Never heard him lock the door.

My clothes seemed so garish and tacky, lying on the floor of his bedroom.
Everything was so sparse and white, so painfully, blindingly spartan; and there my clothes lay, unceremoniously crumpled, screaming in cobalt and ebony.
I could see them over the edge of the bed, peeking out from the broad curve of his shoulder. He shifted, and suddenly they were gone, replaced with smooth, lightly tanned sinew that flexed ever-so-slightly as he adjusted himself to grab my wrists, adjusted himself so as to pin me down.
Music thumped from the living room area, filtered through the apartment walls. Rage Against the Machine; the bane of my existence. His breath, hot in the crook of my neck, came in time with the bass; he told me he loved me, called me "baby," smiled that smug-fuck grin as he bit my neck in all the wrong places. His nails were well-manicured, almost offensively clean, contrasted with what we were doing. He spoke to me as one would an uncomfortable minor appearing in their first dingy, dimly-lit 70s porno. I pictured it in my mind: the wood-paneled walls, the flat, grimy bed, the shaggy, most-likely bearded middle-aged man. Something in me tightened, screamed that I was better than that, than this 21-year-old army asshole who didn't understand that "no cock" meant "no cock" unless you slapped him across the face.