It wasn’t like he hadn’t touched my breasts before—we’d graduated to some pretty heavy make-out sessions the last few months. Enough for me to talk to Mom and get on the pill. And while he continuously asked to go further, it had never felt like the right time. Regardless, I wasn’t into the drunk-and-grab contest he was having with himself right now.

“I’m not drunk,” he snapped before easing the sharp tone with a smile. He leaned in again, kissing me with lazy lips and a generous tongue. “You make me this way.” He groaned against my neck, biting and lapping and sucking a little too hard.

I cringed, my stomach twisting the harder he pushed me against the door. “Brandon, seriously, knock it off.” I shoved him, harder this time, but he only retreated a couple feet.

“God, yes,” he said, rushing back to me before I could move. “I love it when you play hard to get.”

I brought my elbows up between us, the backs of my forearms pushing at his massive chest as he used his whole body to pin me to the door.

“Brandon,” I said, panic creeping into my tone. “Seriously, stop.”

It was like he had plugs in his ears. He kept me locked in place, his huge frame too much for me to push away. Suffocating.

I yelped when he shoved his hand up my skirt and between my legs.

“Ouch!” There was nothing gentle about the way he smashed his fingers against the boy-shorts I had underneath the skirt. “Brandon,” I yelled, shoving harder. “You’re hurting me.”

“Shhh,” he cooed into my ear, his fingers greedy. Grasping. Searching. “If you relax it won’t hurt. It’ll feel good.”

“Brandon. No!” I shouted, my entire body trembling with adrenaline that wasn’t enough to stop him.

His fingers finally found the seam of the shorts, and he plunged underneath them. The motion so rough I yelped, the sting from his force sharp and snaking up my center.

“Relax,” he demanded as he forced his fingers inside me again. Jabbing and pinching. His other hand roamed up my shirt, fisting my breast so hard tears pricked my eyes. His body pinned me to the door.

Suffocating.

I struggled against him, the air in my lungs tight. Aching.

He released my breast, his other hand still jabbing between my legs. He kicked at my booted feet, trying like hell to spread my legs wider as he reached for his zipper.

Sheer panic bolted through my veins like lightning when I heard the sound of it dropping. Some primal, terrified instinct inside me took over.

I jerked my knee up as hard as I could, hitting him straight in his junk.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, finally stumbling backward.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking. I couldn’t catch my breath. “Asshole.”