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ground as he thrusts. Somewhere in the space between my legs, his huge cock and the buttplug send spirals of pressure bouncing off each other, lighting me up thoroughly inside.
    I come with a gasp. He pulls out, his seed straining against a white condom I didn’t even see him roll on.
    “Let’s try this again.” He smirks, and wipes me gently as I shriek and writhe.
    When he’s finished, he turns to dispose of the condom and pull his jeans back up.
    I struggle to get mine back on as well.
    He helps me off the window seat and is buttoning my jeans before I realize—
    “Omigod, the buttplug! It’s still in me!”
    “Take it home.” He grins.
    My face heats so much my eyes water. “I can’t wear a buttplug home! And ride in the car with that guard—”
    “Oh, you won’t.” With a smack of my ass—it sends so much pleasure through me, my legs almost fold—he takes my elbow and leads me to the door. I’m still unsteady—still panting. He wraps an arm around my back, punches some numbers into a keypad I’m too lust-drunk to even see. “I’ve got another car for you—for this very reason.”
    When he pushes the door open, there’s a black limousine idling in the wet grass.
    I wrap my arms around him, feeling weak-kneed and faint. The plug is still vibrating. “Can you walk me out?”
    He shakes his head, and moves his leg. It takes me a moment to see that there’s a metal band there.
    “Just take it slow. Think of baseball.”
    I smirk.
    He grins. “Bye, Angel.” He bends down to plant a hard kiss on my lips. “Tomorrow. Clinton again.”
    “But I never got to ask you any questions.”
    He laughs—dry and self-deprecating. “It’s been an unproductive few years.”
    Something about the easy way he says it makes me very sad. So it’s all the weirder when I get into the limousine and almost fail to hold my orgasm back while the limo bumps over the dirt road.
    When I get out at my apartment complex, my knees are so weak, my body so shaky, I can barely make it up the stairs.
    I go straight to my bathroom and start the shower, prepared to pull the buttplug out.
    Instead I wind up on my back in the bathtub, my legs propped against the shower wall, my knees spread wide , so the water spewing from the faucet hits me exactly where I need it to.
    I emerge, clean and stretched and tired and finally plug-free, two hours later, feeling like I tumbled into Wonderland.
     

CHAPTER 5
    Beast
     
    Blaine McGuire is head of the Aryan Force at La Rosa, and despite our obvious aesthetic differences, I consider him a friend of sorts.
    After the first two years of my ruse, once I killed a few man and let the surviving gang leaders see I had control of this place, I started offering them freedoms. Freedoms only I could give, because only I work under someone high-enough-up to grant me the power to hand them out for the purposes of winning gang leaders over.
    I started offering them freedoms, protection from uprising—until I got an order to end their lives, anyway—and what you might call financial planning. Three of them—McGuire’s predecessor, Tommy Smith; T-Dog Bosman, head of the Guerrillas; and Juan Juarez—were still running gangs outside the walls. Over the next year and a half, I worked hard to get them in my pocket, helping them strategize and helping them invest their illicit monies in accounts whose information could later be given to my bosses.
    I benefit, too, in some ways. I can wear jeans, for instance. I’ve got a swanky cell. But in other ways, this is hellish. I have enough guilt over the way I got in here, and that was before I started ending lives on the inside.
    Smith, I killed in on the basketball court with a well-placed elbow to the temple. My superiors let T-Dog die at the hands one of one of his underlings, an ambitious thug named Bently Kennard, who turned out to be much easier to manipulate than was T-Dog. And Juan Juarez is still in play. Still head of the Julio gang here at La