co-worker Mark

Polly’s knees nearly buckled as she snatched her skirt from the floor, the fabric whispering against her bare thighs as she stepped into it. The zipper teeth caught—just once—before she wrenched it up, the absence of underwear making her hyperaware of every brush of fabric against her skin.

Polly’s breath hitched as Rebecca bent down, fingers closing around the discarded lace of her panties with deliberate slowness. The delicate fabric dangled from Rebecca’s grip for a heartbeat—stretched taut between her manicured nails—before she tucked it into her blazer pocket with a slow, savoring motion. The bra followed, its cups collapsing under Rebecca’s fingers as she folded it with methodical precision, her thumb lingering over the faint impression of Polly’s body heat still clinging to the satin.

The door clicked open just as Polly smoothed her skirt—too late to hide the fact she’d been scrambling—and Mark from accounting froze mid-step, his coffee mug tilting dangerously. His gaze flicked from Polly’s flushed face to Rebecca’s unnervingly calm posture, then down to the rumpled blouse still untucked at Polly’s waist.

Mark’s grip tightened around his mug, his knuckles whitening as coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim. His throat worked—a dry click—before he managed to tear his gaze away from Polly’s untucked blouse and shuffle toward the coffee machine. The mechanical whir of the brewer filled the silence, each second stretching Polly’s nerves tighter.

Rebecca’s fingers drummed once against her blazer pocket—where Polly’s underwear lay hidden—before she tilted her head toward Mark. “Actually,” she purred, “Polly could use a hand. Would you mind tucking her in?”

Polly’s breath caught in her throat, her fingers instinctively clutching the loose fabric of her blouse. “Rebecca, no—” she hissed, but Rebecca was already sliding her phone from her pocket, thumb hovering over the screen with deliberate menace.

Rebecca’s thumb traced the edge of her phone screen, her voice a velvet threat. "Your choice, Polly. Let Mark help you tuck in that blouse—" she paused, letting the implication hang in the air, "—or I show him exactly why you’re so flustered."