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.
