Yes

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t shove him.

Didn’t say another word.

Emily just… stopped.

His hand had been resting still inside her panties, fingers nestled against the heat of her—but now, as her arms dropped to her sides and her forehead touched the cool drywall, he began to move.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He found her slit with practiced precision, sliding his fingers through the wetness already gathering there. She wanted to believe it was just the heat, the stress, the drink… but the truth was harder to ignore. Her body responded to touch. Even his.

His fingers circled her clit—not clumsily, not with drunken fumbling, but with slow, coaxing intent. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Like he knew how to make a woman respond, even one who wasn’t supposed to.

Emily clenched her jaw, lips pressed tight.

But her hips betrayed her. The smallest twitch. The barest shift in rhythm with his hand.

He caught it instantly.

“Yeah…” he murmured, breath thick against her neck. “Knew it.”

His hand moved with more confidence now. One finger slid into her—then two—spreading her open with a slick squelch, fucking her slowly, curling upward in a motion that made her knees go soft.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

Hard.

His other hand slid up her belly, cupping one of her bare breasts. He squeezed it roughly, thumb brushing her nipple, teasing it until it peaked stiff beneath his touch. She hated the sound that escaped her—a tiny, strangled gasp—and he chuckled in her ear.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathed. “Tight little pussy… soft tits… and so fucking wet already.”

She shook her head, but there was no strength behind it.

Her thighs trembled.

His fingers thrust deeper now, curling just right inside her, his palm grinding against her clit with every motion. Her body arched—reflex. His touch knew exactly where to land. Every nerve lit under his hand. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble, didn’t miss.

It made it worse.

He was good. Too good.

And her body knew it.

She whimpered.

Not loud. Not defiant. Just a soft, broken sound into the drywall.

His lips were on her neck now. Not kissing. Breathing. Smirking. Watching her.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. Just feel it.”

Her hips rolled before she could stop them. Not willingly. Just instinct. Muscle memory.

She felt the heat coil low in her belly, her clit aching now under his thumb. Her thighs shook. Her breath came fast. Shallow.

She was going to come.

No—

But she did.

Her body locked, back arching into his chest, a cry trapped in her throat as her orgasm took her—tight, wet, shameful. She pulsed around his fingers, cunt clenching hard, soaked.

He felt every second of it.

His groan was guttural, low and greedy.

“Fuck yes…”

She collapsed forward against the wall, panting. Her legs barely held. He eased his fingers out slowly, wet and glistening, dragging them down the inside of her thigh like a signature.