Page 107 of The Love You Fight For
“Slow down.” I press onto his chest, pushing enough that I hope he gets the memo.
He doesn’t.
“I’ve gone slow for months, Samantha,” he says between slobbery kisses. “You said it was my way now, remember?”
Fuck. I focus on my breathing. When his fingers graze the crotch of my panties, I jolt backward. Instead of backing off, he uses the opportunity to invade more of my space. I clamp my legs shut, and he grunts.
“Don’t play coy, Samantha.”
He kisses me again. I don’t kiss back. My dress rips at the neckline as he shoves his hand down the front of it into my bra. He digs his fingers into my breast until his nails cut into my skin, then he pinches my nipple so hard that I whimper. I feel him smile against me.
“A fucking corpse,” he says, mimicking his words from that night in his car. “We’ll fix it.”
“Slow down, Ashton,” I say again, shoving harder on his chest.
He ignores me, pushing me down onto the sofa. My dress hikes up my thighs, and I try to climb out from underneath him, but he presses his forearm to my collarbone.
I can feel his erection on my thigh. He’s hard. I want to kill him.
He bites my lip, frustrated that I’ve clamped my teeth together. He presses his forearm down harder on my collarbone, then inches it up so it’s on my throat. He thrusts his erection against my thigh, and my fear finally erupts from me.
It wasn’t supposed to get this far.
“Ashton,” I cough out. “Get off. Stop.”
Pushing at his chest, I buck against him, even though I can feel his hard penis digging into my leg. Even though he groans like he enjoys it. I dig my nails into his chest so hard that one of them breaks off.
He laughs and presses onto my throat harder. Until I can only take sips of air. Until my esophagus aches and scratches, and I imagine it crushing altogether, and I have no choice but to freeze.
“Samantha Harper,” he slurs. “Not such a mouthy bitch now, are you?”
He shoves his hand up my dress and grabs me between my legs. He squeezes so hard that it hurts, and on impulse, I draw my knee up so hard and fast that it collides with his hard penis. He roars andbows, releasing me long enough that I manage to crawl out from under him.
Not fast enough.
His hand closes on my hair and yanks me around, and then he backhands me with so much force that my vision sparks and I cry out in pain. He lets go of me, panting like he just ran a marathon, and zeroes in on my lip. It’s split. I can taste blood. My dress is ripped. My left breast is exposed, almost falling out of my bra cup, and it aches like he’s bruised it or cut it.
If I had a knife, I’d stab him in his throat and watch him bleed out on his Tom Ford dress shirt.
He grits his teeth as he stares at me. He pants and snarls like some kind of rabid animal. He blinks slowly, then narrows his eyes at me. He leans into my space once more, and my heart starts to thunder.
“You’re not in charge anymore, Samantha.”
I creepout of Ashton’s house, holding my dress together, and walk a few blocks down before I order a car.
The driver looks at my disheveled appearance. My torn dress and ratted hair. My bruised cheek. My fat lip. He asks if I need some help. If I want him to take me to the police station.
I tell him no. Then I give him the address to my building. He takes me there in silence.
When I get up to my condo, I text Agent Sexton, and then I shower for a long time. An hour, maybe more. Until my fingers and toes are wrinkled from the water. Until my skin is bright pink and scrubbed raw.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m at the lake in the outdoor shower with Chris. I pretend my breast doesn’t have half-moon cuts from some other man’s aggressive hold. I pretend my lip isn’t split, my cheek isn’t bruised, and I still have my fucking dignity.
I turn off the water and climb out of the shower. I change into a pair of Chris’s joggers and his T-shirt. I blow-dry my hair. I curl it. Iput on a full face of makeup and my brightest red lipstick. I leave my cell on my bed, then walk to my long-term rental car.
I do it all on autopilot. I don’t feel. I don’t think.
When I pull up to the address an hour south of D.C. that Agent Sexton texted me, I find a quaint little twenty-four-hour diner and Agent Sexton waiting for me in the parking lot. I climb out of the car and walk to her, and I hold out the reusable shopping bag that contains the hard drive.
