This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

No wonder her clothes were so baggy.

That oversized hoodie. That flowy skirt. The way she practically ran to my car like she had somewhere to be when really—really—she was plotting this the whole time. Camille Marquez, my sweet, quiet girl with her hands folded and soft voice, had been hiding that tiny skirt and thigh-highs all damn morning.

Maybe since last night. Maybe since she kissed me like that and walked out my door with the most frustrating goodbye kiss I've ever been given.

She planned this.

And now? Now she was sitting across from me like a goddamn performance art piece. Legs spread, eyes wide, fingertips brushing the fabric of her panties like she didn't just change the course of my entire day.

Oh, she's not getting away with this.

I crossed the room slowly, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Her tote bag sat innocently on top of the barstool, like it hadn't just been part of her master plan. I reached in, rummaging past her hoodie, her skirt, a familiar book she always carried. Phone. Wallet.

And then—metal.

The cold bite of steel against my fingertips.

The cuffs.

Key already tucked in.

I turned slowly, letting my fingers close around the chain, holding it up. The sound of it clinking together made her head tilt. She bit her lip.

This sexy, genius menace.

"You're so not getting away with this," I said, already walking toward her. "Bad student. You're going to detention."

She brought her pointer finger to her lips, voice feathery-soft. "I'm in trouble?" she asked, eyes wide with fake innocence that only made it worse.

"Yes," I said, gripping her wrist and pulling her to her feet. "Big trouble."

She didn't resist. Just followed with this delighted little smile on her lips, as if being dragged to her own punishment was exactly what she wanted.

I pulled her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind us with a soft click. The curtains were already drawn from the other night, but I tugged them tighter, sealing the room in shadow. The air conditioner hummed to life above us, but I barely noticed. I was focused on her. The weight of her wrist still in my hand.

I led her to the bed. Her breathing had gone shallow.

So I raised her hands.

And clicked the cuffs into place.

The sound echoed, sharper than I expected in the quiet of the room. Her wrists locked against the headboard. Not tight. Just enough. Just to remind her that she started this. And I was going to finish it.

She looked at me from beneath her lashes.

And bit her bottom lip.

I lifted her blouse slowly, inch by inch, just enough until her breasts pop out, revealing pale skin, flushed and waiting. Her bra is black—almost modest, but not quite. There's lace along the edges, delicate and deliberate, like she picked it knowing it would undo me.

It does.

It frames her like a secret.

Like something she's daring me to touch.

I stop just under her collarbone and lean in.

Not for her lips—those can wait.

I kiss the top of her left breast, the place where the curve meets the cup, my lips brushing gently over skin. She squirms slightly, wrists shifting in the cuffs above her, but she doesn't pull away.