The bathwater had gone lukewarm by the time Marisol stepped in.
She didn’t undress. Not entirely. Her uniform soaked immediately—black cotton clinging to her thighs and waist like a second skin. She knelt between Elena’s open legs, hands pressed into the water for balance, and the sight of her like that—clothed and wet, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen from Elena’s taste—was more erotic than anything Elena had imagined.
She had always liked control. That’s what power was supposed to feel like—commanding, absolute, a man or woman bending to her voice. But with Marisol, it wasn’t just power. It was hunger. Deep, delicious, dangerous hunger. The kind that crawled under your skin and stayed there.
Elena reached forward, pushing the girl’s wet hair behind her ear. “You’re mine tonight,” she
