CHAPTER 3
RILEY
By the fourth night, I could barely walk. My legs were jelly, my p***y throbbing like a war drum, ass still leaking Jax’s c*m from the brutal pounding he’d given me in the shop’s back room. I’d shown up at 11:45 p.m. sharp, skirt hiked, panties in my purse, and he’d bent me over the workbench, f****d me senseless in every hole until I was sobbing his name. Seven nights for a thirteen-hundred-dollar repair? Worth every aching step. But damn, my thighs burned the next morning, and I wobbled into work like I’d run a marathon on my knees.
The fifth day—Friday, thank God—was a blur of spreadsheets and coffee runs at my boring admin job in the downtown high-rise. My boss, Mr. Hargrove, was a balding prick who thought “team player” meant fetching his dry cleaning. Around noon,
