Spicy Hot
The other hand descends, unhurried, tracing a furrow of fire on my stomach, lower.
"You see? It's mine. Everything is mine."
His voice is a growl in my spine. I close my eyes, but he tightens his grip in my hair.
"Look."
I obey. I look in the mirror. I see his large hand on my flat abdomen, fingers sinking slowly, expertly, into me. I see my own face decompose, eyes glazing over, mouth half-opening on a hoarse breath. Shame is an acid in my throat, but weaker than the torrent of sensation rising, uncontrollable.