Every day she told herself she wouldn’t rush to the mailbox, and every day she still found herself running, breath tight with anticipation, searching for the envelope marked with his sharp, arrogant handwriting. He had no idea what she looked like—had never seen a picture from behind the walls he was locked behind—yet somehow he’d already figured out how untouched she was, how inexperienced, how carefully she’d kept herself, and he wrote to her like a man who found that dangerously enticing even from a prison cell. She didn’t understand why someone like her had become the one he trusted with that taunting, razor-edged charm, always testing the boundaries of her innocence just to see how she would bend. And this time, buried in his dark, confident teasing, he made a bold request that sent heat climbing her throat: he wanted her to slip a pair of her panties into the next letter, written so casually it was clear he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on the virgin girl hanging on every word he sent from behind bars.