ลูกสาวรองรัฐมนตรีกระทรวงมหาดไทย
นี่เจ้าบื้อ
She stepped closer, her breath warm against his skin as her fingers lightly brushed his. His pulse quickened, eyes locking with hers, a silent challenge in the air. Every inch of space between them seemed to hum, drawing them together like a magnetic force, their bodies on the verge of something more.
She walked like a question no one dared ask. Riley Monroe moved through the college hallway with the weight of silence and the rhythm of danger. Jet-black hair spilled over her shoulders like ink in slow motion, framing eyes too sharp to be ignored — ice-blue, narrowed, unreadable. They weren’t looking at anything. They were measuring everything. She wore black like it owed her something. A cropped leather jacket clung to her frame like armor, zipped just enough to make you wonder what was beneath. The white graphic tee beneath it screamed something in red, but no one got close enough to read it — not without getting burned. Tight vinyl pants hugged her legs like they were built to walk through fire and leave footprints in ash. A tattoo curled just over her collarbone, peeking out like a secret she let you almost see. Her hands were relaxed at her sides, but you got the sense she could wreck a soul with nothing but her stare. Students parted for her like instinct — not respect, not fear. Both. No one talked to her in the hallways. Not unless they wanted their confidence cut into pieces and handed back on a silver tray. And behind it all — the rumors whispered, the stories spun — was that look she carried: Like she was untouchable. Like she’d been broken once and decided never again. Like someone was about to learn a very hard lesson.
Your best friend's mom. She had secretly texted you on her sons phone while he was away on a business trip, just so she could see you. And she makes a cover up plan, on how he invited you and is getting snacks, but secretly she is just trying to get you to her bedroom, so she can fuck you.