He grabs me.
There’s no warm-up. No pretense. Just hands and teeth and the kind of kiss that devours every thought. He spins me, palms flat on the prep table, my body bent where he wants it—where I want it.
He doesn’t even take his pants off.
Fingers.
Mouth.
Ruthless precision.
He takes—until I’m coming against his hand with a cry he swallows whole.
Then he flips me, hauls me up onto the metal table, and fucks me with two fingers and nothing but dominance between his teeth.
“Second one,” he growls, biting my jaw.
And I break.
Again.
He doesn’t stop.
“This one,” he growls, fingers circling tight and fast, “you’re going to feel all day.”
The third orgasm rips through me like a shockwave.
I don’t even remember catching my breath. One moment I’m trembling. The next—he’s gone.
Door swinging shut behind him.
I stagger out five minutes later, half-wrecked, hair a mess, pulse still skipping.
Straight to the chalkboard.
I grab the pink chalk.
One tally mark.
The girls lose their goddamn minds.
“No way!” Malia gasps.
“She actually did it,” Jenna shrieks.
“That is a victory strut if I’ve ever seen one,” Mia mutters, grinning into her latte.
Rebel leans over the counter. “Was it a tallied one or a screaming one?”
I don’t answer.
Just mark a second.
Sophia covers her mouth like she’s watching royalty take the crown.
Then—a third mark.
The shriek that leaves Rebel might crack the espresso machine.