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.
