"You fucking sick bastard." I'm furious. Not even at him, at myself. Because after that tough-love self-talk in the bathroom, I feel myself getting wet again. What was the point of trying to find the strong woman in me if she disappears the second Nate touches me?
"Don't move, little sunflower."
He pulls at my sweats. It's almost painful because of the way I'm sitting. He has to use strength, violence in minimal movements, until they finally give, and he manages to lower them just enough to pull my thong to the side and press his hard-on against my soaking entrance.
He chuckles, so satisfied with himself I could punch him. "Stop this, you fucking maniac."
He shakes his head. "Kill me."
He doesn't even have space to rub the length of his dick against me, so he can't prepare me or himself. Our bodies are too close together already.
No, all he can do is spear into me without mercy. My mouth falls open, my eyes fluttering shut. "Shit." The hiss I intended is a desperate rasp.
