"You know, you always look so much better when I mark you up."

The words slid off his tongue like warm honey, dripping into my ear as his broad chest pressed against my back. We were in that grimy club bathroom, the bass still thumping through the walls, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my cunt.

He'd said those exact words almost a year ago to the day, the first time he'd laid hands on me. We'd been at a house party, I was in that little red dress, and he'd come up behind me, his hand snaking around my waist.

"You've been looking at me all night," he'd whispered. "Let's see whose pussy this really is."

His nails had dragged across my exposed skin that night, leaving red welts that I'd gloat over for a week. And now here we were again: his hand fully fisting my hair, yanking my head back so my throat arched toward the grimy ceiling.

"There's my good girl. The mark's faded. Let's brand you fresh."

He shoved his other hand up my skirt, sliding his rough, calloused fingers through the thick, wet mess of my slit before pushing two of them inside my aching pussy. My knees buckled, moaning as his digits curled, knowing precisely where to press to make my vision blur.

"Nasty little thing. Soaked your panties just from talk, huh?"

I yelped as he withdrew his fingers, making me whimper pathetically, a string of my slick stretching between his digits and my hole. Instead of satisfying me, he lathered my juices onto his palm, then found my ass through the thin lace of my thong.