He was kissing me everywhere—his lips, his hands, moving over my body as though he couldn't get enough. I tried to stay still, to not react, but it was impossible. He kissed my lips, then my neck, then trailed down to my chest. His hands—large and strong—gripped me, squeezing tightly as if claiming me. My breath hitched, my back arching instinctively at the pressure. His hands felt too big for my small frame, pressing me deeper into his touch.

His fingers, those rough, unforgiving things, lingered just above where I didn't want him to be. The proximity made me gasp, my body betraying me in ways I hated. I couldn't stop the warmth that gathered there, that thick heat that made me feel both ashamed and helpless. My body's reaction to him was my silent confession, a confession I didn't want to make. But it was there, undeniable. My body always betrayed me, even when my mind screamed for it to stop.