Cuck your coach?

The locker room still hums faintly with the aftermath of chaos—distant cheers echoing from somewhere deep in the arena, the muffled roar of a crowd that hasn't quite come down from what they just witnessed. A game-winner. Against basketball juggernaut Duke. A shot that should've immortalized you in nothing but celebration.

Instead, the air in here had gone cold the second Coach Lunstrum stepped in.

The door had slammed hard enough to rattle the lockers, metal vibrating against metal with a sound that cut through whatever residual adrenaline had been buzzing in your veins. No congratulations. No smile. Just a storm brewing behind his eyes—the kind of storm you'd learned to read over the season, the quiet kind that hit harder than any screaming match ever could.

He'd paced once—twice—his shoes squeaking against the polished floor, each step deliberate, measured. Then he'd lit into you with a sharp, controlled fury that somehow cut deeper than yelling ever could.

"You don't get to play hero when you're the reason we needed one."

That was the line that stuck. The one that echoed even after he'd pointed toward the hallway with two stiff fingers and told you to go cool off. Alone.

So now you stand outside, the late-March air biting just enough to keep everything sharp. The campus is alive somewhere else—students losing their minds, phones buzzing, history being written—but out here along the quiet stone walkway that curves behind the athletic complex, it feels like none of that belongs to you. Not right now.

Your jersey is still half-soaked with sweat underneath your warmup jacket, and the cold air does nothing for it. Your hands hang at your sides, still trembling faintly with leftover adrenaline that has nowhere to go.

Footsteps approach—not the heavy, angry kind. Lighter. Slower. A deliberate click of heels mixed with the softer tread of athletic soles.

Tonya Lunstrum rounds the corner, and the first thing that registers is that she hasn't changed out of her sideline clothes yet. She's still in the fitted charcoal slacks that hug every curve of her hips and thighs like they were painted on, the fabric tapering down to low black heels that add another two inches to her already tall frame. Her top is a deep navy polo—the official coaching staff shirt—tucked in at her waist, the buttons done up to just below her collarbone. Officially professional. Except the top two buttons are undone, and every time she moves the fabric shifts just enough to give a teasing glimpse of the black lace bra underneath—thin straps, delicate pattern, the kind of thing that has no business being under a coaching polo.

Her blonde braids hang over her shoulders, slightly tousled from the game, a few loose strands framing her sharp jaw. Green eyes catch the fading light and practically glow with that familiar glint—part mischief, part something else entirely.

She takes one look at you and immediately reads the whole situation. Her eyes do a quick sweep—shoulders too tight, jaw clenched, eyes staring at nothing—and something flickers across her face. Not pity. Something closer to recognition.

She exhales through her nose, a small shake of her head as she steps closer, her heels clicking softly on the stone walkway. She stops just off to the side, leaning one hip against the cold wall in a way that makes the polo stretch across her chest, the fabric pulling just enough that the dark lace peeks out again—this time more deliberately.

"Well," she drawls, her voice low and warm, like honey over gravel, "if it isn't the man of the hour."

Her green eyes flick up to meet yours, and there it is—that smirk. The one that's half-tease, half-invitation. She tilts her head, one braid sliding over her shoulder, and lets the silence hang for just a beat too long.

"You look like someone just shot your dog."

She pushes off the wall, taking a slow step closer—close enough now that you catch the scent of her, something clean and slightly woodsy, pine and vanilla and warm skin. Her fingers tap a quick, unconscious rhythm against her thigh, the motion drawing your eye down the fitted line of her slacks before she catches herself and stops.

"He got to you, didn't he?" she says, quieter now. Her eyes search yours—not judging, just reading. Always reading. "Let me guess. Turnovers. Forced plays. 'You don't get to play hero.'"

She says it in a dead-on impression of her husband's clipped tone, and despite everything, a tiny, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

"Am I close?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she shifts her weight, and the movement does something to the polo—another button's worth of gap, another flash of black lace against pale skin, the swell of her full D-cups pressing against the thin fabric as she leans in just slightly, dropping her voice to something conspiratorial.

"Here's the thing," she murmurs, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of her breath on your neck, "he can be pissed all he wants."

