One second Phei was walking down the empty hallway, minding his own business like a sane person.

The next, his arm was nearly ripped from its socket as he was yanked sideways through a doorway, slammed against a wall in an abandoned chemistry classroom, and pinned there by a five-foot-ten blonde hurricane with tits that could cause traffic accidents.

The door clicked shut.

Maddie Whitmore stood in front of it, chest heaving, eyes blazing, blocking his only escape like a very expensive, very horny guard dog.

Phei knew Maddie. Everyone knew Maddie. You didn't survive Ashford Academy without knowing Maddie, because Maddie made damn sure the entire student body—and half the faculty—knew her first.

Where Sierra was arctic precision, Maddie was a gasoline fire in a strip club. Sierra froze you with a glance. Maddie melted your brain with a laugh, a hip sway, and the kind of body that made priests reconsider their vows.

She was tall—five-ten in the forbidden heels she wore because rules were for peasants—built like God had taken a volleyball goddess blueprint and decided to add "fuck you" levels of curves. Broad, powerful shoulders from spiking balls into opponents' faces. Thighs that could crack walnuts—or heads.

Arms that looked delicate until you remembered she could serve at ninety miles an hour.

But the athleticism was just the packaging.

The real weapon was the rest.

This weaponized sex bomb.

Tits like gravity-defying missiles—DDs minimum, round and high, nipples poking through the blouse like they were pissed at the bra holding them back (probably La Perla, $500 a pop). Waist cinched wasp-tight, hips flaring to grab-and-breed perfection, ass so phat it turned hallways into catwalks. Most times her ass that didn't just walk into rooms—it announced itself with trumpets.

Her face was pure American wet dream: button nose sprinkled with freckles, wide Caribbean-blue eyes that looked innocent right up until they looked like they wanted to ride you into the ground, and lips perpetually glossed in "come-fuck-me" pink that were always smirking like she knew exactly what you were thinking about her mouth.

Blonde hair in a high ponytail that swung like a hypnotist's pendulum, daring every guy in a fifty-foot radius to imagine pulling it.

She is loud. She is chaos. She is rich-girl apocalypse in human form.

And right now, that apocalypse had him pinned to a wall.

"What the fuck, Maddie—"

"You've been avoiding me."

Not a question. A declaration of war.

Phei's jaw flexed. As if he needed this level of insanity today.

"I'm busy."

"You said that yesterday. And the day before. And every time I've tried to get you alone for a week."

"Because I'm busy."

"Bullshit."

She stepped closer. Her perfume hit him like a drug—something floral and expensive and designed to make dicks stupid.

Her blouse was missing at least two buttons (deliberately, because Maddie didn't do accidents), and the lacy edge of a bra peeked out, barely containing the kind of cleavage that started religions and ended bloodlines.

"I'm not here to play games, Phei." Her voice dropped, husky and blunt. "I know what you've been doing with Sierra. I know about the music room. I know she's been walking around bow-legged for days. Everyone knows."

"Then you know I'm occupied."

"Sierra doesn't own your dick."

"No one owns me."

"Good."

She closed the gap in one predatory step—body slamming into his, hands planting on his chest, tits pressing against him so hard he could feel her heartbeat through two layers of fabric. Her hips rolled forward once, deliberate, grinding against the front of his pants like she was checking inventory.

"Then prove it."

Phei's hands came up on reflex to push her off. "Maddie, I don't have time for—"

She grabbed his wrists.

And held them.

What the—

Pinned them to the wall beside his head with legitimate strength. Volleyball arms weren't just for show.

Her face was inches from his now—lips glossy, eyes wild, breath hot.

"I'm not asking for dinner and a movie," she whispered, voice dripping sex and money and entitlement. "I'm asking for you to fuck me against this wall until I forget my own name. Right now. No games. No waiting. Just your cock inside me until one of us needs medical attention."

He pushed. She didn't budge. Not even a fucking inch.

Her grip was iron—volleyball forearms locked, stance wide and low like she was receiving a spike from hell. Core tight, thighs flexed under that tiny skirt, the kind of foundation built from thousands of hours squatting, lunging, and grappling dudes twice her size just for fun.

When he tried to slide sideways, she mirrored him perfectly, shifting her weight with jiu-jitsu precision—three years of rolling on mats before she quit because "choking people out got repetitive."

She kept the skills. Obviously.

