyed, her eyes not leaving her computer screen.

“Hi I-“

“I need a valid picture I.D. from you honey,” she says, her southern accent tired and bored and you blink for a moment before scrambling in your purse for your driver’s license, sliding it down into the metal bowl, watching it wait at the bottom under the glass before the woman snatches it, entering it in the computer.

“Is there anything you’d like to give to the inmate?” she asks, sighing as she slips your ID back to you

The inmate. You shudder and shake your head.

“Alright then,” the woman says, turning back to her computer screen and you continue to stand there, waiting for instructions. “Take the elevator down to the lower level,” she adds and you look around, seeing nothing but windows and plastic chairs, people milling around, waiting impatiently.

“Miss?”

You look over and see the deputy standing next to the metal detector waving you over and you scurry to meet him. You smile nervously at him as he pats you down gently before standing aside so you can step through the metal detector. You pass through without incident and stand dumbly on the other side.

“Elevator is around the corner, Miss,” the deputy says and you smile gratefully, walking uncertainly around the corner.

The ride down to the lower level is cramped and awkward, four other people shoved in there with you, no one looking at anyone else. Butterflies tickle your stomach as you step out, the others brushing past you, clearly knowing what they are doing and you follow dumbly, wondering when you’ll finally see him.

Your stomach drops. The last time you saw him he was handcuffed and being guided into the backseat of a cop car. His blue eyes had met yours, an apologetic look on his face as they drove away. You didn’t go to his sentencing, you never visited him, never even took his calls until yesterday when you checked your answering machine and after the automated voice asking if you would accept a collect call you heard his voice for the first time in six months but instead of saying his own name as was customary, he said yours and then “please” before it cut off. That’s all it took. And here you stand, waiting.

You stand in line at another counter shuffling forward slowly until you reach the desk. A tall, thin man in a guard’s uniform is sitting behind the desk, watching security monitors that show nothing but long hallways, the occasional black and white figure walking slowly down it. Your eyes fall on the counter where there’s a clipboard and sign-in sheet. You fill out your information, his information and the date and time before setting the pen gingerly back on the counter. This needs to go faster. You just want to get this over with. Get out of here. You shouldn’t be here.

The guard snatches the clipboard and examines it, before picking up the phone, punching a few numbers before waiting.

“Yeah Simon I got a visitor for oh-nine-oh-five-eight-six,” he sighs and waits a beat before nodding and hanging up the phone. “You’ll need to leave your purse here.”

You look at him slightly bewildered, blinking before handing it across the counter and you watch him set it back behind the desk with a few other bags. You wonder how safe it will be back there and shake your head at yourself. Who would be dumb enough to steal a purse in a jailhouse?

The guard guides you down a long hall of doors before stopping and opening one, standing aside to let you pass. You step inside, surprised to see that it’s only about the size of a closet, the small plastic chair barely fitting in the space along with the chipped countertop holding nothing but a box of tissue. A beat up black phone receiver hangs on the wall, a long metal cord curling all the way down to the floor. A large pane of plexiglass slices through the center, scuffed and dull in the harsh florescent lighting and the scene is the same on the other side of the glass, plastic chair, counter, phone, and Kleenex box. The only difference is that there is no door, only an open view of the wall and the four feet of hallway space outside the cubicle. The guard closes the door softly behind you and you can’t help but feel trapped. You can only imagine what he feels like in here.

You sit awkwardly in the chair, setting your hands in your lap and fidgeting, trying to find something to look at. This was a terrible idea. You shouldn’t have come. No matter how sad he had sounded on the phone. He’s bad news. Obviously, he’s in jail for chrissake. You should leave. You could still make the sermon if you left now.

You’re just starting to get up when he steps into view, a guard escorting him in and your eyes grow wide at the sight of him, tall and lean, right in front of you. You gasp slightly at the sight of his shaved head, the blond stubble only as long as the scruff on his chin, his body clad in a navy blue scrubs, flip flops on his feet. You’d expected an orange jumpsuit. So much for stereotypes.

“Hey!” he exclaims, stepping forward, his words muffled by the glass and he’s grinning so wide you fear his face is going to break from it.

“Hey,” you reply, not being able to fight the smile on your own lips because here he is. After six months and all those tears you’re happy because here he is.

