You give up the towel

Ethan’s brain was misfiring, panic short-circuiting his usual wit. He looked at Gaby’s outstretched hand, then down at the flimsy white towel that was currently the only thing separating him from a felony charge.

She wants the towel. Fine. Give her the damn towel.

Logic, cold and ****, took the wheel. If he argued, he’d be standing here longer. If he tried to bargain, the elevator might arrive. The fastest way to get the key—and get back to the safety of Chloe’s apartment—was to comply. Immediately.

“Okay,” he choked out. “Okay, fine. Here.”

He didn’t let himself hesitate. If he thought about it, he’d freeze. With a jerky, frantic motion, Ethan unhooked the towel from his waist and thrust it into Gaby’s hand.

In the same split second, his own hands flew down, cupping his groin in a ****, makeshift shield.

The air in the hallway felt suddenly colder, sharper against his skin. He was naked. Completely, absurdly naked in a public corridor, clutching his own junk like a nervous baseball player protecting the strike zone. But he had done it. He had followed the rules.

“Pleasure doing business with you. Now, the key? Before the neighbors call the SWAT team?”

He expected a quick exchange. A trade.

He was wrong.

Gaby didn’t reach for the key. Instead, she brought the towel up to her face, inhaling deeply, her eyes never leaving his. A slow, predatory smile curled her lips.

“My,” she purred, her gaze drifting down from his panicked face to his chest, then lower, lingering on the white-knuckled hands trying to contain his manhood. “Aren’t we eager? Chloe didn’t mention you were an exhibitionist.”

“Less ‘exhibitionist,’” Ethan hissed, his ears burning. “ more ‘hostage situation.’ Please, Gaby.”

“Patience, Ethan,” she scolded lightly. She shook the towel out, snapping the fabric. “I can’t just hand over a key with one hand full of laundry. I need to fold this properly. It’s Egyptian cotton, you know.”

Ethan stared in horror. “You have *got* to be kidding me.”

She wasn’t. With agonizing slowness, Gaby began to fold the small towel. She matched corner to corner. She smoothed out the wrinkles with her palm. And all the while, her eyes were glued to him.

“You work out, don’t you?” she commented casually, as if they were chatting at a barbecue and not standing in a hallway where he was stark naked. “I can see the definition in your abs. Very nice.”

“It’s a specialized workout routine. It’s called ‘clutching for dear life.’ It does wonders for the lower lats.”

“And my goodness,” her voice dropped an octave, thick with amusement. “You seem to be having a little trouble… hiding things.”

He was. His body, the traitorous bastard, was reacting to the fear and the intense, focused attention of a beautiful woman. Beneath his cupped hands, his cock was swelling, thickening, pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic throb. He squeezed tighter, trying to mash the erection down, but it was futile. The head of his cock pushed against his pinky finger, eager to peek out. He knew, with sick certainty, that a bead of pre-cum was probably gleaming on the tip, just waiting to smear against his palm.

“I’m begging you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Just give me the key.”

Gaby finished the final fold. She patted the neat square of fabric. “There. Much better.”

She looked up, opening her mouth to speak—

*Ding.*

The sound was soft, cheerful, and absolutely terrifying.

Ethan’s blood ran cold. Down the hall, the elevator doors were sliding open. The sound of female laughter spilled out—bright, chatty, and getting louder.

“Oh!” Gaby’s eyes lit up with wicked delight. “Perfect timing.”

She didn’t move to hide him. She didn’t step back to let him in. She just stood there, blocking her doorway, holding the folded towel like a shield, leaving him exposed to the long, straight corridor.

The voices were approaching. Heels clicked on the floorboards. They would be rounding the corner very soon