RITA’S POV
I kicked the door shut with my heel, the thud still echoing as I clawed at my blouse.
Buttons pinged off the hardwood, my pencil skirt followed, and the lace thong—drenched since the elevator ride up—was ripped down my thighs and flung into the corner.
I’m Rita Moreau—twenty-three, junior copywriter, the girl who can sell a campaign in six words—and tonight this apartment is my personal f**k-den.
The salt lamp on the dresser threw gold across the room, licking over my skin like a hungry mouth.
My n*****s were already diamond-hard, begging for teeth, and the neat strip above my p***y glistened like I’d been edging since breakfast.
I didn’t bother with lights; the amber haze was perfect for what I had planned.
I dropped to my knees on the thick towel I’d spread out ear
