She brought the bottle of Jim Beam to her lips for another searing gulp and hissed as the burn turned to numbness in her belly. Her sigh came out as a...sob and she let her head fall loose on her neck, her face twisting into a grotesque mask of pain. Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck them all. She was done. Out of here. There was no way she was going to put up with this bullshit anymore. People walking all over her, treating her like she was some kind of communal whipping post just because she wasn’t In The. She made no movement to stop him as one hand came up to cup one breast, and then she realised that she now knew why she had worn a blouse and skirt, rather than a dress which would be much more difficult to take off gracefully. Subconsciously she had been waiting for this. It had been years since her husband died, and in that time no man had touched her; this David Ransome had everything going for him, he was good looking, quiet, well-mannered, rich, and above all, he had never known her late. More

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