Her hand comes up—slowly, deliberately—and she brushes an invisible piece of lint off your shoulder. Her fingers linger there a half-second longer than necessary, the pad of her thumb pressing lightly against the curve of your shoulder before she pulls back.

"But I watched that shot," she says, and something shifts in her expression. The teasing doesn't go away, but underneath it there's something rawer—genuine. Impressed. "And you need to hear this from someone who isn't going to spend the next hour telling you what you did wrong."

She straightens up, and the polo settles back into place—mostly. One button still gapes, the lace still visible if you look. The thin strap has slipped slightly off her shoulder, sitting halfway down her upper arm, and she either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"That was a big-time shot," she says simply. "The kind that makes people remember your name."

Then the smirk returns—wider this time, sharper, her green eyes glinting with something that's definitely not just professional.

"Now—" she says, stepping back and gesturing down the path that leads away from the noise, toward the quieter edge of campus where the trails begin and the wilderness swallows everything in silence, "—you can stand out here and let him live in your head rent-free. Or—"

She reaches out and tugs lightly—playfully—at the zipper of your warmup jacket, pulling it down an inch before letting go. Her nails graze the skin of your chest just barely, and she holds your gaze while she does it.

"—you can come walk with me and let me take your mind off it."

Her eyes hold yours, and there's no mistaking the invitation in them. Not just for a walk.

"I'm very good at that," she adds, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, her lips close enough that you can see the faint gloss on them, "taking your mind off things."

She turns on her heel and starts down the path, the setting sun catching the gold in her braids and the deliberate sway of her hips in those fitted slacks. She glances back over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised—waiting, daring, the loose braid strand falling across her eye.

"You coming?"

The referee's whistle cut through the Louisiana night—three sharp blasts. Halftime. The Superdome roared, 100,000 voices crashing together as purple and gold confetti drifted from the upper decks. Above you, the scoreboard glowed like a verdict: LSU 21, Wyoming 17.

You stood at your own 35, chest heaving, jersey soaked through. The turf was chewed to hell beneath your cleats. A bruise the size of a grapefruit bloomed on your left shoulder from a second-quarter hit you'd barely felt at the time. Around you, the team began shuffling toward the tunnel—offensive linemen lumbering like exhausted cattle, the secondary walking in silence replaying blown coverages behind their eyes. Even the backup quarterback, Henderson, trudged with his head down as if the deficit were somehow his fault.

The season had been a gauntlet nobody outside Laramie believed this team could survive. Ohio State in the quarters—physical, terrifying, decided by a single fourth-quarter drive you'd capped with a 40-yard catch-and-run. Texas in the semis, played in a biblical rainstorm where the field turned to mud and you'd caught the game-winner on an improvised route with a linebacker draped across your back. And Notre Dame—pristine, historically untouchable Notre Dame—dismantled so thoroughly their sideline looked hollow-eyed by halftime.

Three giants. Three victories. And now LSU, in their house, under their lights.

The tunnel mouth yawned ahead, a concrete gullet swallowing the team in twos and threes. Cleats rang against the floor. The fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed with that sickly frequency that made everything look slightly unreal.

You were halfway down, replaying that dropped pass in the end zone for the hundredth time—second quarter, third-and-goal from the seven, clean spiral, ball through your hands like water—when fingers closed around your elbow.

Tonya materialized from a side corridor, pulling you from the stream of bodies with practiced stealth. Nobody noticed. Nobody slowed.

"Come with me. Don't stop."

She guided you around a corner, past a janitor's closet and a door marked ELECTRICAL, into a narrow service passage that dead-ended at a heavy fire door. The concrete walls were unpainted. The floor was dusty. A single caged bulb cast everything in jaundiced yellow. The roar of the crowd was muffled here—distant, filtered, a vibration more than a sound.

She released your elbow and turned to face you.

"I saw you looking at them."

Her voice was low but clear in the enclosed space. Her green eyes caught the fluorescent light and gleamed.

"The LSU cheerleaders. That timeout in the second quarter, when they were doing their routine right in front of our bench." A smirk—dangerous, knowing—curved one corner of her mouth. "You think I don't notice? I notice everything, Clip. I notice you more than anything."

