I reach for her waistband, and she grabs my wrists with undeniable fear on her face. She’s forgotten the threat I made because what I’m doing is scarier than my gun. “Leave my pants on,” she pleads. Absolutely not. “No, Selena. I’m going to see every inch of you. I need to know where you’re hurt.” Tears fall down her cheeks, an uncontrolled overflow of her emotional pain. I slide her slacks down and my mouth gapes. More bruises. The worst is a large mark that takes up the entire length of her outer left thigh. I’m guessing that’s what hurt her when I pinned her beneath my weight. My knee dug
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