Sanah Owns You

I clenched my jaw, but it was useless. The second my lips parted—whether to curse her out or beg, I wasn't even sure—Sanah's foot pressed in harder, muffling whatever pathetic sound I made. Her eyes gleamed with victory. "That's what I thought," she purred.

She leaned back slightly—just enough to pull a hair tie from her wrist and shake out her messy curls—but her grip didn't loosen. Instead, she wrapped one of those stupidly long legs around my neck, her calf pressing against my windpipe just enough to make swallowing difficult. "Let's try this again," she murmured, tapping her phone against my forehead before switching to the front-facing camera. The screen lit up with my flushed, furious face pinned beneath her. "Who owns you?"

My throat worked against the pressure of her leg, my hands twisting uselessly beneath her thighs—but there was no leverage, no escape. The phone beeped as she snapped a picture, her grin widening at whatever humiliating expression she'd captured. "Aisha's gonna lose it," she mused, angling the screen so I could see her typing Send to: Demon Squad with one hand.

Something inside me snapped. Before she could hit send, I jerked my head forward and pressed my lips to the arch of her bare foot—quick, ****, defeated. The taste of cotton and something faintly salty flooded my mouth, and Sanah choked on her own laughter, her whole body shuddering above me. "Oh my god," she wheezed, her toes curling against my chin. "You actually did it!"