At the Meeting

Emily reached the end of the hallway, pulse still racing, the phantom feel of Eric’s cheek—and mouth—still tingling against her lips. Her hands shook as she adjusted the hem of the borrowed T-shirt, tugging it down instinctively even though it covered more than what she’d worn all day. It wasn’t professional, not technically. But it was dry. And it wasn’t see-through.

Good enough.

She paused outside the HR office door, heart thudding.

Just paperwork, she reminded herself. Nothing weird. Sign, smile, leave.

She pushed the door open without knocking.

Martin looked up from his desk. His expression was unreadable for half a second—then flicked to something... disappointed?

“Emily,” he said, standing. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

She gave a tight smile. “Taco truck incident.”

His eyes drifted down—just for a second. The shirt was loose, and she wore nothing underneath. The fabric wasn’t clingy, but she could feel how soft it was. How aware her body still was. Especially under his gaze.

She sat without prompting, crossing her legs, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. His desk was already set up with the forms. Her name at the top. Pen centered.

Martin hesitated, then slid the first page toward her. “We’ll be quick.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach tighten.

She reached for the pen—and felt the shirt shift slightly against her breasts. No bra, no liner, just the soft glide of cotton against freshly pumped, over-sensitive skin. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react. Just clicked the pen.

Martin kept watching.

Emily didn’t smile this time.