You both just stand and stare for a moment each amazed, memorizing the others features. He licks his lips and you feel your stomach tremble slightly. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you haven’t gotten any in six months. There’s movement behind him and you tear your eyes away from him for a moment to see the guard stepping back.

“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” the guard says gruffly as he turns to leave and he just scowls rolling his eyes as he sits and you check your watch.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, scooting closer to the table and the guard sighs before trudging out of view. “Can you hear me okay?” he asks eagerly and you nod, lowering into your own seat uncomfortably. “Good I hate using those fucking phones.”

“Should you…” you ask, watching the guard retreat. “Should you talk to him that way?”

“What?” he asks confused and then waves his hand dismissively. “Fuck him.”

“Justin,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. His smart mouth is what got him here in the first place.

“What’s he gonna do to me?” Justin asks, throwing his arms open. “I’m already in fucking jail?”

You cringe. “Yeah, well…” you trail, opting not to say what you’re thinking.

“Well what?” he asks, his eyes hardening slightly and you roll your eyes.

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head, hugging your stomach.

“No what?” he asks, his voice hard. “You obviously got something to say,” he spits. “Or at least you should considering I haven’t heard from you the entire fucking time I’ve been in here.”

“You’re in jail, Justin!” you exclaim, your temper getting the best of you. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Answer the fucking phone for one thing,” he growls and you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair and folding your arms over your chest.

The anger on his face melts away, his breath hitching as you watch him shift in his chair, his tongue snaking out to lick his lips again and you shiver. His eyes leave your face, traveling down the slender column of your neck and over the smooth skin of your chest that is revealed by the scoop neck of your sweater. He swallows hard as he takes in the swell of your breasts, accentuated by your tightly crossed arms. He sits up straighter in his chair, trying to see the part of your legs that aren’t hidden by the table. You narrow your eyes at him.

“What are you doing?” you ask and he shakes his head, licking his lips again and you shiver when his hungry eyes meet yours.

“I’m…I’m sorry I just…” he trails his voice thick as his eyes wander down your body again, his gaze almost like a caress. “You’re the first woman I’ve seen in six months that hasn’t been my mother.” He chuckles.

You body flashes hot when he licks his lips again, eyes still roaming and you can’t help but sit a little straighter in your chair, pushing your chest out more. Six months is a long time to go without sex. You would know.

“You seein’ anybody?” he asks, his eyes still roving over your body as he reaches down to adjust himself and the light fabric of his pants does little to conceal his growing arousal.

“No,” you say, looking up, trying to concentrate on his face but the look of lust in his eyes is enough to make you tremble with want.

“No?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and his eyes finally meet yours again. “Miss me?” he smirks.

Your eyes narrow. “No,” you spat, but really you had. You’d missed him a lot. Especially his-

“You miss my cock?” he asks lowly and you eyes snap to his, finding him smirking, leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide in front of him, hands dangling between his knees.

“You’re a pervert,” you spat, trying to look disgusted while trying to ignore the goose bumps that prickled up over your skin at his words.

“What?” he asks, his voice jumping an octave and you shift in your chair, looking anywhere but him, the fire burning in your belly. “Just because I’m a convict now my cock isn’t good enough for your pussy?”

You gasp at his wickedness, your eyes meeting his in what you hope passes for outrage and you find him smirking at you. You glare scoffing, trying to look away but find you can’t, his gaze holding yours like a magnet. You were always drawn to him. Just like you always knew he was bad for you, you always knew you’d give in to temptation.

He leans closer to the glass, his eyes nearly black with lust as he smirks, running his tongue along his bottom lip and you feel your stomach quiver, your pussy beginning to throb the way it always did when he looked at you like that. God the things he can do to you with one look.

“Tell me,” he pants, his voice so low you can barely hear him, the glass muting the sound considerably but you can read his lips…god his lips. “Do you ever lay in bed at night and think of me? Do you ever touch yourself?” Your jaw drops and he grins. “because I know I do.”

You gasp at his wickedness and he grins licking his lips again, his eyes alight with mischief and lust. You cannot speak.

“Do you?” he asks, more earnestly now. “Do you run your hands over your body and pretend they’re mine?”

“I-I-I…” you stutter, the small cubicle suddenly stifling and you know that if this glass wasn’t here you would maul him right now. The things he does to you…

“Unbutton your sweater,” he pants, his eyes locked on your chest and you tense, blinking slowly at him.