Her fingers found the zipper of her quarter-zip and pulled it down. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric parted, revealing the black athletic tank beneath, thin straps on tan shoulders. She shrugged the jacket off and let it fall to the dusty floor.

"You know what's happening right now? In the locker room?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

"Gerald is tearing the wide receivers apart. Calling them soft. Telling them they don't deserve the jersey. That freshman—Okafor—he's probably making the kid feel like nothing." Something flickered in her eyes. Pain, or anger, or the particular exhaustion of loving a man whose brilliance was inseparable from his cruelty. "And it works. I hate that it works. But it does."

Her hands went to her waistband. The fitted athletic pants slid down her hips with practiced efficiency. She stepped out of them—one leg at a time, balancing with easy grace—and kicked them into the corner.

The panties beneath were dark blue. Simple. Practical. Tonya didn't do lace or frills. Everything about her was function first, and somehow that made it more devastating. Her legs were long and toned, muscles defined from years of mountain trails and stadium stairs. A thin scar curved along her left forearm from a rock-climbing trip to Vedauwoo that she'd told you about once, her voice drowsy and warm in the dark.

She closed the distance between you. Her palm pressed flat against your chest, over your heart.

"I'm not going to break you down like he does. That's not what I do."

Her thumb traced a slow circle over your sternum.

"I'm going to build you up. Give you something he never could."

From beyond the walls, faintly, you could hear his voice—distorted, indistinct, but carrying that unmistakable cadence of rage. The locker room was a hundred yards away. The entire coaching staff was in there. Dale Peretti, the offensive coordinator. Priya Chandrasekaran, the graduate assistant who ran analytics and had a quiet, obvious crush on Tonya that she thought nobody noticed. All of them within earshot of a man who would burn the world down if he knew.

"Everyone on this team looks at me," she murmured, her lips brushing your jaw. "The offensive line can barely function when I walk past during stretching. Henderson turns the color of a fire truck every time I ask him how practice went."

She pulled back to meet your eyes. Her gaze was ferocious.

"But none of them would ever do a thing about it. Because they're afraid of him."

Her hand slid down your chest, slow, deliberate.

"You're different. You've always been different. That's why we're standing here, in this dusty little hallway, while the national championship waits."

Her fingers curled into the fabric of your jersey. Her body radiated heat like a furnace. The faint vibration of the stadium thrummed through both of you where you touched.

"So take it. Every ounce of frustration. That dropped pass. That cheerleader you can't have. Put it all on me, right here, right now."

She leaned her forehead against yours.

"Then walk back out there and take what's ours."

The fire door stood like a sentinel at the end of the corridor. Beyond it lay the locker room, the team, the second half. But in this moment, the only thing that existed was the buzzing light, the roaring dark, and Tonya Lunstrum—half-naked and unashamed, offering herself as the antidote to her husband's poison.

The hotel room was quiet in the way that only comes after weeks of noise. The curtains were drawn but thin strips of evening light leaked through, painting amber lines across the carpet. The TV murmured on mute—ESPN replaying the final out over and over, the commentators breathless with disbelief. Wyoming had just punched its ticket to the College World Series by dismantling Oklahoma at home in a clinching game that was never really close.

The stadium had erupted. The dogpile on the field. Hats flying. Students storming from the stands. Gerald Lunstrum had allowed himself a rare smile—one that looked almost unnatural on his hard face—and for a few minutes the team had loved him the way you love something that hurts you and heals you in equal measure.

Tonya had been there for all of it. Standing behind the fence, arms crossed, green eyes bright. She'd clapped. She'd hugged the seniors. She'd even let Gerald pull her into the team photo.

But you'd noticed the cough. The flush on her cheeks that wasn't from the heat. By the time the celebration wound down she was leaning against the dugout with her eyes closed, her braids messy, looking smaller than you'd ever seen her.

"Just a cold. Don't be dramatic."

Now the team was at Dave & Busters. All of them. The offensive line had commandeered the basketball machines. The backup catcher was dominating the claw games. Even Priya Chandrasekaran, the quiet graduate assistant who ran analytics, had challenged the strength coach to a dance-off nobody asked for. Gerald had stayed behind—"film doesn't watch itself"—which meant the entire roster felt safe enough to go absolutely feral.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:47 PM. They wouldn't be back for hours.

A soft click.

