Sky Valen's POV – Lecture Hall, Monday Morning
There's something criminally offensive about a man sitting in your seat like he owns the damn universe. Especially when he spent last night kissing you like sin and then vanished like a damn ghost—leaving you flushed, breathless, and dangerously unsatisfied.
And that same man? He's now sprawled in my fucking spot. Legs wide, elbow resting like it belongs on the back of my throne.
Ray. Fucking. Maddox.
Of course it's him. Looking clean-cut but absolutely filthy in that white tee layered under a black bomber jacket, jaw too sharp to be legal. His hair's still a little messy from where I might've—allegedly—tugged it last night. And he's holding a pen like he plans to either write an essay or stab someone.
Maybe both.
I clutch my vanilla oat latte—a crime against caffeine according to Ray—and glide down the steps of the amphitheater-style lecture hall. The entire fucking class watches like it's pay-per-view. I don't blame them. I'm Sky Valen. And he is Maddox.
My heels click as I stop right in front of him.
He grins.
Fucking grins.
Like the devil saw me and said, "Let's make it fun."
"Well," he drawls, tapping his pen against his lips, "you're free to sit on my lap, Valen. I don't mind. I'm told I make a great seat."
The audacity.
I arch a brow, then exhale sharply through my nose. My father raised me to be composed. Elegant. A goddamn lady.
Too bad I'm also a Valen.
"I'd rather pour my coffee in your lap, Maddox."
His grin widens. "Still sounds like me on top, sweetheart."
I sit beside him. Not because I want to. Because this is war. If I back down, he wins.
I don't back down.
The moment I slide into the seat, he shifts. Not away—closer. Our thighs are brushing, and I can feel the warmth of his skin through my skirt. My heart's trying to beat out of my ribs but I'm not giving him the fucking satisfaction.
He doesn't speak.
Just leans forward like he's paying attention to the Criminal Law lecture. The professor starts rambling about mens rea, actus reus, and I'm about to throw my latte at someone's face. I don't even register what the guy says because suddenly—
Ray Maddox's hand is on my thigh.
Broad. Warm. Confident.
Right above the slit of my pencil skirt.
Not moving. Just there.
Territory claimed.
I freeze.
Turn my head slightly. He's staring straight ahead, pen still in hand. Like he's totally innocent. Like he didn't just ignite my blood.
My voice drops, venom-sweet.
"Hands to yourself, Maddox."
Still staring forward, he replies, low and gravelly:"Didn't say a word when you were grinding on it last night, princess."
I swear my soul leaves my body.
My eyes dart around. No one seems to notice. They're all too busy pretending not to listen. Except the girl two rows up—she's definitely listening. And smirking. Bitch.
I slap his hand away—not hard, just enough to remind him I'm not one of his cheerleaders.
"You're unbelievable," I hiss under my breath.
He finally turns, eyes dragging down my neck, over the collar of my blouse."I was last night," he murmurs. "You were chanting it like a prayer."
I nearly stab him with my pen.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I don't have to. You do it for me."
"Fuck off."
He leans closer. "Still tastes like vanilla oat latte and regret, Valen. I'm starting to get addicted."
I snap my head toward the front, cheeks blazing, because he's not wrong. He shouldn't be right. But last night? Goddamn fireworks. And I don't know what's worse—that it happened at all… or that I want it to happen again.
He rests his arm behind me now. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the weight of it. Like a ghost hand.
Possessive. Casual. Maddox.
"Is this your game?" I whisper as the professor launches into precedent cases.
"No," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "Game implies one of us has a chance of walking away."