She is, for a moment, terrified. The worst thing he could do isn't to hit her, break a bone or open her skin. He could treat her with gentleness, and he doesn't; she will be grateful for the rest of her short life.

She deepens the kiss, because she doesn't know how not to. This feels like having a purpose, more than sticky tape on her skin or documented dreams. Kissing him feels like she means something, and she drinks it in, her tongue flicking against his. She runs her hand through his hair, because he won't be quick enough to stop her. She doesn't think he'll like it. She doesn't think he'll like anything she ever does genuinely, and suspects he'll hate her for falsehoods. He doesn't really like her at all, and that's comfortable. She'd be disgusted by love, so she kisses his hating mouth instead.

Her hand skitters to his hip, and she fumbles for his fly. He won't like this either.