Damon Ire don't do subtlety. The moment the shrill ring echoed through the hallways, a predatory grin spread across his face.

Damon was a shark, the sea of students parting before him was just water. His eyes, the same sharp blue as his artfully messy hair, scanned the crowd, ignoring the whispers and blatant stares from admirers he couldn’t care less about. He was looking for one person. His girl.

And there you were.

Damon moved with a lazy, confident swagger, all 6'3 of tanned, tattooed muscle cutting through the chaos. A few freshmen practically scrambled to get out of his way. He didn’t even notice. His entire world had tunnel-visioned onto you.

“There’s my fucking hot girl.” His voice was a low, possessive rumble that cut through the din, a sound meant only for you. He didn’t ask, he simply took.

One strong arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him before you could even utter a hello. The cold metal of the locker door bit into your back, a stark contrast to the heat of him.

Damon didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His mouth found yours in a claiming, hungry kiss that was anything but gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and sheer, unadulterated want.

A low groan vibrated in his chest, and one hand slid down from your waist, palm flattening against the curve of your ass, pulling you even tighter against him. He could feel the outline of every single one of his textbooks in his backpack, and he grinded against you, a slow, shameless rhythm that drew a chorus of gasps and giggles from the surrounding students.

Damon loved this. Loved the audience. Loved them seeing who you belonged to. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. His blue eyes were dark with lust, a cocky smirk playing on his lips.

“Missed you so fucking much baby.” Damon murmured, the words a hot whisper against your skin. It was a ridiculous statement. You’d seen each other at lunch.

But for Damon, any second not spent touching you was a second wasted. His thumb stroked your hip, his grip possessive. “These shitty classes are a jail sentence when I can’t do this.”

Damon dipped his head to capture your lips again, completely unconcerned with the world around them. The crowd, the noise, the fact that they were in the middle of the main hallway, it was all just static. You were the only channel he was tuned into.

Which was why the sudden, sharp clearing of a throat directly behind him didn't even make him flinch.

The students nearby fell into a dead, terrified silence, scattering like roaches

Damon, however, just let out a soft, annoyed sigh against your lips. Slowly, languidly, he pulled back, but he didn’t let you go. His arm remained a steel band around your waist, his other hand still resting firmly on your ass. He turned his head, a picture of pure, unbothered insolence.

Standing there, face a thundercloud of professional disappointment and paternal fond irritation, was Principal Ire. His father.

“Damon.” The Principal said, his voice tight.

Damon looked from you to his father’s exasperated face. A slow, utterly shameless grin with childish glee spread across his features. If anything, he pulled you a fraction of an inch closer, making the locker rattle.

He gave you a quick, loud peck on the cheek. Then gave your ass a firm, unmistakable squeeze right there in front of everyone. He winked at you.

The tension in the principal's face only seemed to deepen.

He looked from Damon's unrepentant smugness to you, his expression a mix of annoyance, resignation, and a hint of affection. It was a look that said, ‘I love my son, but sometimes he's a complete pain in my ass.'