Tax tugs my dress up past my waist, sliding his hand down between my legs. “No underwear,” he grunts. “I think it was wishful thinking you might come around,” I admit. “You’re the perfect little whore, but you’re my fucking whore,” he says, pushing me down in a deep squat position and pulling out his rock-solid hard on, pent up due to his own stubbornness. “That means no other fucking man touches you but me. Spit on my cock. I want to hear it,” he commands.
