She looked over at him, with fire in her eyes. She would break him. If he was going to break her, she would break him. She wanted to break him like he wanted to break her.
She felt hot tears of pain, of pain, not emotion prickle as he pressed the light end of his fag against her pale, freckled stomach. But kept looking at him. She would break eye contact, even as smoke flooded in her face, stinging her eyes.
She wanted to vomit as he maneuvered himself on top of her. She did hate him. She had never hated anyone like she hated him. The thought of him touching her made her want to kill herself.