“Hurry up,” she said through clenched teeth, trying to hold herself rigid. There was no need for oil, but he used it anyway. She arched back until she could see the headboard, spine trembling, burying her face in her hands, biting down viciously on her palm, and felt ruined. Whimpers formed in her throat when he moved. Her fingers twisted, clawing the duvet, threatening to tear it. She was nauseous with horror. She hated every fibre of her being—the physicalness of herself that she could not overcome, that was perpetually scared, and weak, and now wanting—and she could not escape from any of
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