* A brother rapes sister in a jealous rage

The scene is short and non-descriptive but here goes.

Flowers in the Attic (1979) by Virginia Andrews. Excerpt from an eBook.

    This wasn't Chris . . . this was someone I'd never seen before . . . primitive, savage.

     He yelled out something like, "You're mine, Cathy! Mine! You'll always be mine! No matter who comes into your future, you'll always belong to me!

    I'll make you mine tonight. . . now!"

    I didn't believe it, not Chris!

    And I did not fully understand what he had in mind, nor, if I am to give him credit, do I think he really meant what he said, but passion has a way of taking over.

    We fell to the floor, both of us. I tried to fight him off. We wrestled, turning over and over, writhing, silent, a frantic struggle of his strength against mine It wasn't much of a battle.

    I had the strong dancer's legs; he had the biceps, the greater weight and height. . . and he had much more determination than I to use something hot, swollen and demanding, so much it stole reasoning and sanity from him.

    And I loved him I wanted what he wanted—if he wanted it that much, right or wrong.

    Somehow we ended up on that old mattress—that filthy, smelly, stained mattress that must have known lovers long before this night. And that is where he took me, and forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh which tore and bled.

    Now we had done what we both swore we'd never do.

    Now we were doomed through all eternity, damned to roast forever, hung upside down and naked over the everlasting fires of hell.