The door handle turned. Slow. Careful. A sliver of hallway light cut across the carpet. Then a hand—slender, tan, familiar—reached through.

Tonya slipped inside like a ghost.

She was wearing a towel. Just a towel. White, hotel-standard, wrapped around her torso and tucked at her chest, barely reaching mid-thigh. Her blonde hair was down—rare, disarming, falling in damp waves around her shoulders instead of her usual braids. Without them she looked younger. Softer. The hallway light caught the flush of her cheeks and the glassy brightness in her eyes before the door clicked shut and plunged the room back into its amber dimness.

She leaned against the door for a moment. Then coughed—a short, wet sound she stifled against her fist—and opened her eyes.

She looked at you. And despite the sniffle she tried to disguise by pressing the back of her hand against her nose, despite the obvious reality that she was sick—the look in her eyes was something else entirely.

Fire. Deep and low and patient.

"Hey."

Her voice was husky. From the illness or something else. She pushed off the door and walked toward you with the towel clutched in one fist, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Her legs were long and golden, muscles shifting with each step. Without shoes she was shorter than usual, which somehow made her more dangerous.

She stopped a few feet from the bed. The towel was slipping. She didn't fix it.

"They won't be back for hours," she said. Not a question. A statement. "Last I heard, the twins were locked in a Skee-Ball war with some locals and Dale was teaching the freshmen how to shoot pool with 'proper mechanics.'"

She sniffed. Coughed into her elbow—a deeper one that shook her frame and made the towel shift dangerously. When she recovered her eyes were watering and she wiped them with the heel of her palm, laughing softly.

"God. I'm a mess."

No self-pity. Just amusement. The amusement of a woman who had driven this team from the inside all season, who had been the silent engine behind every win, who had given pieces of herself to everyone who needed it—and who was now standing in your hotel room in a towel because there was one thing she wanted for herself.

She sat on the edge of the bed beside you. The mattress dipped. The towel rode up her thigh.

"You know what I kept thinking about?" Her voice dropped. "Last inning. When the count went full with two outs. Everyone was holding their breath. Gerald was pacing. Dale was gripping the railing so hard his knuckles went white."

She turned to look at you. Her green eyes, glassy and bright, found yours and held.

"I was thinking about this. About right now. About being in this room with you."

She reached out and took your hand. Her fingers were hot—fever-hot—but her grip was steady. She placed your palm against her bare thigh, just above the knee, where the towel ended and her skin began.

"I've been thinking about it all series. Every game. Every night while you were out there making history and I was in my room coughing and touching myself thinking about you."

No embarrassment. No coyness. Just fact.

She leaned into you, her head against your shoulder, damp hair cool against your neck. Her breath was warm and uneven.

"We just qualified for the World Series, Champ. Right there on our field. In front of our people. And I'm sitting here sick as hell in a towel and—" Her fingers tightened around your hand, pressing it harder against her thigh. "I need you. More than I've needed anything."

She pulled back. Looked at you one last time. The towel had slipped further. The fire in her eyes was unmistakable now—fierce and unapologetic.

"Nobody knows I'm here. Gerald's buried in film. The team's twenty minutes away shooting pool and losing money on claw machines."

Her free hand came up to your face, thumb tracing your jawline, feather-light and burning.

"So let me celebrate too."

Outside, the town hummed with the electric aftermath of a season-defining win. Inside, Tonya Lunstrum—sick, flushed, wrapped in nothing but a towel and a season's worth of want—waited.

The airport is quiet. Late afternoon light slants through the terminal windows, casting long golden rectangles across the carpeted floor. A few travelers sit scattered across the gate area—someone napping with a neck pillow, a woman typing furiously on a laptop, a kid kicking his legs against a chair. Normal airport stuff. Nothing special.

You and Tonya are on a layover. The rest of the Wyoming team flew direct to Eugene this morning for the NCAA Outdoor Track and Field Championships, but a scheduling screw-up left you two on a different route with a two-hour gap between connections. It happens. You're sitting a few chairs apart, your bag between your feet, half-watching a muted television mounted above the gate counter showing some talking head on ESPN.

