Before I can come up with a lie, his fingers dance against my clit, which begins to throb against my will. My stomach tightens at his touch. “He doesn’t . . . do . . . anything to me. He’s just . . . controlling,” I say through breaths that are becoming too sharp to control. “You’re lying to me.” He leans his weight into me and rubs me faster. His thumb slides against my clit, back and forth, and I fight back each moan that rises into my throat. He doesn’t deserve them. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. I don’t want him to get me off, but I also don’t want him to discuss my
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