The graduation gowns were a sea of black, but my eyes locked onto her. She stood near the science building, sunlight glinting off her engagement ring. But fuck, her legs… those sleek, shiny lines visible under her gown’s hem. Was it stockings? Pantyhose? That sheer nylon sheen made my dick twitch in my slacks.

I sauntered over, all confident smirk. “Congratulations. Philosophy major?”

She barely glanced up. “Biology. And I’m waiting for my fiancé.” Her voice was ice.

Perfect. A challenge. I introduced myself as a visiting alumnus donor. A lie, but my tailored suit sold it. I kept my gaze on her face, but my mind was on those legs. I pictured the feel of that nylon—the whisper-smooth texture under my palms, the sound of my fingers tracing the seam up her inner thigh.

“The after-party at the Chancellor’s garden,” I said, leaning in. “Exclusive. Your fiancé’s name might already be on the list. I can check.”

Suspicion flashed in her eyes. She hated guys like me—slick, arrogant. I could taste her reluctance. But curiosity? That was there too. I let my hand “accidentally” brush her gown’s fabric near her hip. “It’s a networking goldmine. For his career… for your future.”

I saw the conflict. Her faithfulness was a wall, but ambition? A tiny