Page 69 of Lethal in Pink

The video loads, casting a harsh blue light over my legs. The guy on screen is broad-shouldered and sharp-jawed, lifting the woman by her thighs and pinning her to a tiled wall while his cock drives into her pussy with a wet, heavy rhythm.

I slide off my pink shorts and underwear, letting the room air hit my skin. I pop the cap on the lube, slathering my pussy and slicking the veined silicone until it shines under the canopy lights.

I spread my knees on the duvet, pressing the thick, rounded tip against my entrance. My pussy is already slick, aching with a heavy, sharp pulse I refuse to analyze. I tilt my hips and force the head past my lips. The stretch is thick and immediate, forcing a sharp gasp out of my throat as I take the entire length in one smooth, ruthless push, burying it until the base flattens against my thighs.

I find a hard, steady pace. Pulling back until the head almost slips free, then driving it all the way back in. Wet, heavy, relentless. I bring my hand down, slicking my clit with lube and circling the swollen node in fast, tight loops that match the slap of skin on screen. My back arches off the mattress. The actor on the display lets out a rough grunt as he buries himself to the hilt, and I match him thrust for thrust, fucking my pussy with clinical speed, digging the ridge of the toy up into my g-spot until my stomach coils tight.

Then my brain completely blows the operation.

It isn't the guy on the screen.

It's Jae.

The image slams into me with terrifying detail: Jae’s hands—broad, calloused, scarred along the knuckles—gripping my waist and hauling me right onto the edge of the mahogany desk in the library alcove. Not a cold toy, but his actual, heavy cock tearing into my pussy, driving me back against the wood. I picture his jaw locked, his eyes turned nearly black as he pins my wrists over my head, his chest slick against mine as he drives into me with a brutal, deliberate weight that makes the desk groan under us.

The scent of cedar and warm skin hits me so hard I choke on air. I can hear him—not his calm, dry study voice, but the low, wrecked sound of him swearing in Korean right against my ear as he buries his cock as deep as it will go inside me.

The fantasy shatters my control. My thumb goes wild over my soaked clit, my hips slamming up to meet the silicone as I fuck myself with a frantic, messy rhythm.

The orgasm hits like an impact.

My pussy violently clamps around the shaft, pulsing in hard, agonizing waves that rip a raw moan straight out of my throat. Heat explodes through my thighs, my knees shaking against the sheets as my clit throbs out of control, every nerve ending firing at once while Jae’s name sits trapped, heavy and humiliating, behind my teeth.

When the wave finally breaks, I’m left staring up at the white canopy, completely wrecked, the heavy dildo still buried deep inside my wet pussy as my heart hammers against my ribs.

The video is still running on the laptop, the actors catching their breath over the speakers. I reach out with a shaking hand and slam the screen down, plunging the room back into the soft glow of the fairy lights. I pull the toy out with a slick, quiet slide, the vibration humming against my palm before I kill the power.

“Fuck,” I say to the empty room.

The ceiling doesn't care. Outside, Los Angeles keeps moving through its Tuesday, completely indifferent to the collapse of my self-control.

I get up and wash my hands at the vanity sink. The mirror catches my reflection—flushed chest, hair falling out of its clip, my lips swollen and dark pink in a way that always follows a hard come. I look away immediately. The woman in the glass looks like she just lost a fight to her own desires, and I’m not having that debate today.

I pour a glass of water at the island and toss the takeout box into the trash, chopsticks and all. I set the glass down, press my palms flat against the cold granite, and take one long, deliberate breath.

This changes nothing.

Chapter twenty-three

Amiyah

The windows are fogged so thick you could carve your name into the glass and nobody on the sidewalk would see you do it. Outside, Silver Lake bleeds through the condensation in smeared red taillights and yellow neon, but inside, the room narrows down to chili oil, steam, and seven small plates squeezed onto a table built for two.

Penelope hovers her phone at a steep angle above the mapo tofu, her thumb resting on the record button.

“The vibe is industrial-chic pho slut meets deranged spice goblin,” she whispers into her mic, angling the flash to catch the sheen of dark red oil pool over the tofu. “The chef is either an artist or currently under federal investigation. Either way, I’m in.”

I spear a dumpling. The wrapper is thin enough to show the pink curve of shrimp underneath. I bite it in half—hot garlic and scallion hitting my tongue—and chew while Penelope’s lens swings toward my face. Years of playing designated food model for Pen’s account has killed whatever camera-shyness I used to have.

I chew, look straight into the camera, and deadpan.

“The wrapper-to-filling ratio is actually insane. The chef knows what he’s doing.”

Pen snorts, lowers the phone, and immediately snatches the remaining half of my dumpling off my plate with her chopsticks.

“Your phone is sweating,” I say, reaching for my drink—a bright yellow mango tea layered with thick coconut cream and popping mango boba clustered at the bottom. Fat beads of condensation run down the plastic lid, soaking the napkin beneath it. “And you owe me a dumpling.”

“I’m building your digital footprint. We’re even.” She sets the phone face-down, grabs a piece of crispy beef, and says without missing a beat, “So. What’s the actual deal with you and the exchange student?”