My stomach churns as I swallow down the vomit in my mouth, focusing instead on the faded flowery pattern on the wallpaper.
Despite the anger, my body soon responds to the stimulation.
Noticing, he chuckles in my ear while grazing my clit with his thumb. “I knew you were a whore, darlin’. I saw it when you rode that boy.”
“Fuck you!” I sneer.
“Such foul language. I thought you promised to be good.”
“This is me being good.” There’s a sharp bite to my words, and I grit my teeth to stop myself from telling him exactly how I feel about dirty old men like him.
His lips curve into a smile against my ear. “You gonna moan for me, darlin’. Let me hear how much you like it?”
“In your wildest dreams.”
“Careful,” he drawls, shoving a second finger inside that forces me up on my tiptoes, and I hiss as pain ripples through me, still sore from Dominic. “I might decide not to treat you this good.”
The rough scratch of his denim overalls and the stench of his breath fade into the background when my core heats with pleasure.
Fuck. How is this happening? How can it feel good, when I wouldn’t hesitate to claw his eyes out, given the chance?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A moan tears its way up my throat. I can’t hold it back.
His breathy chuckle slides over the side of my neck like a lover’s caress or a blade’s kiss while his hand moves at a rapid pace inside my shorts.
“There’s a good girl,” he drawls against my neck, his wet breath dampening my skin. “This tight pussy likes a good fingerin’, don’t it, darlin’?”
“Dominic will kill you,” I hiss.
“That boy is in no state to do anything.”
My hips move involuntarily with his movements, chasing release like a hopeless traitor.
“That boy is gonna watch his whore die first before I put a bullet in his head.”
I hiss, pleasure rippling through me.
I can’t help it.
Not when he’s touching me with the intention of wringing pleasure from my body. He’s not doing this for himself. There’s nothing selfish behind it. His touch is purposeful. Designed to prove a point and instill terror of a different kind.
With the next flick of his filthy thumb, he shows me who is in control. It’s not me.
My body fucks his hand like he’s got the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. My hips roll with such force that I’m almost humping the wall.
It’s just out of reach.
I hate him. Hate him so fucking much. Yet hate tastes so damn delicious.
Especially when it’s seasoned with fear and danger.
“If only that boyfriend of yours could see you now. Fucking my hand like a dirty little whore. Tell me, darlin’, would he be surprised?”
I hiss, and he presses the shotgun to my neck.
“Would he?”