Tonya has her boots propped on the edge of her carry-on, ankles crossed. She's wearing a heather-gray fitted t-shirt that hugs the full curve of her chest and the defined lines of her arms, paired with dark cargo pants and those same scuffed hiking boots she always wears. Her blonde braids hang over one shoulder, and her green eyes are fixed on her phone screen. She's tapping her fingers against her thigh in that rhythm she doesn't know she does—three quick, a pause, then two.

The championships start tomorrow. For the program, it's the biggest stage of the year. Recruiting, funding, conference reputation—it all ties back to performances at meets like this. Your event is one of the marquee draws for Wyoming, the kind of race that could put the school on the map for another cycle of talent. Tonya knows it. Her husband knows it. Everyone knows it.

Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen and something flickers across her face—not quite irritation, not quite anticipation. Something in between. She answers.

"Hey."

Her voice is flat. Controlled. She listens for a moment, her jaw tightening just slightly. One hand drifts up to the collar of her shirt and she tugs it absently, exposing another inch of collarbone and the faint edge of a white sports bra beneath the gray cotton.

"No, we're fine. Different flight. Two-hour layover."

A pause. Her thumb traces a slow line along the side of her neck. A faint flush begins to bloom there—pink, spreading upward toward her jaw.

"Mhm. I'll have everything ready."

Another pause. Longer this time. Her eyes close briefly. When they open, they find yours across the empty chairs. The look is heavy. Focused. Her lips part just slightly.

"Yeah. Talk later."

She hangs up. Slides the phone into her pocket. Sits perfectly still for a moment, staring at nothing, her chest rising and falling beneath the thin gray fabric. The flush has crept up to her cheeks now. She swallows.

Then she stands. Picks up her bag. Walks over to you and drops into the chair directly beside yours, close enough that her knee presses against yours. She doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Just sits there, breathing slowly, looking straight ahead at the muted television.

"Need to walk around," she finally says, her voice lower than usual. "Legs are stiff from the flight. Come with me."

She stands again without waiting for a response. Her hand catches your arm just above the elbow—warm fingers wrapping around your bicep—and she pulls you up and away from the gate. Her grip isn't aggressive. It's deliberate. Certain. The way she holds a stopwatch at practice when she already knows what the split is going to be.

She walks with purpose down the concourse, past shuttered kiosks and empty gates, her boots quiet on the carpet. The terminal thins out the further they go from the main hub. Fewer people. Quieter announcements. Just the low hum of ventilation and the distant clatter of a cleaning cart somewhere around the corner.

She stops at a single-occupancy restroom near the end of the corridor. All-gender sign on the door. She checks the handle. Unlocked. She opens it, pulls you inside, and the lock clicks shut behind you both.

The room is small. Clean. A single sink, a mirror with soft overhead lighting, a hand dryer on the wall. The ventilation fan hums steadily above. Tonya turns and leans her back against the door, her hands sliding into the pockets of her cargo pants. She looks at you. Really looks at you. The flush on her neck and cheeks is unmistakable now, and her green eyes carry that competitive glint she gets right before she's about to do something she's already decided on.

She doesn't speak right away. Just studies your face, her head tilted slightly to one side, one braid falling forward over her shoulder. The gray t-shirt stretches across her chest as she takes a slow, deep breath.

"You know what I was just thinking about?"

Her voice is quiet. Almost conversational. She pushes off the door and takes one step toward you. Then another. Her boots make no sound on the tile floor.

"Not the meet. Not the race. Not times or splits or any of that."

She stops in front of you. Close enough that you can smell her—warm skin, something clean and woodsy underneath, the faintest trace of whatever shampoo she uses. Her hand comes out of her pocket and finds the front of your shirt, her fingers curling gently into the fabric.

"I was thinking about how he calls me and talks for twenty minutes about logistics and I just sit there and say 'yeah' and 'okay' and he never once asks what I want."

Her other hand comes up and rests against your chest. Flat. Warm. She can feel your heartbeat through the cotton.

"And then I look at you, and I think about what I want. And it's not complicated."

She leans in. Her braids brush against your arms. Her lips are near your ear, her breath warm and slow.

"It's just you."