“What?” you question and then scoff lightly. “No!”

“Come on!” he begs, his eyes pleading with you. “Just…just a few buttons.” He gulps. “I’m dying in here.”

“You should have thought of that when you pulled that knife on John Giacone,” you spat flustered by his request and he scowls at you.

“Hey grabbed your ass,” he argues, his voice a low growl. “And no one does that but me. Come one…just one button...”

“You didn’t have to run your mouth like you did,” you reply, biting your bottom lip.

He mimics the gesture and you watch a shiver shake through him. “He didn’t have to run his.”

“You could have just hit him,” you reply weakly, your hands still tucked under your arms, fingers itching to fill his request but its wrong. It’s wrong for you to do this. It will just make you want him even more and he’s still stuck in here for three more months.

“I did,” Justin replies smirking. “Several times. But then he called his boys and three against one isn’t a fair fight. I was just evening the odds a little.”

“But now you’re stuck here,” you whine, the ache between your legs intensifying as he licks his lips again.

“Yes I am,” he says softly and you have to read his lips to decipher it. His perfect, plush lips. Your stomach trembles. “That’s why I need you to undo a button for me baby,” he says lowly and the lust in his voice is potent. “Please,” he adds, shifting in his chair.

You unfold your arms reaching hesitantly for the top button of your sweater and you think his eyes are going to explode from his head, his mouth opening just slightly as you flick it open. He groans as the line of your cleavage is revealed to him, your chest heaving, your body trembling at his reaction. He licks his lips, leaning closer to the glass, craning his neck as if it would allow him to see more of your skin.

“Another one,” he says swallowing hard and you bite your lip, glancing past him at the empty hallway.

“What about the guard?” you whisper and he looks at you uncertainly, shaking his head unhearing.

You repeat your question a little louder and he scoots his chair back all the way, tipping it back on its hind legs, glancing down the hall. Your breathing hitches when you see the tent forming in the front of his scrubs, his cock straining to be let free. He falls back on all four legs, shaking his head at you as he scoots his chair forward again.

“He’s gone. We’ve got forty-five minutes,” he says, his voice laced with want, his eyes riveted to your chest.

You check your watch again. Forty minutes actually.

“Please,” he begs, licking his lips again and you nearly moan as you watch him reach down to adjust himself.

You gulp as you reach with trembling hands to undo the next button, revealing the soft lace of your bra and a pained expression comes over his face as he bites his bottom lip hard, letting it slide slowly free, his breathing labored.

“You never answered my question earlier,” he pants as he nods his head, his eyes trained on your next button and this time you barely hesitate, flicking it free.

“What question was that?” you ask, slightly breathless as you watch his mouth fall open, heavy breath panting past his lips.

“Do you think about me?” he asks lowly, his voice gravely from want and you nearly moan at the sound. “Do you touch yourself and think of me?”

Your eyes meet his uncertainly and you blush slightly, looking away and you can practically hear him grin.

“What do you do,” he questions lowly, sitting up eagerly in his chair and you shake your head, not meeting his eyes. “Tell me,” he demands, his voice thick with desire and you feel ridiculous. You knew you shouldn’t have come here.

“Justin, I…” you say stuttering as you reach to rebutton your sweater. “I should go.”

“No!” he exclaims, his voice raised in panic and it stops you, your eyes meeting his through the glass and he looks as if he’s in agony. “Don’t…don’t go.”

You only hesitate a moment before you settle back in your seat, your sweater still halfway unbuttoned, his eyes still riveted to your chest. You shouldn’t be here. You should go. But you can’t. You can’t go when he’s looking at you like that, so hungry and so wanting. This was always the issue with the two of you. He was like bad habit you couldn’t quit. As much as you wanted to have nothing to do with him, you couldn’t seem to drag yourself away. Even though he’s in jail, even when he’s seemingly hit bottom…

“Open your shirt a little more.”

…he just pulls you right down with him.

You tug the sides of your sweater open, your breasts rising and falling with your heavy breath and you think you hear him growl but you can’t really tell through the glass. He’s licking his lips, eyes playing over your skin and you can’t help but run a finger along your collarbone, just testing his reaction and his eyes widen, his stomach clenching under his shirt as the air is sucked from his lungs.

“Undo your bra,” he breathes and your eyes widen. You shake your head adamantly. His eyes beg you, large, blue and pleading.

