There was no way Sierra Montgomery would have let herself be fucked.

Not here. Not in this dusty, forgotten music room that reeked of mildew, teenage desperation, and the ghosts of a thousand bad hookups. Not on this disgusting couch that had probably absorbed more bodily fluids than a biohazard bin.

Not with four of her girls standing guard outside, ears pressed to the door, definitely hearing every broken moan, every filthy sob, every scream that had torn from her throat.

Sierra Montgomery was the Hell Queen. She had standards. She had a reputation forged in ice and venom. She had an image that did not include getting railed in an abandoned classroom like some desperate, common slut.

Phei knew that.

Which was why, at the edge of her fifth orgasm—her body already shattered from four, her pussy swollen and ruined and still clenching desperately around nothing—he'd risen from between her thighs and stepped back.

Just... walked away.

Left her there.

Sierra lay slumped against the worn couch cushions, legs still spread obscenely wide, chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

Her skirt was bunched uselessly around her waist now like a forgotten surrender flag. Her blouse and bra had been discarded somewhere in the darkness, leaving those perfect double-D tits bare and heaving, nipples still hard as diamonds, dark and abused from his mouth, glistening with his saliva in the dim light.

Her ruined pussy was on full, shameless display—swollen beyond reason, flushed a deep, angry crimson, lips parted and glistening obscenely with her creamy release.

The slick inner folds trembled with aftershocks, her entrance clenching and unclenching in greedy, empty spasms, still leaking thick strands of her cum that dripped lazily down to soak the cushions beneath her ass.

She was wrecked.

Utterly, completely, devastatingly wrecked.

The only thing missing was his cock.

That magnificent, impossible, reality-defying cock.

During their... session, she'd managed to undo his pants. Hands shaking, curiosity and raw need overwhelming her even as another orgasm crashed through her, she'd reached for him—

And gasped.

Nine inches... Half-erect.

Not fully hard. Not even close to his full potential. Just... casually, lazily half-mast, and already bigger than any cock she'd ever seen in her life.

So thick. Veins running along the shaft like roots of some ancient, powerful tree. The crown swollen and beautiful, already leaking precum that smelled like—

God, that smell.

Intoxicating. Masculine. Primal.

She let her mind wander into oblivion as she slumped there.

God, the scent is like a drug—flooded every sense I had, sank straight into that ancient, animal part of my brain that never gave a damn about reputation or power or being the untouchable I am. It made something deep in my hindbrain sit up and beg—raw, shameless, desperate.

I wanted to taste it. Fuck, how I wanted to taste it. To drag my tongue along that thick, veined shaft, to feel the velvet heat of him against my lips, to take him deep until he stretched my throat and made my eyes water.

To let him dominate my mouth, fuck my face slow and deep, until he flooded me with everything he had—hot, thick, endless—until I swallowed every drop like it was the only thing that could save me.

I wanted to be ruined by it.

Owned by it.

Marked from the inside out.

But he didn't let me.

And that denial—that cruel, perfect denial—is what makes the ache between my legs throb even harder now.

Because he knows.

He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

And he's making me wait for it.

Beg for it.

Earn it.

Like the queen I pretended to be had finally met the king who could bring me to my knees.

And I hate how much I love it.

But he hadn't let her.

He'd allowed her one thing: a sniff. Just that. Her nose pressed close to his manhood, inhaling that intoxicating scent while he held her hair in an iron grip, not letting her get close enough to actually touch.

"That's all you get tonight, my queen."

The memory made her shiver even now—her pussy clenching hard around nothing, another weak trickle of cream leaking out at the thought.

Then he'd pulled away. Tucked himself back into his pants—which should be illegal, hiding something like that—and leaned down to kiss her.

Soft. Almost gentle. A stark contrast to the brutal domination of the past hour.

His lips brushed hers, tasting of her own cum, and he'd whispered against her mouth:

"You know where to find me when you're ready to be mine. When you want real pleasure. Real cock."

Then he'd straightened up.

Adjusted his tie—still loose, still perfectly disheveled.

And walked away.

Walked. Away.

Left her lying there like a used toy, trembling with pleasure she couldn't control, her pussy still clenching and unclenching around nothing, desperate for something—anything—to fill it.

She couldn't move.

Literally couldn't. Her legs had given up somewhere around orgasm three. Her arms felt like wet noodles. Her entire body was one giant, oversensitive nerve ending that twitched every time she breathed.

She was going to have to call her girls in to help her stand.

The Hell Queen, needing assistance to walk because a boy had made her cum too hard.

The humiliation should have burned. Should have ignited that cold fury she was famous for.

Instead, all she felt was... want.

Desperate, aching, soul-deep want.

Her pussy throbbed with it—empty, ruined, starving for the cock he'd denied her.

She'd never needed anything this badly in her life.

And he knew it.

The bastard knew it.

And he'd left her like this on purpose.

The Queen left wanting.

The Queen left begging.

****

The pleasure wouldn't fade.

Two hours later, back in her family's mansion, freshly showered and wrapped in silk pajamas that cost more than most people's monthly rent, Sierra still felt it.

Not the orgasms themselves—those had finally stopped rippling through her sometime during the car ride home. But the sensation. The ghost of his mouth on her cunt. The phantom pressure of his tongue lashing her clit. The hollow, yearning emptiness inside her that screamed to be filled.

By him.

Only by him.

She lay in her bed—queen-sized, premium mattress, thousand-thread-count sheets—and stared at the ceiling, thighs pressed together, trying and failing to ease the relentless throb between them.

What the fuck just happened to me?

She'd called him to that room to put him in his place. That was the plan. Simple. Elegant. Effective.

The kiss had been a power move. A way to make him freeze, to show him that no matter what rumors were spreading, no matter what he'd done yesterday, she was still the queen. He was still beneath her.

She'd expected him to stammer. To blush. To maybe get hard and embarrassed about it, giving her ammunition to mock him with.

Instead...

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