1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I jerk, trying to twist out of his hold.
“Get over it,” he says. “A pussy is a pussy, after all, and if I don’t get it
from you, I can get someone else with a lot less hassle.”
Dickhead. Of course I’m no one to him. I’m not even surprised.
I struggle loose, but he pulls me tight again, taunting, “If it doesn’t
bother you, then you shouldn’t want to run away.”
I breathe hard, a cool sweat breaking out on my neck. I stop struggling
and calm my breathing, forcing my tone even. “Let me go now.”
His arms relax around me, and I slide away from him, reaching for the
handle.
But he reaches out and grips the door, holding it closed. “I didn’t think
about you at all when I was in bed with her last night,” he tells me. “She
was hot, she turned me on, she liked my hands on her, and I liked how she
felt…” His breath falls across my hair, his words cruel and unforgiving.
“She wasn’t average or boring or stuck-up. She excited me.”
My bottom lip shakes and tears fill my eyes. But I tense every muscle in
my body, trying not to let him see. Stuck-up. Average.
Boring.
“Tell me you’re jealous,” he demands.
“If it doesn’t bother me, why would I be jealous?”
He leans closer, and I can feel his body at my back and his lips next to
my ear. “Tell me you’re trying not to think about how much I loved fucking
her. Tell me something true, and I’ll let you leave.”
Something true? Tell him what? What does he want to hear? That this
hurts? That I loved kissing him the last time we were in here and every time
after that? That I don’t want anyone touching him? Screw him. I’m not
saying any of that shit.