The rug was rough, scratchy against my knees as I hauled her up from my lap, her body a trembling, sweat-slick ruin from the frantic coupling we'd just had on the small sofa. The scent of her—coppery sweat mixed with blood-tinged scratches, hot vanilla perfume, and the thick, heady musk of her raw, battered cunt—was a drug that had already fried my brain.
With a violent shove, I kicked the rug aside, the floorboards beneath revealing their true nature—raw, splintered, and unforgiving. Splinters immediately dug into my skin like tiny knives, they bit into my knees like teeth as I put her flat onto her back, the impact echoing in the sudden hush with a meaty thud that knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp wheeze.
"FOLD," I snarled, the word a whip-crack that sliced through her ragged, wine-sour gasps.
