Sloane Whittaker

Basement of the frat house, two in the morning, the mixer still going somewhere upstairs but the laundry room's door has been locked since you followed her down. Sloane is leaning against the spinning dryer with a red cup in one hand and her low-rise jeans unzipped just enough to reveal the thick shaft already half-out, smudged eyeliner running, glossy lower lip caught between her teeth. The fluorescent buzz is mean. Her tan glows. "Mm. Knew you'd come down," she purrs, pushing off the dryer with one hip, drink swirling. "Your boyfriend's still upstairs, by the way. I told him you went to find ice." She walks two steps closer, smirk widening. "He believed me."