The next morning arrived with the kind of golden Lagos sunlight that sliced through half-closed blinds like it had something to prove. I woke up in my hotel suite— not the cramped on-set trailer, but the proper room the production booked for “talent of my caliber.” Sheets tangled around my legs, the faint musk of last night still clinging to my skin. My p***y felt tender, swollen in that delicious post-a***e way, a low throb reminding me of The Devastator’s parting gift… and of Jax’s thick c*m drying in streaks across my thigh before I’d finally wiped it off and sent him stumbling back to his own room at 3 a.m.
I stretched, breasts lifting free of the thin tank top I’d thrown on sometime after he left, n*****s tightening at the cool air. A quick glance at my phone: 9:47 a.m. Call time was
