I do because I have no other choice. His seed slides down my throat, alongside a mouthful of hateful words I want to spit at him. I refrain for now. The situation has cleared the alcohol-induced fog, and at the moment, I feel stone-cold sober. He tucks himself back into his jeans and stares at me as if he can’t tell if he wants to eat me or hurt me. “Your pussy is wet for me, isn’t it?” “Fuck you,” I snap back, my tone uneven and filled with unshed tears. So much for refraining. “Let me see, little mouse.” My brow plunges, and I stare at him in confusion. “Stick your hand in your underwear, dip one of those fingers into your pussy, and show it to me.” I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he squeezes my cheeks again. Another tear slips free. “Did you not just learn your lesson about having a smart mouth?” My fists curl, bleaching my knuckles white from the force. And to think this man believes [Il fall in love with him? I want to laugh in his fucking face. No, I want to add my own scars to his face. Cut it up until he’s nothing but ugliness, just like he is on the inside. Again, I do as he says. I slide my thong to the side, plunge my middle finger in deep, and present him with the only fuck you I can give, my arousal glistening on the digit. He smirks at my dig, not the least bit bothered. Embarrassment clouds my vision, but I don’t let him see it. He’s getting nothing but poison from me. He grabs my hand and brings my finger to his mouth. I resist his hold, but ’m powerless against him. His warm, wet mouth wraps around my finger and sucks off my juices in one swirl of his tongue. I hiss through my teeth, those electric waves shooting from where he licks me and throughout my body. His eyes roll backwards, acting as if he’s sucking on the best lollipop he’s ever had. I can’t control how my stomach tightens, and thighs clench in response. I’m drenched and embarrassed. He pops my finger from his mouth, and it takes massive strength not to send my fist into his dick. He finally releases my hair from his grip, and I scramble away from him. Zipping up his jeans, he looks down at me. I can only see a sliver of his face from the moonlight, but what I do see makes me feel murderous. He’s not looking down at me smugly like I had expected. His face is arranged into a blank mask as if what just happened didn’t affect him at all. And that—that is So much worse.