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Her voice lowered to a whisper, made huskier by my second strangulation. “You reveal everything that you’re feeling. I know you want me. I know you think you deserve to hurt me. I know I’m driving you crazy, talking about things you can’t understand. And I know you’ll rationalize raping me because, in your mind, making me live in this damp prison is entirely justified—”
I slapped a hand over her mouth, shutting her up.
I couldn’t listen to another syllable.
My head hurt from her accusations. My body trembled with the war she was determined to have. She backed up, slapping my hand away and sucking in a breath, ready to launch another torrent of words, despite her bruised throat.
No way.
I was done listening to this shit.
I was too quick.
Rushing her, I snatched her around the waist and plucked her from the floor. Up close, she didn’t smell as fresh as my valley anymore. She smelled stale and sad. A cloying despair that did nothing for my desire.
Almost everything she’d said to me was bullshit.
She didn’t know a goddamn thing about me.
But she was right about one thing.
She needed a bathroom.
A shower.
To be clean.
And then, once she was clean, she owed me.