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“Fucking slut,” Whitney growls, voice like gravel dragged over pavement, low and merciless. “Haven’t even touched you yet and you’re dripping all over yourself. Is this what it does for you? Selling your cunt just to chase a hit?” The word stings, vile and loud in the tiny confines of his car, and you flinch like he’s slapped you.
Shame lances through your belly, quick and acidic, curling around the pit of your stomach until you can hardly breathe. But the worst part—the sickest part—is the way your body doesn’t recoil from it. No, it responds, traitorous and eager, heat licking higher like gasoline catching flame. You can’t meet his eyes, can’t speak, can barely breathe, but your hips rock forward against his thumb in quiet betrayal.
And Whitney, the sick bastard that he is, laughs.
In which Whitney deals more than just drugs, and you're left with nothing to pay him but yourself.
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