Yes

Emily stood still for a breath, then another, her pulse loud in her ears. The fabric clung tighter than ever now, the wet cotton suctioned to her skin like a second layer, nipples dark and firm beneath the transparency, every line and swell of her breasts already visible. Rationally—she told herself—it didn’t make a difference. Taking it off wouldn’t change anything. He could already see everything.

So she moved.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and found the top button. Her fingers were cold. Her breathing shallow.

One.

Martin didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink.

Two.

The second button opened just above the curve of her cleavage, revealing damp skin, flushed with color. She could feel the cool air slide in, raising goosebumps up her arms.

Three. Four.

The fabric parted, peeling back like tissue paper soaked through. Her breasts, heavy and high from milk, barely shifted beneath the shirt—but now she could feel the weight of them, unrestrained, the way they swayed softly with each breath. Her nipples brushed the inside of the blouse, stiff, tender, reacting to every whisper of air.

She paused at the last button.

This is nothing, she told herself. He’s already seen all of it. The shirt doesn’t hide anything.

But her hands didn’t move right away.

Because it was something. The act of unbuttoning. The act of obeying. Of letting him have control—not just of what he saw, but of how she let him see it.

That was what mattered.

And he knew it.

Martin leaned back against the desk, arms crossed now, eyes steady. He wasn’t drooling, not panting. No clumsy hunger. Just watching. Like he knew he had her—and wanted to see how far she'd go before breaking.

Emily slipped the last button loose.

Then, with both hands, she slid the shirt down her arms, slow and smooth, until the soaked fabric dropped to the floor behind her with a damp whisper.

She stood straight.

Bare from the waist up.

Breasts full and flushed, nipples swollen from stimulation and the lingering ache of milk she hadn’t yet pumped. The cool air tightened them more. She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. She hated that it felt erotic. That the shame didn’t kill the spark low in her belly—but fed it.

Martin’s eyes flicked down. Stayed there. “Fuck.”

He didn’t move for a long second. Just stared.

Then he pushed off the desk and stepped in close—so close she could smell the coffee on his breath, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body in the space between them.

“Now,” he said softly, almost kindly, “let’s see what else you’ll give me.”

His hand lifted. Fingers spread.

And he reached for her breast, slow, deliberate, like it was his right.