Chapter 2: A Morning of Sickness
The nausea hit Lucia like a physical blow, a vicious curl of her stomach that had her bolting upright in the dark. She barely made it to the stained, cold porcelain of the sink before she was heaving, her body convulsing as sour bile scraped her throat. The acidic taste filled her mouth, mingling with the perpetual stench of the cell.
Behind her, the bunk creaked. She could feel his eyes on her back, a physical weight between her shoulder blades.
She spat, the water from the tap a weak, tepid trickle she used to rinse her mouth. In the cracked mirror, her reflection was pale, her green eyes wide. His reflection appeared behind hers, massive and still. He didn’t touch her. Just watched.
“You want to take a pregnancy test?” Dom’s voice was a low gravel in the quiet. It wasn’t a gentle question. It was a statement, loaded and dark.
Lucia turned, leaning against the sink. The nausea was receding, replaced by something else, a low, insistent throbbing between her legs that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She saw the knowledge in his dark eyes, the possessive gleam. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Maybe,” she said, her own voice husky. A challenge. “What if I am?”
A slow smile touched his lips, nothing soft about it. It was all teeth and promise. “Then we celebrate.”
He closed the distance between them in one stride. His hand came up, rough fingers tracing the line of her jaw, then dipping down to curl around her throat. Not squeezing, just holding. A claim. Her breath hitched, and the throbbing between her legs became a desperate ache. She could smell him—sweat, soap, and that purely male scent that was his alone.
“I can feel it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the rapid pulse under her skin. “Your heart’s racing. You’re not scared. You’re wet for it. For this.”
He was right. The dampness was already soaking through her thin cotton panties. She nodded, a sharp jerk of her chin. “Yes.”
His hand slid from her throat down over her t-shirt, palming her breast, pinching the nipple hard through the fabric until she gasped. Then he gripped the hem and tore it over her head in one brutal motion. The sound of tearing cotton was obscenely loud. He did the same with her panties, just hooked his fingers in the sides and ripped them away. She stood naked and shivering before him, not from cold, but from a current of pure anticipation.
“Hands on the sink,” he ordered.
She turned, gripping the cold, wet porcelain. The cracked mirror showed him stripping out of his pants, his cock springing free, already thick and rigid. He stepped close, his body radiating heat against her back. One hand gripped her hip, fingers digging into the flesh. The other guided himself to her entrance. She was slick, open for him, her body already remembering the violation and the pleasure.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled in her ear.
“I want it. I want your cock. I want you to put a baby in me right now,” she panted, pushing her ass back against him.
He drove into her with a single, deep plunge, burying himself to the root. Lucia cried out, her knuckles white on the sink. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a relentless, punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming her pelvis against the metal sink edge. The pain was sharp and bright, mixing with the overwhelming fullness of him inside her.
“Fuck, you’re greedy for it,” he grunted, his breathing harsh in her ear. “This cunt’s sucking me right back in. You wanna be full? You wanna be bred like a bitch in heat?”
“Yes! God, yes, Dom!” Her words were fragmented by his pounding. The sink rattled violently against the wall with every drive of his hips. Water sloshed from the drain. Her orgasm was building, a coiling tension in her gut that threatened to snap.
He shifted his angle, leaning over her, and the new depth made her scream. His hand snaked around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, rough circles.
“Come,” he commanded. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel you cream for it.”
It was too much. The pressure of his body, the crude skill of his fingers, the raw, filthy words in her ear—she shattered. Her vision whited out as convulsions ripped through her, her inner muscles clamping down on him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. She heard herself sobbing, a broken, ecstatic sound.
The clenching of her around him tipped him over the edge. With a raw, animal groan, he plunged into her one last, searing time and held. She felt the hot, sudden flood of his release filling her, jet after jet, a claiming so intimate it felt like a brand. He stayed buried inside her, both of them panting, trembling, anchored only by his grip on her hip and her desperate hold on the sink.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trail of their mixed fluids dripped down her inner thigh. He turned her around, his eyes scanning her face. He dipped his head and licked a stripe up her throat, tasting her sweat.
“Laundry room,” he said, his voice still thick. “After the count. We’ll get a test from Carson.”
He didn’t ask. He stated. Lucia just nodded, her body humming, utterly spent and yet already wondering how long until the next time. The distant clang of cell doors unlocking for morning roll call echoed down the tier. The reality of the place—the surveillance, the sheer fucking boredom—crashed back in.
But as Dom pulled on his pants and she gathered her torn clothes, the phantom feel of him, deep inside her, remained. A secret. A potential. A loaded gun in the stifling quiet of their concrete world.