Prison Lets Arsonist Keep Lighter In Cell

Arya lights the stolen lighter, flame flashing across her knuckles. One warden bent the rules, just once. That flicker owns her now. She turns it on the new girl she’s trapped in the cell with. Kat stands half-dressed, wrists pinned behind her back by the first knot of the mattress sheet. Arya runs her free hand under Kat’s waistband, fingers climbing every slope and hollow, turning pockets inside out, pushing up the shirt to feel the weight of breasts and the flutter of a tightened stomach, pushing between thighs until Kat’s breath rasps against the concrete wall. Nothing left to hide. Then Arya spins her, folds her facedown over the lower bunk, and climbs up, sitting full on her shoulders with heavy silk-clad cheeks. Pressure seals the cry that tries to break free; every moan stifles beneath warm muscle. For long, unhurried strokes Arya rocks her hips, smothers, then lifts only enough for Kat to gasp before lowering again, again, until the sound is reduced to the wet shuffle of cotton between them and the click of metal lighter closing in her palm.