The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of aspens and pines, casting dappled gold across the grassy floor of the small wooded alcove at the far edge of Riverside Park. The soccer team bonding event had been going on for hours now—grills smoking, music thumping from someone's portable speaker, teammates scattered across the open fields playing pickup games or lounging on blankets. Coach Lunstrum had made his usual appearance, barking orders even at a casual event, making everything feel like practice before wandering off to argue with another coach on the phone. Typical.

Tonya had watched you peel away from the group almost twenty minutes ago, that restless energy you always carried after a hard week of training finally pushing you toward the tree line. She'd waited exactly four minutes before following—long enough to not seem obvious, short enough that no one would think twice about it. Her fingers still smelled faintly of the charcoal from when she'd been flipping burgers earlier, and a single blade of grass clung stubbornly to the hem of her cropped white tank top. Her blonde braids hung over each shoulder, the ends catching warm light.

She found you leaning against a thick cottonwood, arms crossed, staring out through the gaps in the trees at the distant mountains. The noise of the party was muffled here—laughter and music bleeding together into a pleasant hum. Close enough to rejoin at any moment. Far enough away that no one was paying attention.

Tonya stepped closer, boots crunching softly on dry leaves, and leaned her shoulder against the tree beside you. Her green eyes tracked your face for a long moment, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"You know," she murmured, her voice low and conspiratorial, "I've been watching you all afternoon. You've got that look again."

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp, playful gaze she used during drills when she was about to push you harder than anyone else on the team.

"That look where you're either going to do something really smart or really reckless, and I genuinely can't tell which one yet."

Her fingers tapped a quick rhythm against her thigh—three fast, two slow, like a heartbeat she couldn't quite control. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the party. The team was clustered around the main pavilion now, someone had started a ridiculous dance-off, and the chaos was loud enough to swallow them whole.

When she turned back to you, her expression had shifted. Softer. More dangerous.

"You know what I love about days like this?" She stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the mix of sunscreen and something earthier, like pine sap, that always clung to her. "Everyone's having fun. Everyone's distracted. My husband is over there somewhere being a miserable bastard to someone on the phone, probably threatening to bench a kid who doesn't even play for us anymore."

She laughed quietly, shaking her head.

"And here we are. Just... standing in the trees like it's the most normal thing in the world."

Her eyes flickered down to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up, playful and deliberate. She bit the inside of her cheek, suppressing something.

"You know what I was thinking about during the scrimmage this morning? When you made that run down the left side and blew past Marcus like he was standing still?"

She leaned in, just a little too close, her breath warm against your ear.

"I was thinking about how fucking unfair it is that I have to stand on the sideline and act professional when you do things like that. Coach's wife. Coach's wife. That's what they all see. Every single one of your teammates looks at me and sees 'off-limits.' Do you know how many of them have crushes on me?"

She pulled back with a grin, eyes bright with mischief.

"All of them. Every single one. And none of them would ever dare. Because of him. Because of what it would mean."

She reached out and plucked a piece of bark from your shoulder, letting her fingers linger against the fabric of your shirt a beat longer than necessary.

"But you? You don't care about any of that. And that..."

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head with something that looked almost like awe.

"That is the sexiest thing about you."

The sounds of the party filtered through the trees—someone yelling about the grill catching fire, laughter erupting, a song changing. Tonya glanced toward the noise, then back at you, her green eyes darkening.

"We could go back right now. Walk out of these trees, grab a plate, act normal. That's the smart thing to do."

She stepped closer still, her tank top brushing against your chest, her hand resting flat against the cottonwood beside your head. Her braids swayed forward.

"Or we could stay here a little longer. And you could tell me what that look on your face actually means."

Her thumb traced a lazy circle against the bark, inches from your shoulder. Her smirk deepened, and there was something raw underneath it now—not just playful, but hungry.

"Because I have been so good all week, Clip. I have smiled and nodded and played the perfect coach's wife. And right now, standing here with you, with him thirty yards away being an asshole to someone who doesn't deserve it..."

She bit her lower lip, eyes locked on yours.

"All I can think about is how much I want to be bad."

The wind stirred through the aspens, shaking loose a cascade of golden leaves that drifted between you. Tonya didn't flinch. Didn't step back. She just stood there, close enough to touch, waiting—daring—her fingers still tapping that restless rhythm against her thigh.

"So. What's it gonna be?"

Custom Scenario