She was strong. Scary strong. Not Dragon-strong, but strong enough that prying free would mean real torque. The kind that could twist a wrist, bruise a forearm, maybe snap something delicate.

That would make noise. A yelp. A thud. A scene.

And Maddie lived for scenes. She'd probably moan extra loud—"Oh Phei~ you're hurting me!"—just to draw a crowd, flip the script, play the wide-eyed heiress roughed up by the scholarship brute. Tomorrow's gossip: Poor Maddie Whitmore assaulted in chem lab—send thoughts and prayers (and lawyers).

She was Sierra-level at staging victimhood, but with a playful, bratty twist—like she'd wink at the camera while crying.

That was Maddie in a nutshell: she didn't just take what she wanted. She branded it. Instagrammed the conquest. Made sure the whole school knew it was her idea, her victory, her trophy cock.

"Maddie." His voice came out low, edged with real warning. "Let go."

"Make me."

Two words. Delivered with a shit-eating grin that said I've never lost a bet in my life, and I'm not starting with you.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." She leaned in—tits pressing harder against my chest, nipples like bullets through the blouse—lips brushing his ear, breath hot and wet. "Three days straight, Phei. Three nights with my fingers buried in my pussy, watching those videos of you wrecking Sierra. Imagining it was my throat bulging, my cunt getting split open on that monster."

She pulled back just enough for him to see the raw hunger in those Caribbean blues.

"Sierra thinks she's queen because she bagged you first? Please. I've known that ice bitch queen since we were twelve. She's all control, all 'proper,' all boring." Maddie spat the word like it was poison. "She doesn't know how to feel. Doesn't know how to get properly ruined."

Her hips rolled forward—slow, deliberate grind—skirt riding high enough to flash the lacy edge of soaked panties dragging over his rapidly hardening cock. The Dragon stirred, traitor that it was, thickening against her heat.

Maddie felt it instantly. Her grin went full Cheshire-cat triumphant—teeth white, eyes sparkling like she'd just won the lottery and a Nobel Prize in cock-teasing.

"There he is. The beast that's kept me up all night edging like a desperate slut." Another roll—harder, wetter, her clit rubbing shamelessly through the fabric. "See? Your dick knows what's up. Sierra's the hell queen? Fine. I'm the one who'll make you melt—and beg for seconds."

She leaned in again, tongue tracing his ear slow and filthy before whispering: "I take it rough, Phei. Rougher than her prissy ass ever could. Throw me around. Hold me down. Fuck me like a cheap toy you're gonna throw away broken."

Her teeth caught his earlobe—sharp bite—tugging hard enough to sting. "Stop playing gentleman and rail me already."

"I have somewhere to be."

"Music room rematch?" Her laugh boomed—that loud, hallway-filling cackle that made freshmen flinch. "Sierra can wait. That's her whole personality—sitting pretty while the world comes to her. Too stuck-up to chase."

"Not Sierra." He yanked his wrists again—she adjusted grip, thumbs digging into pulse points, pain mixing with the throb in his pants in confusing ways. "Apology letters. Ashfords. Some Harris chick. Swan murder. Dress sabotage. Party that happened before I even—"

He stopped. Timeline fuckery. She wouldn't get it.

Maddie blinked. Seductress mask shattered—replaced by genuine, heiress-level confusion.

"You're… ditching this premium pussy for apology letters? Like, with a stamp and everything?"

"Harold's orders."

"Creepy uncle Pound-Puppy?" Name dripped disdain, like she'd stepped in dog shit wearing Louboutins. "The who eye-fucks everyone like he's pricing organs?"

"Yup."

"So, tell him to eat a dick. That's what I do when Daddy nags—say 'no thanks,' then drop fifty large on Ashford Plaza till he forgets his own name."

Phei barked a laugh—sharp, bitter, involuntary—because of course that was her life hack. Of course the girl who'd never heard "no" without a private jet waiting thought rebellion was retail therapy.

"Yeah, genius. Tell Harold Maxton—the guy who decides if my roof/food/blackmail king—'fuck off.' Gold-star plan, princess. Won't end with me dumpster-diving at all. Brilliant strategy, Whitmore. Ten out of ten. No notes."

"God, you're dramatic." Eye-roll so hard it probably echoed. Grip loosened—just a fraction. "It's not that deep. You Maxtons are always so fucking intense about everything."

"I'm not a Maxton!"

"Whatever. Close enough, drama queen."

Not even in the same fucking universe, Phei thought.

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