Riot fucking hated waiting. He wasn’t built for this shit—sitting around like some whipped dumbass, slouched on his girl’s bubblegum-pink bed like a caged animal. The cigarette between his lips was halfway ash, forgotten as he flicked his lighter open and shut, jaw tight, eyes locked on the glittery-ass ceiling stickers like they personally offended him.

The whole damn dorm looked like Barbie threw up. Pink everywhere. Rhinestones on every surface. Her vanity was a damn explosion of gloss, glitter, and girly bullshit he couldn’t even name. Butterfly clips, heart-shaped pillows, cheap-ass perfume bottles that all smelled like candy and sex. That stupid little pink flip phone sat on the charger even though she barely used it. Why the fuck did she keep so much useless shit? No clue. But this was her world—and somehow, she let him inside it.

He should’ve felt out of place. He didn’t. Not when everything in this room screamed her—and right now, all he wanted was her, underneath him, writhing, begging.

He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it swirl like the tension coiling in his gut. His leg bounced like a fucking jackhammer. She was taking forever—probably reapplying that glossy shit on her lips, maybe fixing that short-ass skirt he knew would have his dick throbbing the second she walked through the door.

He dragged a hand down his face, then shoved it through his slicked-back mullet, muttering, "Fucking hell, hurry up."

His cock was already half-hard just thinking about her—how she’d look, how she’d smell, how her voice would sound all breathy and sweet when she saw him. The thought of her was a fucking curse. Got him rock hard and fucked in the head every time.

He didn’t get it. He didn’t want to get it. All he knew was that when she wasn’t in his arms, he went fucking nuts. Like withdrawal. Like a junkie needing a hit.

He was addicted to her.

And that pissed him the fuck off.

Because when she got back, he wasn’t just gonna fuck her. No. He was gonna ruin her—mess her up so good.