You bite your lip, tugging one cup down in compromise and he groans low as your breast is revealed to him, shifting impatiently in his seat. You watch him as he struggles to breathe, his eyes riveted on your skin.

“The other too,” he pants thickly and you bite your lip, tugging the other cup down as well. “touch them.”

It’s barely uttered and you have to read his lips to get what he was saying but his intent is loud and clear. You shake your head again. You have boundaries and this is one of them.

“Come on baby,” he practically moans, shifting in his chair again. “touch them like I did.”

A gasp tears from your throat as the memory hits you full force, his large hands tearing at your clothes, his touch softening when he reached your skin, palming your breasts gently before rolling the nipples slowly.

“See you remember,” he grins, shifting again, his breathing ragged as he watches you.

You bring your hands to your chest tentatively, eyelids fluttering at the pleasure as you hold your breasts in your hands, palms teasing your nipples and you squeeze gently, your mouth falling open and so does his. His hands are fisted on the counter top, the veins in his arms standing out and you know he’s itching to touch you. Fuck you’re itching for him to touch you, pressing your thighs together to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.

“Open your legs,” he commands thickly and your eyes widen, meeting his.

“Justin…” you say, shaking your head slowly and swallowing hard. You can’t do this. You won’t do this.

You gasp as you watch him lean back in his chair, one hand sliding down his chest, his legs widening as he moves to grip his crotch, giving it a gentle squeeze and his eyelids flutter. You try to swallow but your mouth is dry, your stomach burning as you watch the heel of his hand press hard against the bulge in his pants.

“Open your legs,” he says again and you’re perilous to stop yourself as your legs open and you shiver as you watch his fingers grip the hard line of his cock trapped against his thigh. “Pull up your skirt a little.”

“Justin…” you trail, your stomach dropping and you know where this is going. There is no way in hell you’re going to…

“Fuck I’m so hard,” he pants, his hand smoothing down the length that’s trapped in his pants, his head lolling back for a moment and you gasp as his hand slips under the waistband of his scrubs, giving you a flash of his taut stomach.

You’re perilous to stop yourself as one hand leaves your breasts, fingers gathering in the fabric of your skirt, tugging it and revealing the lacy crotch of your panties. He licks his lips and your eyes flit down, watching his hand move under the fabric of his pants.

“You plan on me seein’ those darlin’?” he asks lowly, his eyes riveted between your legs and you shiver, your eyes still watching his hand. “Are you wet for me right now?”

Your breathing hitches at his words and if you weren’t before you certainly are now, a flash of heat traveling down your spine and settling between your legs. He licks his lips, moaning softly as his hand works slowly in his pants and you wanna see him. If you’re gonna do this, you think, you might as well do this.

You stand from your seat abruptly and his eyes widen, his hand stopping and you can see him open his mouth to protest but you hold up a hand. His mouth falls open as he watches you reach up under your skirt and you think he may just fall out of his chair when he sees your little pink panties fall to your ankles. He’s practically hyperventilating when you smooth your skirt against your bottom as you sit back down, crossing your legs demurely and he narrows his eyes at you.

“You always were a fucking tease,” he growls and you can’t help but smile at him, your eyes trailing over his body.

“Lift up your shirt Jus,” you say softly, somewhat awkwardly but you can’t help yourself. You wanna see him.

You’ve missed more than just his touch. You miss how he would walk around naked for twenty minutes after his shower, shaving, looking for clothes, just doing random things that would allow you to survey his body, enjoy the hard planes and sculpted muscles. He smirks at you, bringing his hand up out of his pants and smoothing his shirt up. It catches at his sides but you pay no mind, just following his large hand as it drags over the bumps and grooves of his abdomen, biting your lip as he slides it back down again, fingers disappearing once again under the waistband of his pants.

“I knew you missed me,” he pants, wiggling a little in his chair, his hand working slowly in his pants. “I knew you missed my cock.”

You bite your lip, one hand moving to cup your breast again and his hand stops, all his concentration riveted on your hand as you massage your breast slowly. He moans when your pinch at your nipple, humming softly and you see his hand squeeze, his eyelids fluttering.

“Show me,” you say softly, unable to stop yourself and his eyes open wide, focusing on yours. “Show me what you do…when you think of me in here.”

