“Oh, is that right?”

He lifts me up, pressing my back against the wall. It feels like concrete, scraping the back of my shoulder blades. I’m too riled up to tell him to put me down. To tell him that it hurts. I don’t want to admit how soft I am or how fragile I feel.

“Last I checked, I’ve given you exactly what you asked for,” he growls, putting his nose on my neck and breathing in, scenting me up and down my neck and down between my breasts, palming my ass and spreading me open.

Oh God. I can feel myself dripping. Angry, confused sex is a very bad idea. I’m mad but so turned on; my entire brain moves to static. I grip the back of his neck, shivering with want.

He takes one hand to unbutton his own pants before tearing the bottom of my dress.

“You’re bare,” he whispers, licking the tops of my breasts.

“Underwear lines.”

Chuckling, he pulls down on my neckline, tonguing the lace over my nipples. Without any preamble, he slams into me. My mouth drops open in shock as he starts fucking me in earnest. I want it, but I’m also caught off guard. My back painfully rubs against the wall. I want to tell him to wait a second because all of this is happening almost too quickly, but my body has its own thought process. My insides are clenching with his rhythm, and I’m sure he can feel my body eagerly taking him in. My body betrays me because she loves it. His huge length hits every spot so deeply; it’s only minutes before I’m shuddering with release.

He finishes right after me, zipping himself back up. My dress is tattered, and I already know, without looking, that my back is bloody. The burn makes itself known in every move I make. He didn’t use a condom. Luckily, I’m on the pill.

I’m shaking when he says, “I’ll take you back to my place.”

I nod, unable to speak. I can’t go back inside with a torn dress and bloody back, can I? I swallow down an awkward laugh. Of course not. The guests would likely call security, assuming I crashed the party. He takes my hand, and I wince with my first step.

He seems to notice my agony when he says, “Oh shit. Turn around.”

Slade takes out his phone, flipping on the flashlight to check my back. He curses before calling someone. “I’ve got a personal thing. Can you cover me for an hour?” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “Thanks.”

Without words, he gently helps me into his truck. As he drives, our hands are threaded together. He lifts them up, kissing my knuckles and apologizing under his breath for hurting me. Mumbling, “I didn’t mean it.” And, “So fucking sorry.”

Alicia’s words bounce through my head. “He wasn’t always like this.”

I think back to the shooting in Vegas. He didn’t have sex with me that night because he didn’t want to hurt me or take advantage. It’s my fault that I didn’t speak up this time. I should have told him no and used my words. Instead, I just moaned. How can I blame him? Excuses.