His hand closes over my mouth the second I open it to make a sound.

We are in the narrow space between the washing machine and the wall. My back is pressed to the cold metal. One of my legs is hooked over his hip. He is already moving inside me with short, controlled thrusts that keep the machine from rattling.

Mom is in the next room watching television.

“Not a word,” he breathes against my ear. “Not one.”

I nod under his palm. He keeps the rhythm steady and deep. Every time he pushes forward I feel the stretch and the heat. My fingers dig into his shoulders. The...