My knuckles are raw and my hands ache, but I pin his wrists to the frost-rimed gravel and snarl. Blood drips from my nose into his face, spatters against his lips, and I feel conflicted about whether or not he deserves it. He deserves to be disgusted, to have the coppery taste stick in his throat, but he's not worthy of my blood in his mouth. He spits it out, the ungrateful little shit, and writhes beneath me.
I'm heavier than he is. Stronger by a decent margin. There are a dozen ways I can make sure that he can't kick his way free, that he can't bring his knee up to my groin even if it's just for the spite.
Slowly, I press my knee into his crotch. Heavy, steady. Not the sharp jerk he would give to me. He looks away. I wait, my blood running down his cheek, into his hair.
When he moves again, turns his head back to me, his hips rock against my knee. His gaze burns like he hates me, but his pupils are blown wide and his tongue slides over his teeth.
