I didn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes I felt him again—the stretch, the controlled thrust, the heat of him emptying inside me while his hand stayed locked around my c**k like he owned the orgasm. By morning the come had dried sticky on my thighs. I showered twice. It didn’t help. The bruises on my hips from his fingers were already darkening, five perfect points on each side that looked exactly like a claim.
Thursday arrived too fast.
I almost skipped class. The thought of sitting in that lecture hall and looking at the same man who had f****d me open on his desk two nights ago made my stomach twist with something that wasn’t only dread. But the idea of him noticing my absence—and deciding what that absence meant—was worse.
I took a seat in the back row.
Professor Hale walked in
