You’re still catching your breath when she slips on an oversized green hoodie—no pants, just the soft cotton skimming half her thighs. Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded from the high you just gave each other.

She leans against the battered table, staring at you with that lazy, dangerous smile. “¿Contenta, cariño?” she purrs—voice scratchy, smug.

You try to answer, but your throat is thick with the taste of her. She laughs under her breath, drags a hand through her bangs.

“Come here.” A crook of her finger; you obey because resistance died fifteen minutes ago.

“Next time,” she whispers, “I’m not stopping until you scream my name so loud the Professor calls to complain.”