“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”
He keeps saying that sentence again and again. There’s my girl. There’s my girl. There’s my girl. It’s like he knows I need something to ground me, and those are the magic words.
I lock onto them as he works me with his thumb. Meanwhile, his other hand pushes the two halves of my flannel shirt apart, baring my stomach, my ribs. He doesn’t ask permission before his palm covers my breast. He squeezes, rolls, finds the n****e and pinches it between two fingers. My back bows. He does it again, harder, and I make another keening whine.
His thumb disappears and two fingers push inside me. I’m already so soaked that there’s no resistance whatsoever. It’s a smooth glide, the briefest pang as I stretch around, and then—
I cry out and my hips buck