A slow grin pulls at his lips, his tongue snaking out to wet them and you think your heart is going to beat out of your chest when his free hand pulls the drawstring of his scrubs, and pushes them down just far enough to slip his cock out over the waistband. You moan softly at the sight of him, hard and ready in his hand, the head a deep purple color. You lick your lips, wanting nothing more than to drop your mouth down on him or climb on top of him or have him bend you over the counter, a million scenarios spiraling in and out of your brain.

The sound of his voice, low and gravely with lust breaks your reverie. “I showed you mine,” he pants and you lick your lips as you watch his hand stroke from base to tip slowly. “Now you show me yours.”

He nods at you, his eyes on your skirt and you hesitate but only for a moment because his thumb swipes over the head, smearing precum down his shaft and seeing him twitch in his hand is enough to make all your inhibitions fly out the window. Your fingers gather in your skirt again, your heart pounding as you spread your legs and you watch his eyes roll back as you reveal yourself to him.

“God I wanna be inside you,” he whines, his voice barely audible and you see his hand tighten around the base of his shaft, his teeth digging in to his bottom lip. “Do you want me inside you baby? Do you wish I was touching you right now?”

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly, your eyes locked on his hand as his slides easily over his flesh.

“Touch yourself,” he pants and you look at him wide eyed, finding his mouth slightly open as he stares at you, wet and wanting on the other side of the glass. “Please…”

“Justin I-”

“Please…do it how you want me to touch you. Pretend it’s me,” he pants, his hand pumping steadily now and you find you can’t stop yourself, your hand slipping down between your legs.

“I wanna touch you,” he breathes as you trace one finger through your wetness, shivering as a dull ripple of pleasure spreads through you. “I wanna run my hands all over you.”

“I want you to,” you breathe and watch as his hand stutters for a moment as he grits his teeth, licking his lips slowly. You press the pad of your middle finger to your clit and your eyes sink closed as memories of his hands and mouth fill your mind.

“I wanna lick your pussy,” he breathes and you gasp, a tremor of pleasure ripping through you powerfully and you press harder as the sensation spirals out to your limbs. “I wanna taste you.”

“Justin,” you pant, your finger rubbing slow circles and you imagine it’s his tongue, wide and strong whipping hotly against you.

“Spread em wider baby,” he pants and your eyes slide open to find him stroking steadily again, his hand a little quicker now, thumb swiping over the head every now and then, making him shiver.

What you do next causes his breath to rush from his lungs so quickly he sounds as if he was just sucker punched in the gut. Your foot rests on the counters edge, your other still flat on the floor, giving him a perfect view of your hand as your fingers rub soft circles over your clit, your thighs trembling with pleasure. His hand is stalled at the base, squeezing tightly and you know he’s trying to hold out, make this last as long as possible.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, almost embarrassed to say the words but you wanna know. You want to hear his voice. God just the sound of his voice turns you on.

“What I always think about when I do this,” he breathes, his head tipping back in pleasure as he brings his hand up his shaft slowly then tightening his grip and bringing it down again. “Fucking you.”

You gasp at his candor, another sharp pulse of pleasure shooting down to your center and you have to bite your lip from crying out, forcing your fingers to apply less pressure. You want this to last too.

“I think about what it feels like to be inside you,” he pants, his hand quickening again, a soft moan rumbling from his chest. “How wet and warm you are…god how soft your skin is.”

You’re panting as you listen to him, imagining how he would feel inside you and you ache for it. You ache for him long and hard, pulsing in his hand on the other side of the glass. You want him inside you.

“Justin,” you breathe and you can’t take it, it’s not enough.

He makes a strangled noise in his throat as he watches your middle finger disappear into your depths and the ache is eased somewhat. Not like it was when he enters you but it’s better than nothing. You sigh, squirming and biting your lip as you drag your finger out and push it back in, whining softly at the sensation. You open your eyes and find him breathing so hard it’s almost as if he’s hyperventilating, his hand squeezing his dick so tightly you’re afraid he’s going to hurt himself.

“Another,” he breathes thickly, his voice weak with want and you oblige, biting your lip as you add your ring finger, wiggling when the heel of your hand presses against your clit.

“God…Justin…” you hiss as you work your fingers slowly in and out, the heel of your hand bumping your clit pleasurably as you let your head loll to the side, visions of him plunging in and out of your wet heat filling your mind.

