A shadow—a scuffle of movement— and then he’s kissing me. Full and sticky-sweet from whiskey, his lips dig into me with a ferocity that borders on punishing. Rather than letting go of me to get leverage, he drags our clasped hands up and next to my head, slamming them into the wooden floor so hard I feel the blood swell, the skin bruise. He uses his other hand to slam down next to my head. Framing me in.
