HER POV
Its Wednesday, Amila strolled into the office late again, sunglasses on, hair a little too glossy not to be freshly f****d, lips swollen in a way no lipstick could fake. She dropped her bag with a thud, peeled off her shades, and caught me staring.
“You’re dying to ask,” she teased, sinking into her chair.
I rolled my eyes, but my voice betrayed me. “Fine. Spill.”
Her grin stretched wide. “Girl…” She dragged the word like a cigarette pull, leaning forward, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves couldn’t be trusted. “Last night? That man devoured me.”
She leaned back, painted nails twirling a pen, eyes glazing over as she replayed it out loud. “He picked me up like I was made of nothing but air. Pinned me against his car before we even left the parking lot. Fingers alrea