“Are you thinking about my dick?” he grunts and you look at him through heavy lids, watching his hand smooth quickly up and down his shaft, his plush bottom lip caught between his teeth as he lets his head fall back, groaning softly in pleasure. “Are you thinking about me fucking you?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whisper, breathless and you imagine him on top of you, his chest glistening with sweat, arms hooked under your knees as he rushes into you, his body bumping against yours. “God, yes.”

You pant, reaching deeper, palm pressing harder and you whimper, the tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter. You spread your legs wider, restless from the pleasure, chasing your release. His breath is coming in short pants and you wish you could hear him better, hear the little whimpers and moans that are only audible when his mouth is right next to your ear, his body flush against yours.

“Come for me,” he grunts and you gasp at the desperation in his voice, his hand moving so fast it’s almost a blur as he pumps his dick fervently.

Your body responds almost instantly and you grit your teeth, forcing your scream down to a strangled groan as you clench around your fingers, the heel of your hand pressing hard against your clit as your body arches almost completely off the chair. You tremble as the pleasure dies down to a dull hum, your heart beat racing in your ears.You relax back again, panting, your toes uncurling from the edge of the counter and you open your eyes just in time to see his eyes roll back in his head, an animalistic growl pulling from his throat and you nearly come again when you see him give one last hard tug before he comes wetly into his hand, trying to catch his essence as it shoots in short bursts. He bites back a moan as he brings his hand down, smearing his release over his flesh and his body tenses again, and you can almost hear him grinding his teeth even through the glass.

His body finally relaxes and all that’s left is your labored breathing, a thin sheen of sweat covering both your bodies. Your eyes meet his through the glass and a slow smile creeps over his face, panting as he reaches forward to grab a tissue from the box. His movement sparks yours, bringing your shaky legs to the floor and reaching for a tissue as well, wiping your hands, adjusting your bra back into place. You look up at him as you’re buttoning up your sweater, watching as he balls up his Kleenex grabbing for another and he’s still hard, straining over the top of his pants. You bite your lip. You remember how he can go for hours.

He stiffens suddenly, pulling his pants back over himself and sitting straighter in the chair and you do the same, crossing your legs demurely, your thighs sliding against each other wetly. You swallow hard. God he’s right there on the other side of the glass…

“Times up,” the guard calls before you see him appear behind Justin, crossing his arms and waiting.

“Gotta go,” Justin replies, his breathing still slightly labored, his eyes dancing.

You both stand and stare at each other, memorizing the curve of hips and the dip of throats, the broadness of his shoulders, the hour glass shape of your waist. He grins slowly before winking at you.

“How much longer?” you ask softly and his eyebrows knit, unhearing before realization dawns on him. He tenses.

“Three months.”

You nod, the ache in your stomach mixing with the ache in your chest and you bite your lip. He looks like he wants to ask you something but seems to think better of it, nodding his head back at you before turning to the guard, getting ready to go.

“I’ll see you next Sunday,” you say and he stops, turning, a slow grin pulling at his lips.

“Doesn’t your mama want you in church on Sunday?” he asks and you smirk back at him.

“Don’t you know God’s in the jails?” you ask and his eyes narrow. “You people always seem to find Him in here.”

He smirks at your cheek. “Alright,” he replies, licking his lips and you shiver as he turns, walking to the guard who stands back to allow him to pass. He gives you one last fleeting glace that sets your skin on fire before he disappears.

You sigh, turning to leave and you catch sight of your lacy pink panties, discarded under the table. You blush, already slightly horrified at your actions but the memory of his face is enough to justify it in your mind. Three months is a long time. But you can deal with it. You can only imagine what it will be like when he gets out…

You make your way back to the guard station, being sure to keep your panties balled tightly in your hand and you wait as the tall, thin guard retrieves your purse. When he turns his back you unzip it quickly, trying to shove your panties in before he turns back around. Then you stop.

“Is…” you say and the guard turns back around, eyeing you curiously. “Is it too late to give him something?”

The guard looks at you blankly.

“I just…I have something that I meant to give him…that I forgot about…until now,” you lie, adding a brilliant smile at the end for charm and the guard narrows his eyes at you.

“I guess,” he sighs and reaches back behind his desk, plucking a large manila envelope from a stack and handing it to you.

You smirk to yourself, plucking your panties from your purse and dropping them in the envelope before sealing it and snatching a pen from your purse you write across the seal.

For when you think of me.