A spill

Emily’s elbow knocked into her water bottle with a clumsy jolt, sending it tipping directly into John’s lap with a dramatic splash. The icy water soaked through his slacks instantly. "Oh my god—Principal Lee, I’m *so* sorry!" she gasped, lunging forward with a wad of tissues pulled from her bag.

John held up both hands, face burning. "It’s fine, really—"

"No, no, let me help!" Emily insisted, already pressing the tissues against his thigh with frantic dabs. The fabric clung to him obscenely, and she could feel the heat of his skin through the damp material. Her fingers faltered when they brushed against something unmistakably firm beneath the wet cloth. Her breath hitched.

Time seemed to slow. Her wide eyes flicked up to John’s face—his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. She didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, her fingers curled reflexively, giving the rigid length a tentative squeeze through the fabric. John made a choked noise in the back of his throat.

Emily's breath caught in her throat as her fingers lingered, the damp fabric of John's slacks clinging to the unmistakable shape beneath her touch. The realization hit her like a jolt of electricity—*he was hard. Because of her.* The thought sent a dizzying rush of heat between her thighs, her own body responding instantly. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the hum of the library’s air conditioning.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she skept her fingers curled just slightly, testing the weight of him through the fabric, her thumb brushing the rigid outline. John’s sharp inhale was all the confirmation she needed. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to stop her. His fingers trembled against her skin.

"Emily," he ground out, his voice strained.

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence even as her cheeks burned. "Sorry," she whispered, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. She wet her lips, watching his gaze drop to her mouth before he jerked it away. The power of it—knowing she could unravel him like this—made her bold. She leaned closer, her knee pressing between his thighs under the table. "I was just trying to help."

John’s grip on her wrist tightened, his jaw working. "You—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. Emily had never seen him like this—flushed, breathless, *undone*. It was intoxicating.